Epilogue
Sorcha
Late May brought warmth to Strathloch—the kind that softened the hills and carried the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers through the air. The courtyard hummed with laughter and song, the clan gathered to witness Duncan and Katherine’s vows.
Sorcha stood among the women of the clan near the front, her hand resting over the gentle swell of her belly.
The bairn had begun to stir now and again, a flutter like wings beneath her palm.
By her count, it must’ve been conceived around Yuletide—five months gone, give or take—and though her back ached and her dresses fit snugger each week, she’d never felt lighter.
As a gift to Katherine, Sorcha had joined a circle of women from Strathloch to craft her gown.
They were the same women who’d once come to her for lessons in defense—determined never again to stand helpless should danger return.
What began as shared necessity had become a bond of friendship—steady, fierce, and true.
Those she had trained were now her sisters in all but blood.
Ailis, quiet and deft-handed, had woven the cloth herself: a fine, cream-colored wool, soft as breath and light as linen.
Morag and Agnes had taken to the stitching, while Sorcha worked the embroidery along the trim, her needle steady from years spent mending wounds and garments alike.
Together, they’d made something lovely—simple, elegant, and fit for the lass who’d brought such brightness to them all.
Now, as Katherine stood beside Duncan, her russet curls gleaming in the sun and her blue eyes alight with joy, Sorcha felt pride swell in her chest. Duncan’s voice was rough with feeling as he spoke his vow, his hand steady as it closed around his bride’s.
Beside her, Calum reached for her hand. “Ye’ve all outdone yourselves,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “She looks radiant.”
Sorcha smiled, her gaze lingering on the couple before turning to him. “She does. They both do.”
Calum’s eyes softened as he looked at her. “As do ye, wife of my heart.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. “It’s the season,” she teased. “Spring makes fools of us all.”
He laughed low under his breath and leaned close enough that only she could hear. “Aye—but if this is folly, I’ll gladly keep it.”
The cheers rose as Duncan kissed his bride, and around them the bells began to ring, echoing through the glen. Sorcha pressed Calum’s hand against her belly, feeling the faint stir beneath.
“I never thought I’d have this,” she whispered. “Peace. Joy. A home that feels like mine.”
Calum turned to her then, his expression soft, steady—the look of a man who’d fought and nearly lost it all.
She lifted her gaze to his, guiding his hand from her belly to her heart.
“Do ye feel that?” she murmured. “Every beat, every breath—it’s yours. Ye’re the love of my life, Calum MacRae, and the home I’d been searchin’ for all along.”
The bells tolled on, their sound carrying through the air, bright and full as the laughter of their kin. For a moment, the world seemed to still around them—just the two of them standing in the light, everything they’d fought for made real.
He took her hand again, their fingers entwined as he met her gaze. Tears welled, but his smile held steady.
“And ye, mine,” he said, voice rough with feeling. “Now and always.”
She thought of where she had been a little more than a year ago—of all that had come before: the pain, the loss, the long road that had led them here.
Then she let it go, and simply stood in the sunlight, his hand in hers, surrounded by family, friends, and the quiet promise of what was still to come.
The End.