Epilogue
The day had finally arrived.
Freya stood before the large mirror in her chambers, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the delicate fabric of her gown. The day had passed in a blur of preparations, of laughter and excitement. Now, in this quiet moment, reality settled over her.
Marissa and Abigail stood beside her, their hands steady as they helped her fasten the pearl necklace around her throat. The pearls were cool against her skin, familiar and comforting. Their mother’s necklace. A piece of the past, carried into the future.
Freya lifted a hand to touch the pearls, her fingers ghosting over the smooth surface. A lump formed in her throat.
“Mama would have loved to see this day,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.
Marissa’s hands stilled for a moment before she gave a small nod. “Aye. She would’ve been so proud of ye, Freya.”
Abigail sniffled, trying to fight back the emotion in her eyes. “And Da, too. He would have walked ye down the aisle.”
A deep ache settled in Freya’s chest at the thought, a longing for something that could never be. She swallowed hard, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall.
“I miss them,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Marissa squeezed her arm gently. “We all do. But we still have each other, aye?”
Freya turned to her sisters then, looking at their faces, so full of love and understanding. She reached for them both, pulling them into a tight embrace.
“Aye,” she murmured. “And that’s enough.”
For a moment, they stood there, holding onto each other, letting the weight of the past settle while embracing the promise of tomorrow.
Freya inhaled deeply, steadying herself. When she pulled back, she smiled, wiping the dampness from Abigail’s cheek. “Now, nay more tears. We’ve got a weddin’ to prepare for.”
They continued to fuss over her, adding things, taking them, straightening her gown as Freya’s fingers kept caressing the pearl at her neck.
Then suddenly, Freya noticed that Marissa had been unusually quiet for the past several minutes.
Her fingers were busy smoothing the folds of Freya’s gown, but her eyes kept darting toward Abigail.
There was a nervous energy about her, almost as if she were holding something back.
Freya narrowed her eyes, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “Marissa, ye’ve been fidgin’ like a lass with a secret she’s burstin’ to share. Out with it, then.”
Marissa’s hands stilled immediately. “Oh, it’s naythin’.”
Freya arched a brow. “Daenae lie to me face, Marissa. I ken ye too well.” She leaned forward, her grin growing. “Ye’ll nae last the night if ye keep it in.”
Abigail let out a quiet giggle, but Marissa only bit her lip, shifting her weight. “It’s naythin’ that cannae wait,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “It’s yer weddin’, Freya. This is yer moment.”
At that, Freya’s amusement dimmed just slightly and concern crept into her chest. “Marissa, what is it?”
Marissa hesitated for a moment longer, then, seeing the growing worry in Freya’s expression, she finally exhaled and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s good news, I swear it.”
Freya searched her sister’s face, then let out a breath of relief, shaking her head. “Well, now ye have to tell me, or I’ll nae be able to think about anythin’ else.”
Marissa’s lips curved into a small, secretive smile, but she held her tongue just a little longer, as if savoring the moment. Freya crossed her arms, feigning impatience. “Go on, then, before I drag it out of ye.”
Marissa glanced at Abigail, who grinned and gave a little nod of encouragement. She obviously knew what it was about. Then, finally, she turned back to Freya, eyes shining with something unreadable.
“Alright, alright. But ye must promise nae to faint.”
Freya’s heart gave a little jolt of anticipation. “Now I really need to hear it.”
Marissa hesitated, inhaling deeply. But her eyes shone with pure joy. “Freya, I… published me book.”
Freya blinked, momentarily stunned. “Yer book?” she echoed in disbelief. She couldn’t imagine that it could have done so quickly. But then again, Michael could do anything.
Marissa nodded, her cheeks flushing. “Aye. With the laird’s help. He arranged for it to be copied and bound properly. It’s been printed, Freya. A real book.”
For a moment, Freya could only stare at her sister, the weight of the words settling over her. Then, warmth flooded her chest, pride swelling so fiercely it nearly stole her breath. “Marissa…”
Marissa shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to tell ye sooner, but the laird thought it’d be a fine surprise. And I suppose I worried, too. That it was foolish, that nay one would care for the scribblings of a lass from the Highlands.”
Freya reached for her hands, squeezing them tight. “Daenae ever say that, Marissa. There is naythin’ foolish about followin’ yer dreams.”
Marissa’s eyes shone even more now. “Ye really think so?”
“I ken so,” Freya said firmly. “I’ve always known ye had a gift with words. And now the world will ken it, too.”
Marissa let out a breath, as if releasing some long-held fear. A small, shy smile curved her lips. “It’s dedicated to ye, ye ken. And Abigail. And Cody. Ye all gave me the courage to put the words to page.”
Freya’s throat tightened, her heart full. She reached forward and pulled Marissa into a tight embrace, holding her close.
“I am so proud of ye,” she whispered.
Marissa clung to her for a moment before pulling back, blinking quickly as if to chase away tears. “Well, there ye go now… ye’ve gone and made me weepy. This is yer day, Freya.”
Freya laughed, dabbing at her own damp eyes. “Aye, well, I think today can be a day for more than one happiness.”
Abigail beamed at them both before throwing her arms around them, squeezing tightly. “A family of storytellers and warriors, then,” she teased.
Freya chuckled, resting her head against her sisters. “Aye. And I wouldnae have it any other way.”
Michael had faced battle, stood against enemies who wished him dead, and survived betrayals that would have broken lesser men. But as he stood at the front of the great hall, waiting for Freya to walk toward him, he felt his chest tighten in a way he had never known before.
The air was thick with the scent of heather and candle wax, the great stone walls draped in tartan and fresh greenery. The hall was filled with the murmurs of kin and clansmen, the soft rustle of silk and wool as people shifted in anticipation. But Michael heard none of it.
Because the moment Freya appeared, he forgot how to breathe.
She stepped forward, her gown a vision of cream and gold, the fabric flowing around her like mist curling over the Highlands. The pearls at her throat gleamed in the candlelight, but it was her eyes that held him captive. Deep and steady, brimming with something that made his heart clench.
Michael swallowed hard. God above, she’s bonnie.
She moved toward him with quiet grace, her sisters at her side, her chin lifted with that same stubborn pride he had come to love. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his entire body taut with the need to reach for her, to pull her close.
When at last she stood before him, the world shrank to just the two of them.
He leaned in slightly, his voice rough with emotion only she could hear. “Ye are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
A flush rose on her cheeks, but her eyes never wavered from his. “And ye are the most stubborn man I have ever met,” she whispered back, lips curving into the faintest smile.
He chuckled, the warmth of it settling deep in his chest. Then, gently, he reached for her hands, his roughened fingers closing over hers.
The elder began to speak, his voice carrying through the hall, but Michael barely heard the words. All that mattered was the woman before him, the steady weight of her hands in his, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly when he ran his thumb over her knuckles.
The ceremony followed the old ways. Their hands were bound together with the MacEwan tartan, the colors of his clan wrapping around them, binding them not just in vows but in blood, in history, in something unbreakable.
Torches flickered over the guests and the gathered clansmen, warriors standing shoulder to shoulder with kin and allies.
As was custom, a length of braided ribbon was brought forth and the elder took their hands, wrapping them together in the sacred binding of marriage.
“With this cord, ye are joined, heart to heart, hand to hand, and soul to soul,” he entoned. “Before all gathered here, ye vow to stand beside one another, in darkness and in light, in strength and in sorrow.”
Michael’s fingers tightened around hers.
“I swear it,” he said in a deep voice.
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with equal certainty. “And I to ye.”
The elder tied the final knot. “Then by this bond, let none divide what is now made one.”
He made a simple gesture, one that was immediately understood and a ceremonial quaich was passed between Freya and Michael, the shared drink symbolizing trust. Michael lifted it first, drinking deep before offering it to his bride.
She accepted without hesitation, the fire of the whiskey obviously warming her throat, but he knew she would never let it show.
This was more than more tradition. It was a promise, one of duty, of strength, bound by love.
The elder then addressed everyone else, with his raised hands. “Let this man and this woman be bound in love, loyalty and in blood. May yer days be long, yer battles few and yer love be as fierce as the storm.”
The hall erupted into cheers as their hands were unbound and the final blessing spoken. Michael wasted no time. He pulled her into his arms, cupping her face as he claimed her lips in a kiss that sealed what had already been written in his heart long ago.
His wife. His Freya.
As his clan roared their approval, as the pipes sang and the celebration began, Michael held her close and whispered against her temple. “Ye were always meant to be mine.”