Epilogue

Two weeks later…

The wind whipped Lucia’s face, strands of her hair falling out of the low ponytail in which she had gathered it. Though the clouds were sparser that day, the sun shining through every now and then, the wind was merciless, making the grass on the hills sway and dance as she and Alaric rode over an overgrown path.

She hadn’t been there in a while, but she knew the way like the back of her hand. Sometimes, she would even visit it in her thoughts, when there was no time for her to physically be there, though she always preferred to simply think of Ronan instead of the place where he rested.

He had not been buried in a graveyard, but rather at the top of a hill. Lucia had not been the one to bury him and she still regretted this, but by the time she had found out about his death, it had already been too late. He had been gone and buried for days, the Ravencloaks taking the task upon themselves. Every now and then, she would consider the possibility of digging up his bones and moving his remains, but she didn’t want to disturb him. Any such action would be for her sake and her sake only, and so she refrained from giving in to the desire whenever it resurfaced.

Besides, Ronan had loved the hills, the grass, the empty country. Perhaps he had even chosen this hill himself, Lucia thought, long before he even knew he would die. Men like him spent their lives knowing they would more likely than not be short.

When they reached the top of the hill, the familiar marker appeared before them and Lucia had to bite her bottom lip to keep the tears back. She always found it hard to control herself when she was there, but every other time she had visited Ronan, she had been alone. Now, with Alaric next to her, she didn’t want to lose her composure, even if she was more comfortable than ever around him. He would worry, she knew. He would worry and he would fuss, and Lucia didn’t want to concern him with her grief. It was something she would be carrying her whole life, after all. It was something she had to shoulder herself.

“This is it,” she said as she brought her horse to a stop and jumped off. Alaric followed her, the two of them walking up to the simple wooden cross side by side. “This is Ronan.”

Lucia wished she had a painting of him, like Alaric had all those pictures of his ancestors in the halls of Castle MacGregor. The paintings of those men and women hung around every room and every hall, reminding the family of those who had come before them and showing them what they looked like, but Lucia had no such thing. She only had memories of her brother and memories were prone to fading. Already, she had forgotten his voice. No matter how much she tried to remember it, the cadence, the tone, the pitch, she couldn’t bring anything up in her mind. All that remained was his face, his smile, the bright green eyes just like her own.

As long as she could see them in the looking-glass, at least, she would have something to remember him by.

“I wish I could have met him,” Alaric said, and Lucia was surprised by how honest he sounded. For the longest time, he had insisted her brother was a criminal, even if she thought of him as a hero. A part of her had always thought he would never change his mind about that and that he would always view Ronan as nothing but that, but if he wished he could have met him, then Lucia couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was changing his mind.

Perhaps it was because of his love for her, Lucia thought. She, too, had been a part of the gang, no matter how much she had tried to deny it. She had helped Ronan time and time again, and even if she had been working from the shadows, never once revealing her identity or becoming an official part of the Ravencloaks, her involvement in their plans was undeniable.

“Ye dae?” Lucia asked, looking up at Alaric with wide eyes. In the morning light, he looked softer, even with the beard and all the scars that crossed his skin—boyish almost, though still holding a certain air of severity about him.

“I dae,” he said. “He was yer braither. He was important tae ye, always has been an’ always will be. I wish ye could have met me parents, too.”

Lucia couldn’t tell Alaric the truth. She couldn’t tell him that she feared his parents would not have approved of their union and that they would have done anything in their power to stop it. Of course, she knew nothing about them—only the stories she had heard from the MacGregors, who all claimed they were lovely people. Still, Lucia couldn’t bring herself to believe they would want a woman like her for their son, no matter how lovely they may have been.

It was a question that had eaten away at her ever since Alaric had promised her he only wanted to be with her. He told her that the had spoken Evan before the attack on the castle and that he had agreed to support his choice to marry her in front of the council. There had been no news since; nothing to confirm or deny that they could wed, and all this time, Lucia had been in the worst kind of limbo, waiting in complete uncertainty. She still hadn’t broached the subject with Alaric, though, fearful of the response she could receive. He had also told her about his talk with Kayla and she had felt terrible for the poor girl, who had been an innocent victim of their love. Things with her clan appeared to have settled with peace, and the clans remained allied, but it didn’t mean his clan would approve Alaric and Lucia’s union.

What if after all this time, after everything they had been through together, they couldn’t wed? What if the council forbade it and found yet another strategic match for Alaric? Would he still refuse to wed another woman? Would he stay with Lucia even if they couldn’t wed?

“Sometimes I wish Ronan was here simply so I could ask him what tae dae,” she admitted, grief welling up inside her. “It’s selfish, I ken that, but I dinnae ken what tae dae without him, where tae go… sometimes I think I dinnae even ken who I am.”

With a sigh, Alaric pulled Lucia into his arms, holding her close and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I dinnae think that is true,” he said. “An’ I dinnae think it’s selfish. I’m sure it isnae the only reason why ye wish he were here. Besides, I wish me parents were here tae tell me what tae dae sometimes.”

Lucia couldn’t help but chuckle at that, nodding slowly. Even though after all this time she had managed to keep her tears at bay, now they began to fall, carving hot paths down her cheeks. Alaric only held her closer, the two of them standing there in silence as it dawned on Lucia for the first time that Ronan was truly gone and he would never be coming back. She wanted to think, though, that he would be proud of the woman she had become. Alaric had been right; Ronan wouldn’t have wanted her to lose herself in her rage and her grief, and now that she could look back to the events of the past few weeks, she was glad she hadn’t been the one to stain her hands with Callum’s blood. She was glad she had chosen love above everything else.

For a while, the two of them stood there, Lucia silently crying on Alaric’s shoulder. There was something she appreciated greatly about him; never once did he try to push her to talk or to express her grief any differently. He was simply there, solid as a rock, holding her until she was ready to wipe off her tears and smile again, thinking fondly of her days with Ronan.

When she pulled back from him, Alaric took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together and bringing her knuckles to his lips. “I have somethin’ tae tell ye.”

Lucia frowned a little in confusion, turning to face him fully. “What is it?”

Alaric hesitated for a moment and Lucia could have sworn that under the faint sunlight, his cheeks heated, turning a light pink. She waited patiently, gazing at him, and for the first time in a while, she felt peace in the silence.

This is what it means tae trust someone.

There were no doubts in her mind about Alaric. There was nothing telling her that she was in danger, that he would find a way to trick her, that he would turn out to be different from what she expected. There was only peace, something only he had managed to give her.

“Will ye be me wife?” he asked, and to say it was far from what Lucia thought she would hear was an understatement. She stared at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, unable to believe her own ears.

“Dae ye mean it?” she asked. “But… but the council?”

“I spoke tae them this morn,” Alaric said. “I couldnae wait any longer. I want ye tae be me wife.”

Once again, it was impossible for Lucia to hold back her tears, but this time, they were of happiness. As much as she hated this part of herself, used as she was to being stoic and never showing any emotion, she couldn’t hold back the joy that rushed through her, knowing that she and Alaric could finally be together as husband and wife. She didn’t think she had ever even felt such joy before—Alaric was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy life, a blessing she never thought she would receive.

“So, will ye be me wife?” Alaric asked again, sounding nervous as though he didn’t already know the answer.

And Lucia, her vision blurred by the tears, surged forward and kissed him, whispering her response against his lips.

But there’s more…