Epilogue
One Year Later
I saw the riders crest the hill just as the sun began its descent toward the sea.
My hands stilled over the rosemary I had been harvesting, my heart climbing into my throat the way it always did when Dawson rode out with the men.
The skirmish with the MacKinnons had been brewing for weeks—cattle stolen, boundaries disputed, the usual Highland quarrels that flared hot and fast before burning themselves out.
Connor had assured me it would be nothing. A show of force, a few harsh words, perhaps a scuffle. Nothing to worry about.
I had worried anyway. I suspected I always would.
The cottage stood on the rise overlooking the sea, just as Dawson had promised.
Stone walls thick enough to hold the winter at bay, a hearth wide enough to warm us through the coldest nights, and a stillroom that was entirely my own—shelves lined with jars, bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters, the sharp-sweet scent of healing filling every corner.
And outside, my garden. Yarrow and chamomile, lavender and feverfew, mint and comfrey. All the practical plants, the useful ones, the ones I had spent years convincing myself were enough.
But in the corner, where the afternoon sun fell warmest, the roses bloomed. Pink and cream and deepest red, their petals soft as silk, their fragrance drifting through the open window on summer evenings. Beautiful things. Things I had finally learned I deserved.
The riders drew closer, and I counted them. Five had ridden out this morning. Five were returning now.
My breath released in a rush.
I set down my basket and walked to the front of the cottage, wiping my hands on my apron.
The doorframe was still crooked—Dawson’s handiwork, carved with more enthusiasm than skill—but I loved it fiercely.
I loved everything about this place. Every stone, every beam, every imperfection that made it ours.
Dawson separated from the group as they neared, urging his horse ahead. Even from a distance, I could see the grin spreading across his face. He was filthy, his shirt torn, and there was blood on his sleeve—but he was whole. He was home.
He swung down from the saddle before the horse had fully stopped, crossing the distance between us in three long strides. His arms came around me, lifting me off my feet, and I laughed despite myself—despite the worry, despite the hours of waiting, despite everything.
“You’re getting blood on my apron,” I said against his neck.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You’ll wash this one yourself, more like.”
He set me down but didn’t let go, his hands framing my face, his green eyes searching mine with that intensity that still made my breath catch. Even after a year. Even after everything.
“I’m fine,” he said, reading the question I hadn’t asked. “A scratch. Nothing more.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” I took his hand and led him inside, settling him on the stool beside the hearth while I gathered what I needed. Clean linen. Water from the kettle. The salve I had made just last week, comfrey and calendula in a base of beeswax and oil.
He hung the sword hung by the door—the Cailleach’s blade, ancient and gleaming, the one she had told him to keep. A man should have a blade to defend what is his. He had defended us well today. Would defend us for all the days to come.
“The MacKinnons?” I asked, helping him ease out of his torn shirt.
“Backed down the moment they saw we meant business. Connor barely had to draw his sword.” Dawson winced as I examined the gash on his upper arm—deeper than a scratch, but clean. It would heal well. “Angus was disappointed. He was looking forward to a proper fight.”
“Angus is always looking forward to a proper fight.”
“True enough.”
I cleaned the wound with practiced hands, my touch gentle but thorough. How many times had I done this now? Tended his scrapes and bruises, his blisters and cuts, the hundred small injuries that came with learning to live in a world so different from the one he had left behind.
He never complained. Never once suggested that any of it was too hard, too rough, too far removed from the luxury he had known. He simply showed up day after day and did the work.
The man who had conquered mountains and crossed oceans, who had built an empire and was worth a fortune—he mucked out stables and mended fences and hauled water from the well. And he did it with a smile that said he had never been happier.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, watching my face as I applied the salve. “Is everything all right?”
My hands trembled slightly. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“Everything is fine.”
“Elspeth.” His voice softened, and he caught my wrist, stilling my movements. “Talk to me.”
I looked at him—this man who had given up the world for me, who had closed the door on everything he knew and never looked back. This man who had taught me that love didn’t have to hurt, that staying was possible, that I deserved beautiful things.
I had been waiting for the right moment to tell him. Had rehearsed the words a dozen times in my head, trying to find the perfect way to say it. But there was no perfect way. There was only the truth, and the hope that he would receive it with the same joy I felt.
“I’m with child.”
The words hung in the air between us.
Dawson went very still. His hand was still wrapped around my wrist, and I felt his pulse jump beneath his skin—or maybe that was my own, racing so fast I could barely breathe.
“You’re—” He stopped. Swallowed. “We’re going to have a baby?”
“Aye.” My voice came out barely above a whisper. “In the spring, if Moira’s calculations are correct.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then—slowly, wonderfully—his face changed.
The grin that broke across his features was brighter than any I had ever seen. His eyes glistened with tears he didn’t try to hide. And when he pulled me into his arms, lifting me off my feet for the second time that evening, the laugh that escaped him was pure, unfiltered joy.
“A baby,” he said against my hair. “Elspeth. A baby.”
“You’re pleased, then?” The question came out tremulous, uncertain. Old fears, flickering at the edges.
He set me down and cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
“Pleased? I’m—” He shook his head, lost for words.
“I spent thirty-five years thinking I didn’t want this.
Didn’t need it. I climbed every mountain, crossed every ocean, built an empire that could have lasted generations.
And none of it—none of it—comes close to this moment. To you. To the life we’re building.”
The tears spilled over before I could stop them. He kissed them away, his lips soft against my cheeks, my eyelids, the corners of my mouth.
“I love you,” he murmured. “I love you so much it terrifies me. And I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know it. You and our child. Our children, if we’re blessed with more.”
“Children,” I repeated, testing the word. “You want more than one?”
“I want as many as you’ll give me.” His grin turned wicked. “I’m very motivated to practice.”
I laughed—a real laugh, bright and unguarded—and swatted at his shoulder. “You’re injured. No practicing tonight.”
“It’s a scratch. You said so yourself.”
“I said no such thing. I said it would heal well, which is not the same as saying you’re fit for—”
He kissed me before I could finish the sentence.
It was the kind of kiss that made my knees weak and my head spin, the kind of kiss that still surprised me with its intensity even after a year of marriage.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathless, the last light of day was fading through the windows and the fire had burned low in the hearth.
“I should finish bandaging your arm,” I said, though I made no move to pull away.
“Later.” He rested his forehead against mine. “Right now, I just want to hold you. I want to stand here in our home, with my wife in my arms, and think about the fact that we’re going to be parents. That everything I gave up—all of it—was worth it for this moment.”
“Do you ever regret it?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. “The world you left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment, considering. “I miss my mother,” he said finally. “I think about her sometimes—wonder if she’s all right, if she ever found peace with my disappearance. I hope she did.”
“And the rest of it? The wealth, the power, the—”
“No.” The word was absolute. “Not for a single second. I had everything a man could want, Elspeth, and I was empty. Hollow. Chasing one thrill after another, trying to fill a void that nothing could touch.” He pulled back to look at me, his green eyes fierce with certainty.
“You filled it. This life filled it. And I would make the same choice a thousand times over.”
I kissed him then—softly, sweetly, trying to pour everything I felt into the gesture. Gratitude and wonder and a love so deep it sometimes frightened me with its intensity.
“The Cailleach knew,” I said when we parted. “When she brought you here. She knew this was what you needed.”
“She knew what we both needed.” His hand drifted to my stomach, resting there with impossible gentleness. “The heart that’s done everything must learn to wish again. That’s what she told me the night of the storm. I didn’t understand it then.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand that I spent my whole life wishing for things. Achievements. Conquests. The next mountain, the next ocean, the next challenge to overcome.” His voice softened.
“She wasn’t telling me to wish for things.
She was telling me to wish for this. For love.
For family. For a life that actually matters. ”
I covered his hand with my own, pressing it more firmly against the place where our child was growing. Our future, taking shape beneath my heart.
“I have a wish too,” I said quietly.
“Tell me.”
“I wish for this to last. For us to grow old together, watching our children run through that garden. For you to keep carving crooked doorframes and fighting our enemies and coming home to me every single night.” My voice cracked.
“I wish for the courage to keep believing this is real. That I deserve it. That it won’t be taken away. ”
Dawson gathered me close, his arms strong around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear.
“It’s real,” he promised. “And you deserve every moment of it. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you, Elspeth Carrington. One day at a time. Starting with this one.”
Outside, the stars were emerging over the sea. The roses nodded in the evening breeze. The sword gleamed by the door, and the fire crackled in the hearth of the home we had built together.
And somewhere in the darkness—carried on the wind, soft as a whisper, ancient as the stones beneath our feet—I could have sworn I heard a voice.
A voice like winter bells. Like ice and eternity. Like the blessing of a goddess who had seen two broken hearts and decided they deserved a chance.
“Wish granted.”
Thank you so much for reading!