Epilogue
One year later …
brìGHDE PRICKED HER finger.
“Hades,” she muttered, sucking the bead of blood away before it could stain the linen.
“Careful, or ye’ll ruin Mairi’s best cloth,” Maggie teased from across the solar.
Brìghde shot her a look, though a smile tugged at her mouth as she wiped her needle clean and set back to work. “Then perhaps Mairi should stop giving me such fine things to mend.”
Mairi didn’t look up from her stitching. “Or perhaps ye should stop trying to rush through it, so ye can get back to yer workshop.”
Opposite, Astrid snorted a laugh, and Brìghde’s smile widened.
Her mother-by-marriage knew her too well these days.
They all did.
Warmth spread through her chest as she bent once more over the linen stretched between her hands. Sunlight slanted through the narrow window beside her, catching on the thread as she drew it through in a smooth pull.
“As I was saying.” Astrid picked up the tale Brìghde had just interrupted. “He swore the goat chased him halfway down the hill.”
Her daughter Maggie huffed a laugh. “I remember the incident.”
“We never knew who loosed the goat in the first place,” Mairi added ruefully.
Brìghde grinned. “My wager is on one of yer sons.”
Mairi glanced up, one brow arching. “Which one?”
“Any one of them.”
All three women seated in the lady’s solar with her—Mairi, Astrid, and Maggie—laughed at that.
Brìghde’s gaze slid across their faces.
It still caught her unawares sometimes—the way they included her without thought. She was far beneath them all in rank, yet that didn’t seem to matter.
Astrid leaned back in her chair, eyeing Brìghde as mirth still flickered in her dark eyes. “If I had to cast my wager, I’d say Greig was behind that mischief … he was always the ringleader.”
Maggie giggled. “Aye, Al and Davy trailed after him like lambs at that age.”
Mairi smiled, although a little sadness tinged the expression; it always did when Alistair’s name came up, even in passing. “Those were special days,” she murmured.
The four of them fell silent then, each focusing on their work for a spell.
Brìghde drew the thread taut and smoothed the seam with her thumb. There, the pillowcase was sewn. And she was pleased with how it had turned out. Her eye for detail came in useful with sewing and embroidery.
A year ago, she would have felt out of place here. No longer.
These women were her friends. Once, her family had been just her parents and brother, but now the circle had widened.
Placing the finished pillowcase on the low table next to Mairi, she rose to her feet and gave a slow stretch. “I’ll leave ye all to it … I’ve something I want to finish before the day runs away from me.”
Mairi looked up at her. “The brooch?”
Brìghde nodded.
Maggie leaned forward. “Will ye show it to us when it’s done?”
“Of course. I hope the wool merchant who commissioned it is happy.”
“I’ve a mind to commission something myself,” Astrid added, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “A ring for Finn … his birthday is near Yule.”
“Come and see me in the workshop then,” Brìghde replied with a smile. “I’m busy these days, but I can always make time for ye.”
“I will,” Astrid replied earnestly.
Brìghde glanced Maggie’s way then. “Meet ye on the walls before supper?”
“Of course,” her friend replied. “As always.”
“Aye, well … bring a shawl … the wind has a bite to it today.”
Turning, Brìghde made her way from the solar, the warmth giving way to the sharper air of the corridor beyond.
The sound of her footsteps echoed faintly against the stone as she descended the stair, the scents of the castle shifting as she went: smoke, damp wool, a hint of roasted meat drifting up from below.
By the time she stepped out into the outer courtyard, the wind had picked up, tugging at her braid and pressing the chill through the weave of her kirtle. She drew a breath deep into her lungs, the air crisp and clean, and let it out slowly.
She’d lived inside these walls for a full turn of the seasons now, and she felt a deep sense of belonging. Life in the castle suited her.
Eòghan had recently taken charge of the village forge. She still helped him sometimes, but her brother grew increasingly independent. She was proud to see how quickly he’d taken to his craft. Smithing flowed in their family’s veins.
Her gaze slid across the courtyard then, taking in the movement of men and animals, the steady rhythm of life at Duart. Near the far wall stood the small workshop Greig had seen built for her—a sturdy structure of timber and stone, its door slightly ajar.
Her stride quickened as she crossed toward it. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The familiar scent wrapped around her at once. Metal and charcoal. The hearth sat cold for now, the morning’s work already done. However, the tools lay where she had left them: files, tongs, small hammers, each one placed with care.
She moved farther in, her gaze sweeping over the workshop, taking it in as she always did.
Her space.
She crossed to the bench where the brooch lay waiting, its shape already formed but not yet finished. Lifting it carefully, she turned it in the lantern light, studying the lines, the delicate work she had etched into the surface.
It was a knot design—one of her favorites. Her fingers traced the grooves.
There was still work to be done.
She set it down and reached for her tools, settling onto the stool as she bent over the piece once more. The world narrowed as she worked, her focus tightening, her hands steady as she refined the edges, deepened the lines.
Time slid by. The wind outside, the voices in the courtyard, the distant clatter of hooves—all of it faded. Until she heard a familiar male timbre.
Her head lifted.
Greig stood just a couple of feet from the open doorway.
He had not yet seen her, his attention fixed outward as he spoke a few clipped words to someone beyond, his voice low and firm. A man moved off at his command, and Greig stepped forward, ducking under the low lintel into the room and pushing the door shut behind him.
Straightening up on her stool, Brìghde drank him in.
The man looked … formidable.
The weather had grown chill of late, and so he wore a thick quilted gambeson that strained across his shoulders.
Mud streaked his heavy boots and thick braies.
His hair, longer now, had been pulled back from his face and tied at the nape, though a few dark strands had fallen loose again. A dirk belt slung around his hips.
His role as Marshal of Duart carried responsibility, yet it suited him. Each day, he made decisions about the castle’s defenses, enforced order, and prepared for violence.
Marking her lingering gaze, a slow smile curved Greig’s lips.
“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked lightly.
Brìghde set her tool aside, rising to her feet. “I was working … but it can wait.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the bench, to the brooch, before returning to her. “Aye … it can.”
Turning, he slid the bar to the door into place, sealing them in together.
Her pulse kicked.
He didn’t hurry. Instead, he crossed the space between them with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving her face.
Brìghde held her ground, even as anticipation quickened in her lower belly.
When he reached her, one hand settled at her waist, drawing her close. His other hand slid into her hair, loosening the braid so her hair tumbled free. He slid his fingers through it.
Then his mouth was on hers.
Heat surged through her as she rose into him, her hands finding his shoulders, gripping hard. He kissed her deeply, his hold firm, his body pressing close.
She leaned into the strength in him, the solidity she had come to know so well.
He tasted of wind and the faint bitterness of ale.
The hunger of their embrace made her forget where they were.
He broke the kiss at last, drawing back slightly to meet her eye. A smile then tugged at the edges of his lips. “Ye should know better than to look at me like that, Brì.”
The gravelly edge to his voice made excitement shiver through her.
“How else am I to look at ye, husband?” she asked, all mock innocence now.
His gaze turned limpid. His thumb brushed along her jaw, his gaze dark. “Wicked lass. Shall I teach ye what happens when ye misbehave?”
“That sounds more like a promise than a threat,” she teased.
“Oh, aye,” he murmured. “I have a list of ways I’d like to punish ye, wife.”
Heat flared low in her belly again, and she ran a hand down his chest, over his belly, and to the hardness of his groin. She cupped it possessively, marking the way his eyes darkened further.
“No more bloody lists,” she growled. “Just kiss me.”
He pulled her against him once more, his lips claiming hers again, fierce and hungry. Their hands worked then, pulling at fabric and loosening laces. The roughness of their breathing filled the workshop as clothing pooled upon the floor.
Bracing herself against her workbench, Brìghde looked down at where Greig sucked her breasts, lathing each swollen nipple with his tongue. And with each drag, need pulsed in her belly.
God. How she wanted him.
The wanting hadn’t eased, not from the first. If anything, over the past months, it had grown stronger. The nights were never long enough. Many mornings, they both rose bleary-eyed after spending more time coupling than sleeping.
Brìghde hadn’t minded though. A little tiredness wouldn’t kill her. Their own respective duties and responsibilities kept them busy most of the day, but the night was theirs.
The light of the lanterns glowing in here gilded the strength of Greig’s bare shoulders, the power of his chest. Like her, he was naked now, his erection thrusting against his stomach.
Breath hitching, Brìghde pushed herself up and reached for it.
However, with a growl, he caught her wrist, gaze glinting.
A moment later, he flipped her around, pressing her down over the bench, and spreading her wide for him.
Excitement arched through Brìghde as she felt the crown of his rod press between her spread thighs.