Epilogue

"Love, like the finest wine, is born of chaos, crushed underfoot, and left to age in the dark—only to emerge bold, rich, and utterly intoxicating." The Polite Rogue’s Guide to a Blissful Marriage

D ouro Valley, September, 1877

“Mr. Sandeman, the grapes won’t tread themselves, you know? Beth called out to her bashful husband.

The summer night air hung warm and sweet with the scent of ripening grapes, and Beth waited by the winery’s tanks, a delicious anticipation buzzing through her. The moon cast a silvery glow over the vineyard, and somewhere nearby, an owl hooted—a lone witness to their little midnight escapade.

She heard his low grumble first. And then, from the half-open door of the winery, emerged her husband. Beth’s breath caught, gripping the tank’s edge.

Oh, my.

He looked every inch the Highland rogue of her most scandalous imaginings. The kilt—red and green plaid, and utterly improper—hugged his lean hips, the hem brushing against his powerful thighs, leaving them bare in a way that robbed her breath. His bronzed chest gleamed, muscles shifting as he strode forward, his broad shoulders carrying the confidence of a man entirely too aware of his appeal.

And then he walked towards her. His legs—dear heavens, his legs—were long and robust, honed from years of hard labor. The dusting of hair caught the light, and Beth’s pulse quickened at the sight. She had to grip the edge of the tank harder, lest her knees betray her.

“Ye wanted a kilt? Here’s your damned kilt.” He stopped a few paces away, eyebrow raised. “Only a madwoman would make a Scot wear this in the Douro.”

Beth’s smile was mischievous. “You look very handsome in it, if I might say so, Mr. Sandeman.”

He actually blushed when he saw her admiring gaze.

Boyd groaned, then stepped into the tank. “Aye, well, if I end up with grapes in places they shouldn’t be, just remember you’re the one responsible for cleaning up the mess.”

She raised a brow, kicking off her shoes. “I wouldn’t dream of anything less.”

A startled laugh burst from Beth’s lips as her feet met the cool, squishy grapes. The skins burst under her soles with tiny pops, releasing their sweet, heady aroma. It tickled her toes most unexpectedly, making her giggle as she took another tentative step.

The grapes were slippery, sticky, and oddly soothing. She shuffled cautiously, testing the sensation, her balance wavering like a fledgling bird.

Boyd strode through the tank like he was leading a battalion to battle. His steps were sure, his kilt swaying with every movement. He planted his hands on his hips and cast her a long-suffering look, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Lass, if ye keep prancin’ about like that, we’ll have wine just in time for the next century. Ye look more like a ballet dancer than a winemaker’s wife.”

Beth narrowed her eyes. “A ballet dancer? Look who’s talking! You’re the one stomping around in a kilt inside a grape tank.”

“And whose fault is that?” His gaze turned devilish as he crouched slightly, knees bending.

She recognized the mischief too late. “Boyd—don’t you—”

With a gleam in his eye, he sprang.

Beth squealed and scrambled backward, but the tank’s slippery footing conspired against her. Her feet shot out from under her, and before she could blink, Boyd caught her.

Unfortunately for him, his own footing wasn’t any better.

With a startled yell, they went down together, landing in a spectacularly messy heap of crushed grapes, tartan, and tangled limbs.

The squelch was loud enough to echo through the vineyard.

Beth braced herself against his chest, her hands sticky with grape juice, her face mere inches from his. Their laughter mixed with the earthy scent of the grapes and the cool night air.

“Ye know, lass,” Boyd said, his voice a teasing rumble as his hand slid up her thigh, “Ye’re goin’ tae ruin me.”

She drew a sharp breath at the wicked spark in his eyes.

“And I plan to.” Beth slid her fingers into his hair, smearing grape juice through the dark strands.

He grinned, pulling her close, his lips finding hers in a slow, lingering, and utterly intoxicating kiss. The world fell away—the tank, the vines, the night—leaving only the press of his body against hers, the warmth of his touch, and the heady scent of summer.

“I don’t think anyone will want to drink this wine after I have my way with you, Mrs. Sandeman.” Boyd held her waist, his eyes twinkling.

“Why? I thought the yeasts took care of everything.”

He chuckled, dark and wicked. “I’ll show ye why. But only if ye’re a good lass and scream loud enough to scandalize every winemaker in the Douro Valley.”

Beth caressed his hard stomach, her cheeks flushing. The kilt, it seemed, had more advantages than just showcasing her husband’s brawny legs—it offered easy access to certain rugged parts of him as well.

Feeling bold, she straddled him, her sigh turning into a giggle as she tossed up his kilt with a dramatic flourish. “Seems I’m about to have my way with you.”

Boyd arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into a grin. “Any way ye want, lass, as long as ye do it quick.”

Beth tilted her head, feigning innocence. “That lusty, are you? I thought I left you properly sated this afternoon.”

He grimaced “It’s no’ that. The bloody grapes are ticklin’ my arse.”

She dissolved into laughter, collapsing against him, her body shaking with mirth. “Oh, Mr. Sandeman,” she gasped between breaths, “I think this might be the finest vintage you’ve ever made.”

“Aye,” he said with mock gravity, pulling her close and brushing her juice-stained cheek with a kiss. “The special reserve. Only for the most scandalous occasions.”

Beth’s laugh turned into a gasp, the sound catching in her throat as he entered her in one swift, searing push. The fullness stole her thoughts, leaving her breathless. Grapes and wine faded from her mind, replaced by the intoxicating rhythm of his body beneath hers.

She rocked atop him, slowly at first, savoring his heat, the way he filled her so completely it felt as though he were branding her from the inside out. Her hands braced against his chest, her palms absorbing the powerful beat of his heart as she moved with languid, teasing control.

Boyd’s groan vibrated through her, spurring her on, her hips rolling with increasing abandon. Her pace quickened, the friction building to a crescendo, and her nails curled into his skin as she climbed higher, her head falling back.

When pleasure burst from her core to her soul, her scream shook the winery’s rafters, and no doubt woke even the sleepy bears guarding the fountain. Beth collapsed forward, her forehead resting against his.

Boyd lifted her effortlessly, pressing her to his chest, and carried her to the edge of the tank. The metal bit into her back, but she was beyond caring. The scent of fermenting grapes wrapped around them. She laced her arms around his neck and crossed her ankles over his taut buttocks. Draped over him, she held on for dear life as her uncouth Scot delivered a ride that would put the Highlander of any romance novel to shame.

Relentlessly, he thrust into her, his movements deep and demanding, retreating almost entirely before plunging back in with raw, deliberate force. The rhythm was intoxicating, each stroke claiming her, filling her, leaving her gasping and trembling. Her fingers curled into his damp hair, pulling him closer as the heat between them coiled tighter, the edges of the world dissolving into the relentless tide of his passion.

Boyd’s lips found hers, devouring her moans as he sucked her tongue into his mouth, his kiss as wild and consuming as the movements of his hips. Then he shuddered against hers, an unrepentant shout escaping him as he spilled into her. The sheer force of his climax sent aftershocks through her, her body trembling in his arms, and she clung to him like a lifeline, lost in the raw, unbridled pleasure that had unraveled them both.

Afterward, Beth rested her cheek against Boyd’s chest, her fingers tracing his skin’s rough contours. “You know, Mr. Sandeman, this was highly improper. A lady should never—”

“Never what, lass? Tumble into a winemaker’s tank? I think ye’ll find it’s written somewhere that a winemaker’s wife must learn to enjoy her... harvest.”

Beth raised her head, her hair spilling across his arm. “Harvest? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Aye,” he said, smirking down at her. “And by my count, ye’ve reaped quite the crop tonight.”

She laughed, swatting his shoulder. “Well, if that’s the case, I hope you don’t expect me to pick grapes with you tomorrow. A lady needs rest after such... strenuous labor.”

“Rest, is it? Then I must warn ye, lass—this winemaker isn’t done with his harvest yet.”

Her laughter turned to a soft sigh as he kissed her again. “Mr. Sandeman,” she murmured against his lips, “you’re incorrigible.”

“And you, Mrs. Sandeman,” he whispered, his tone tender and teasing all at once, “are my perfect vintage.”

***

"A blissful marriage requires two things: the patience to tread lightly and the passion to crush convention—preferably underfoot in a tank of wine. For what is love, if not the perfect vintage of chaos and devotion, aged with just enough scandal to keep it thrilling?"