Epilogue

Epilogue

She and Alisdair walked slowly up the hill to the cairn stones, a place Iseabal had come to only once in all her visits to Gilmuir.

The battle at Gilmuir had ended as quickly as it had begun, the sailors from James's ship coming to the brothers' aid. But there had been little need for them by that time. Most of the men her father had hired had left, only those loyal to Drummond fighting on.

Her mother had surprised them all by standing in the middle of the courtyard and shouting, "I'll not have any more fighting while Drummond lies cooling on the ground." Shamefaced, his men had draped his body over his saddle and followed her mother back to Fernleigh.

There were duties to perform, and buildings to build. Bridges to be mended, Iseabal thought, recalling Brian and the other crewmen. But for now, everything else could wait. Both of them needed this stolen moment, not for passion, but for peace.

Placing one hand on Alisdair's arm, she felt the heat from his body, a warmth that seemed to reach out and envelop her as well. Although bloodied, he was safe. Bruised, but not broken. Only one other emotion besides gratitude could find its way into her heart. Love.

She would protect him with her life, shield his body with her own, defend him and support him. The essence of love in all its guises—wanton, maternal, supportive, passionate, and courageous.

"I need to find myself a wife," Brendan said, staring at Alisdair and Iseabal as they crossed the glen and walked up the hill hand in hand. "Do you see how he keeps touching her?"

"And she him," Hamish added, his attention also directed at the couple.

"They need an hour alone," Brendan said with a grin.

"Not an hour," Hamish corrected. "A day, maybe a week."

James silently watched Alisdair and his wife. Never before had he been jealous of any of his brothers, accepting and understanding that each had his strengths and weaknesses.

"No," he said, certain of his words yet feeling a disquieting pang of envy. "They need a lifetime."

He'd never come here before, but it seemed fitting to Alisdair that he did so now, paying homage to his Scots ancestors. His grandmother's grave appeared especially honored, a wooden cross inscribed in childish lettering marking her resting place and protected by a stone shield erected on three sides.

He knelt and, to his surprise, Iseabal moved into place beside him. He glanced at her profile, backlit by a fading sun. She was more than his wife, Alisdair suddenly realized. She was the woman he had never sought and yet always expected in his life.

He'd grown up witnessing the looks between his parents and sharing in their love. Instead of falling in love as a child as his father had, he'd felt the emotion creep up on him, coming to him in the form of a black-haired Scots lass, Iseabal of the shy smiles and hidden thoughts. Iseabal of the stubborn nature, he amended, and surprising passion.

Their marriage, instead of linking them, had created a rift. Yet their courtship had begun even so, occurring beneath the surface like an ocean current—beginning with curiosity, emboldened by interest, and finally resulting in a growing respect and admiration.

Alisdair felt as if the two of them had merged to become one person and then had split apart again, each carrying pieces of the other. She had the courage he had always possessed, and in his heart was the vulnerability that had once belonged to her.

Bowing his head, he said a prayer for Moira MacRae, the grandmother who would remain forever young in his mind. And for Patricia Landers, the woman who'd taken her place and loved a family so well. A fitting moment, he thought, to realize that there were other words he needed to say.

Reaching out, he placed his fingers over Iseabal's hand, tracing a path across her knuckles. Her hands were dirtied, her knuckles bruised. If he examined each palm, Alisdair was certain he would find splinters embedded in her skin. Marks of courage, determination, and perhaps stubbornness, too. This woman, with her somber looks and secret thoughts, was the only one he wanted in his life, for this day and forever.

Her gaze was on him as he stood, stretching his hand down to her. The moment reminded him of the first time he'd seen her, so solemn and wide-eyed, staring up at him as if he were the ghost of Gilmuir.

Slowly she stood until they faced each other. Iseabal stretched out her fingers to touch the edge of his jaw. Her gaze was steady, relentless in its offering of her deepest emotions. Something he should have seen long before now.

What did a man say when a woman had reduced him to wonder? Did he thank her or bless Fate itself for giving her to him?

The words were held there on his tongue, trapped by a sense of restraint. Alisdair felt as callow as a young boy, suffused with feelings aching to be said and at the same time terrified to speak.

At that instant he understood what Iseabal had felt, why she'd surrounded herself with a cocoon of silence and withdrawal. Standing before her, he felt nearly naked, baring his mind and soul wordlessly to her.

Her eyes had never looked so green, the color of the forest that enveloped them, or perhaps the shine of newly mined emeralds. Where her cheeks had been subtly colored before, now they were a fiery red, her lips the same shade and swollen, as if he'd kissed her a thousand times.

How could he tell her what he felt? Which words would be suitable? He didn't know, the blankness of his mind almost frightening.

Gripping her shoulders, Alisdair pulled her forward until, her cheek was pressed against his shirted chest. Her shoes were aligned next his much in the way their fingers had often entwined, and for a moment tenderness spiked through him.

"I wasn't entirely honest, Iseabal," he said, his words strung together with the delicacy of a spider's web. "It wasn't because of honor or responsibility that I wished to marry you again."

Reaching down, he brushed the hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear as his thumb gently removed a smear of dirt from her chin.

"I fell in love with you," he said softly, his voice little more than a whisper.

He drew back and looked into her eyes, thinking that he'd been more blessed than a saint. Ionis had lost the love of his life, while he had been granted Iseabal.

"Alisdair." She made his name an endearment, but then, she had a way of invoking so many emotions with only a few words—tenderness and passion, wonder and gratitude.

Her smile was luminous as her hands reached up and framed his face. Words were unnecessary; all he needed to know was shining through her eyes.

Turning, they looked out at MacRae land rich with color and history. The day was ending, the last rays of sunlight lending a golden color to Loch Euliss and illuminating Gilmuir. They'd have months, if not years, of hard work ahead of them, but the result would be glens as fertile as they had once been, and inhabitants who need not worry about survival.

Alisdair had a revelation at that moment, one not of sight but of heart. His home was not Nova Scotia, or the ship he loved to sail, or even Gilmuir.

Iseabal was his home, his haven, and his harbor.