Epilogue
Calum crouched beside his sleeping wife and brushed a finger across her nose. Freya’s lashes fluttered but her eyes stayed closed. Grinning, he tickled her nose again. Still nothing.
Her lips parted, breath soft against his skin, and once more he was undone by her beauty. Leaning in, heart thudding like it had the first time he’d kissed her, he pressed his mouth to hers.
She stirred, lifting a hand to his cheek, and sank into his kiss. When she smiled that radiant, sun-bright smile, his chest clenched.
“You’re back.”
Bog’s tail thumped wildly, knocking over a cup by the bed. Calum pulled off his cowl and crouched to mop the spill. “Och, you miserable dog.”
Freya bent forward, pulling Bog’s fuzzy head close and peppering it with kisses. “Dinnae scold my baby. I’ve missed him, too.”
Calum only smiled, giving a sharp whistle. By the fire, their newest hound, Mossy, lifted her head. “Come, lass. We’re going for a walk.”
At the word walk, both dogs exploded with excitement, leaping and spinning across the Chieftain’s quarters.
Freya yawned. “Why are we going walking in the middle of the night?”
He held up his plaid with a grin. “The stars are out, and if ye dinnae remember, we were married one year ago today. I thought it would be nice to mark the occasion.”
“I remember. Do you remember what happened the last time we sat under the stars?” Her hand drifted across the growing roundness of her belly.
He bent to kiss her again, savoring the feel of her lips after so many weeks apart. “I warned you at Moy that’s what I wanted for us. And besides—there’s no danger of it happening again…at least not with the same end result.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cheeky lad. You did warn me.”
Sleepily, Freya slipped her hand into his and let him guide her into the cold. Outside Somerled’s longhouse, the night sky opened above them, lit with thousands upon thousands of stars. Her breath left her in a misty sigh as she stepped into the chill, wonder spilling across her face.
Their fingers twined as they walked the auld path to Lealt, and for a moment he was carried back to the first days of their marriage.
So much had changed in a single year: Da and Maw were gone.
Ragnall was gone. He was chieftain in his own right.
A war had been declared. And before spring, he would be a father.
Yet with his lass beside him, all was right in his world.
The rowan tree stood silent sentinel in the heathland, its branches bearing the last red-orange berries of the season.
Of all the things that had changed, it remained—the same tree where he’d first drawn her close.
He shook out his plaid and laid it on the ground, pulling Freya into his lap as he leaned back to admire the dusting of stars above.
“How far away do you think the stars are?”
Freya smiled and turned her head, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Closer than my next breath.”
He caught her lips with his own, grinning against her mouth as his hands slid beneath her plaid to cradle the fullness of her womb.
She broke the kiss, pulling a face. “Och, I feel like a cow.”
Calum rolled his eyes as he trailed kisses up her neck, wondering if he could get somewhere. “What are you on about? You look fit enough to sword dance.”
She smirked. “I could still beat you if I tried, MacLean.”
He smiled. “I ken, my beautiful MacSorley lass. I ken.”
Her hand found his and held it still over her bump. “Any sign of Murdoch?”
Calum shook his head, his heart dropping again.
Murdoch hadn’t been seen since he’d walked out of the officers’ quarters at Duart—gone from the Shield, from the Lochbuie bowmen, from his home entirely.
Rory MacDonald still held Aoife, and now there were whispers of women vanishing across Garmoran.
The Shield had made a covert search of the lands, but found no trace of him.
For the millionth time since that horrible day, Calum prayed Murdoch wasn’t dead.
Freya smoothed her hand over his. “He’s out there. Think of Léo—perhaps he’s imprisoned somewhere. Somehow he’ll get word to us.”
Calum’s thoughts strayed to Aoife, trapped in a marriage she hadn’t chosen, torn from her family and friends, silenced within the MacDonald household. “I dinnae believe he wants to get word to us, love. I only pray Doc hasn’t done anything reckless…that he hasn’t harmed himself.”
Freya shook her head firmly. “I don’t believe he would. His faith runs too deep.”
Calum rested his head against her shoulder. “You’re the one of deep faith, mo rionnag. You’re always the one urging me to hope.”
She smiled softly. “Well, it’s hard no’ to believe when Jesus kept sending you to save me. Over, and over, and over again.”
He swept his hands over her belly again. “I hope this one gives me less trouble.”
Freya smiled and tucked her head against his neck. “Calum?”
“Mmm?”
“How did you know to come for me the night I was scalded?”
His smile deepened with the memory. “The Lord gave me a dream—a terrible one. You were standing in the river, alone, and no one was coming to save you. Then a voice thundered, commanding me to rise. I woke with sickness in my chest, in my gut, and it wouldn’t relent until I ran for the woods. When I found you, I knew—”
She tightened her hand over his. “What?”
“That I still wanted you for my wife. Always. To keep beside me, to love, to protect. Holding you in that water, I knew I’d never hold another lass again.
You were the only one I’d ever wanted, and the only one I’d want for the rest of my life.
” He tightened his palms on her belly, as if passing his vow into the child within.
“Our souls were always the same, our spirits made of the same breath, our hearts pricked for each other since we were bairns. Born on the same day. I believe we might have been created in the same instant, so we always had each other.”
Beneath his palms something shifted, sweeping across his hands, and Freya gave a startled cry. “Och—did you feel it?”
Wonder jolted through him. He pressed both hands beside her navel just as a tiny lump rolled, then thumped—thumped—thumped. “How are you doing that?”
She burst into laughter. “’Tis no’ me, daft man. It’s your bairn. I’ve felt the wee flutters for months, but those—those were proper kicks. He’s already a runner, like his da.”
The small bump moved again, a quick pulse beneath his spread hands. A strange, fierce joy swept over him, and he laughed aloud.
“I feel her.”
Freya chuckled softly. “Ye dinnae know it’s a lass.”
He only nodded. “Aye, she is. I know it.”
“How do ye know?”
“I know because her kicks give me the same weight in my heart that you do every time you look at me.”
A tear slipped from Freya’s eye and traced her cheek. He caught it with his kiss, unwilling to lift his hands from her belly—from the daughter he knew was growing there.
Calum couldn’t believe the overflow of his blessings.
God had watched over them faithfully. He had heard every breath of prayer, every hour of anguish, and neither he nor Freya had been mastered by circumstance.
Instead, He had led them through it—and together they had risen to their calling by His power.
Laying back beneath the branches of their rowan tree, Calum drew her into his arms. She rested a hand against him, her finger tracing the wolfhound marked upon his skin.
She let out a breath. “I wish I could be certain of what is to come—that all will be well for those we love.”
“All we can do now is pray.”
“It seems such a small thing.”
He shook his head. “No, love. It is a powerful and holy thing. Perhaps the greatest weapon we possess.”
She looked up at him. “Is it truly?”
He slid the prayer book from his belt and opened it to the beginning, sliding free the oldest of his prayers that he had leafed between the pages. “Read this to me.”
Freya drew the lantern closer and cleared her throat.
“I beseech the Lord—send me. When my time has come, return me to my father’s house.
Bring me back to the place of my birth, so that I may lead my family and clan as the man you have made me to be.
Though I be led away to the uttermost reaches of the Isles, guide me and bring me home.
Create Jura as a place for Your name to dwell, high and lifted up.
Position me within Your will, and let me run in a manner worthy of Your high and holy call.
“Protect my people and my home; preserve them and keep them safe. Soften my father’s heart and open it to Your presence.
Watch over my mother and let her be comforted.
And remember…” Her voice caught, her eyes shining as they lingered on the words.
“Remember Your daughter Freya, that in the moment of Your choosing, she may taste deliverance. Keep her until I return and claim my bride, the woman I have always loved.”
Calum held her tight. “I wrote that with vellum and ink—bought with your coin—the night I first arrived on Mull. God calls, and all we need do is speak to Him in return.” His hands tightened protectively over their daughter.
A wide, brilliant smile spread across Freya’s face. “It was never an exile, was it? It was an exodus—for me, for you, for our people. God heard you and led us out. Nothing was ever beyond His control.”
Above them the rowan branches stirred in the night breeze, their red berries catching the starlight.
The heavens stretched wide and unclouded, each star a sharp point of silver fire, as if the sky itself were listening.
Calum drew Freya into the crook of his arm, holding her close, where she had always belonged and always would.
“Aye,” he murmured. “And whatever lies ahead, He is listening—ready to reveal Himself through the whispers of our prayers, to remind us in our devotion that He is never far off but walks with us, step by step, into our deliverance.”
Calum lifted his gaze to the stars, a deep peace settling over him.
Nothing in his life had been an accident; none of their suffering had been wasted.
Every prayer he had uttered had only drawn him closer to the heart of God.
He could speak with his Father about anything, certain of His nearness and care.
God would keep them—now and always—within the steadfast shelter of His love.
The End