Epilogue
Ye have heard that it hath been said,
An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.
Rory shifted impatiently in the audience chamber of Holyrood Palace, waiting for the presentations to begin. Sensing his disquiet, Isabel glanced up from the sleeping infant in her arms to give him an encouraging smile.
“Rory, Margaret will be fine. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands.” Isabel indicated the dour Viking positioned protectively at Margaret’s side.
“I know,” Rory said, returning her smile.
His heart swelled, studying the beloved countenances of his wife and child.
A more perfect picture he could not imagine.
If possible, motherhood had made Isabel even more beautiful, bringing a serenity to her expression and a maturity to her bearing that had not been there before.
She bloomed with the confidence of love and of being loved in return.
And the tiny cherub in her arms … He felt emotion squeeze his throat.
Gently, with the back of his finger, he swept the velvety soft cheek.
Rory’s love for his wife and devotion to their child grew more powerful with each new day that dawned. He’d found a peace and contentment that he hadn’t realized existed. He thanked God for his good fortune and for the strange twist of fate that had brought Isabel to Dunvegan.
His gaze turned to his sister, resplendent in her court finery as she waited at the end of the room to take her turn down the aisle.
Margaret’s golden blond ringlets caught up high on her head dangled becomingly down her back—glistening silvery white in the flickering flames of the ceiling candelabrum.
His mind turned to a day not so long ago when he’d witnessed a very different kind of procession.
“Margaret has gone through much worse,” Rory said, more to himself. “She’s stronger now.”
Or perhaps she’d always been strong, and it had just taken Isabel to remind them of that fact.
Isabel, who with her unwavering faith had made this day possible.
Holyrood was the final stop on Margaret and Colin’s extended wedding journey across the Highlands.
As promised, Isabel and Rory had joined them for support.
Rory knew it couldn’t hurt Margaret’s chances for acceptance at court to have the new royal favorites by her side—warning the king of a treasonous plot tended to have that effect.
Still, though he knew how important this day was to Margaret, he’d fought it, unable to ignore the shadow of uncertainty.
“Rory, if you don’t stop frowning like that, you are going to terrify all the ladies,” Isabel teased.
He folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw in a hard line. “Good. Perhaps it will remind them to curb the lash of their harpy tongues.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You promised …”
He scowled. “Aye, I did.” Was there anything he would not do for his wife? The fact that he was at court right now probably answered that question. “Though ’twas not a fair fight.”
Isabel gasped with mock affront. “Do you impugn my honor, Sir Knight?” she asked, a teasing reference to the rumors that the king intended to bestow a knighthood upon him.
“No, just your methods of persuasion.”
Isabel shrugged, eyes twinkling. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“You are an impudent wench, Isabel MacLeod.”
“You’ll have to remind me of that later.” She giggled and turned back to watch the proceedings.
Rory held his breath as Margaret’s name was called, bracing himself for the jeers.
Isabel slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze in silent communication.
He watched as Margaret urged her shoulders back and allowed Colin to lead her down the aisle toward King James and Queen Anne, the newly crowned king and queen of England.
“Is that the one-eyed woman?” he heard someone say, and tensed. The same voice continued, “But she is so pretty, such a fey creature.”
More murmured voices followed her down the aisle.
“I thought she was maimed?”
A male voice entered the fray. “Why would Sleat repudiate her to marry the Mackenzie lass? Perhaps ’tis he who suffered the loss of an eye.” Laughter joined the stranger’s words.
Rory exhaled. As his sister floated regally by, Isabel turned to him with an I told you so shining in her lovely violet eyes.
His heart squeezed, overcome with love for the woman who had already given him so much.
They had come such a long way together. Ironically, brought together by the events of that horrible summer day four years ago when Sleat had cast Margaret off in that cruel spectacle.
Sleat was no longer a thorn in his side, as he was currently enjoying the “hospitality” of the king’s guards.
Although Rory knew Sleat would not stay imprisoned by the king forever, the MacDonald chief no longer concerned him.
Rory had everything he wanted.
Looking at the proud face of his sister, the beaming face of his wife, and the angelic face of his precious daughter, Mairi—whom Isabel insisted on calling John—Rory felt the last embers of vengeance dying in his heart.
He had won. Happiness was undoubtedly the best revenge of all.