Epilogue #2
Alasdair didn’t personally know what Lord Grisham was to his children, but he had heard terrible stories about the absent patriarch.
After everyone had duly become quiet out of respect for Lord Grisham, Alasdair cleared his throat. He reached for Elizabeth’s hands, both of them, and held them up. Their guests looked at the gesture with interest.
“Aye, we invited everyone we love to this wee gatherin’ for two reasons. One, we’ve not had the chance to do it ‘til now. And two…” he stopped and watched his wife.
With all eyes on them, Elizabeth blushed a bright red.
“We are expecting,” she announced, her voice barely above a whisper.
The room, which had only begun to be more solemn, erupted into beautiful chaos: Marianne shrieked, rising from her seat to pull her sister into a hug, Dominic and Seth clapping Alasdair’s back, and Wilhelmina offering to choose their baby’s first books.
The twins started dancing around their brother Daniel who had raised his glass for a toast:
“To the next generation.”
Everyone else toasted.
It was the happiest night of Alasdair’s life.
He looked up and thought of his father, and thought:
This is also for you, faither.
After dinner, their family and friends gradually trickled away. Some retreated to their guest chambers, others descended the steps to their carriages under a sky painted in violet dusk.
Elizabeth stood on the balcony, her fingers resting lightly on the wrought iron rail. She watched them depart, offering quiet goodbyes as wheels crunched over gravel and laughter drifted into the warm summer night.
Then, with a soft sigh, she slipped back into their chambers and shut the French doors behind her. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a golden hush over the room.
“Feelin’ cold?” Alasdair asked behind her, his voice low and warm.
“Not anymore,” she murmured, as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.
His lips brushed the nape of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. His hands came to rest on her belly, which was still flat, barely noticeable, and yet, it grounded them both. The promise of what was to come.
“Sometimes,” he whispered against her skin, “I look at ye and wonder what I ever did to deserve ye. Ye walk like grace itself, and yet… ye chose me.”
Elizabeth turned in his embrace, facing him fully now. “Didn’t you say we belong to each other? That kind of thinking leaves no room for who deserves whom.”
He chuckled, but there was reverence in it. “Still, I’ll never stop thankin’ whatever gods brought ye to me.”
Her hands reached up, brushing through his hair, her fingers settling on his jaw. “Just promise me something, Alasdair.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t leave me again.”
A beat. His face sobered.
“Ye were the one who left me,” he said softly. “But aye. I understand why. I should never have let it come to that.”
“We’ve both been afraid. But I’m tired of fear,” she whispered. “I want us to stop punishing each other for the things we were too scared to say.”
“Aye,” he murmured, voice thick. “Let’s stop.”
His mouth found hers then, slow and searching, as though he were memorizing the shape of her lips all over again. When she leaned into him, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, still kissing her as he walked them to the bed.
“Careful,” she warned with a breathless laugh.
“I ken, my love,” he said, laying her down with a gentleness that belied the strength in him.
He knelt between her legs, his large hands stroking slowly up her thighs, then pausing reverently on her belly again.
A tear slipped down Elizabeth’s cheek, not from sadness, but the sheer fullness of it all.
This man. This room. This future.
Her heart felt like it could burst.
“Alasdair?”
“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmured.
She lifted her hips so he could slide her nightdress over her head. Beneath it, she wore nothing.
He exhaled slowly, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
“Well now,” he said, with a teasing smile. “Ye’ve gone and undone me.”
“Not quite yet,” she said, smirking as she cast a glance at his still-clothed form.
He laughed softly, standing to undress. Every motion was slow, deliberate. When he dropped his shirt, she saw the pale scar that curved beneath his ribs. Her breath hitched.
“You came back to me,” she whispered.
“I’ll always come back to ye.”
And then he was bare before her—broad, golden-skinned, every inch of him honed like a man forged in fire and tempered by love.
He returned to the bed, spreading her knees gently with his hands. He dipped down to press a kiss between her thighs before sliding two fingers into her, just enough to feel her slick warmth.
She gasped, arching.
“Are ye ready to be worshipped, me love?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“No,” she whispered. “Just be with me.”
Those words, so simple and sincere, stilled him. He shifted over her and guided himself in, slow and steady. Her hands gripped his arms as he filled her, and she cried out softly at the completeness of it. Of him.
They moved together, their rhythm unhurried and instinctive, the world falling away.
“I love ye, Elizabeth,” he said into her mouth, as he rocked inside her. “More than life. More than anything I thought mattered.”
“Say it again,” she gasped, her arms winding around his neck.
He kissed her cheek, her eyelids, her lips.
“I love ye,” he whispered. “In this life and the next.”
After that, there were no more words. Only the heat of their skin, the wet press of mouths, the whisper of breath and sighs.
She clung to him as he moved within her, slow and deep, every thrust a promise, every caress a vow. When she reached her peak, it was with a sob in his arms, and he followed moments later, breaking apart with a cry muffled against her shoulder.
Long after their bodies stilled, they held each other in the dark, limbs tangled, hearts steady.
And there, in the quiet hum of their love, the world righted itself again.
The End?