Epilogue
One week later
“You are frowning at the broth again, Papa.”
Rose stood beside her father’s bed in the healing chamber of Castle MacKenzie and listened to him breathe.
That was relief now. Not a grand, sweeping thing, but the slow rise of his chest beneath clean linen, the warmth returning to his fingers, the faint color in his face where there had once been only grey exhaustion.
The chamber was warm, the hearth burning steady at one end. A half-finished bowl of broth sat on the table beside her father’s bed.
Lord Algernon turned his head against the pillow with an expression of wounded dignity. “I am not frowning at the broth. I am considering it.”
From the other side of the bed, Logan made a low sound that might have been a laugh if he had been a less controlled man. Rose glanced at him, and he looked down at the floor at once, as if the rushes required his sudden attention. The corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Her father saw it too.
“My laird,” he said, his voice still rough with recovery, “if you have thoughts on this broth, I invite you to speak them plainly.”
Logan lifted his gaze, all grave Highland courtesy. “I wouldnae dare speak against the healer’s work.”
“Wise,” Rose murmured.
His eyes moved to hers, warm and amused despite the steadiness of his face. “Aye.”
Lord Algernon gave a faint huff. “Then you have outpaced me. I have been told I am to drink this in order to regain strength, yet I remain unconvinced that any man’s strength has ever been restored through boiled misery.”
Rose pressed her lips together, trying to keep her smile small and proper. She failed.
Logan stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back. “If ye wish, me lord, I can call the healer back and tell him ye called his broth boiled misery.”
Her father’s eyes sharpened. “You would not.”
“I might.”
“You fought armed men in a stronghold, crossed half the country with my injured body slung over one of your men’s shoulders, and now you threaten me with a healer?”
“A man must use the weapons given tae him.”
Rose’s smile escaped fully then, helpless and bright. For one strange, golden moment, she simply looked between them, her father pale but alive, Logan standing beside his bed with that solemn face and mischief carefully hidden beneath it. Something inside her filled so quickly that it almost hurt.
There had been days when she had feared she would never see her father again. There had been hours when she had feared Logan would die trying to save her.
And now they were arguing about broth.
Lord Algernon’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “There she is.”
Rose blinked. “What?”
“You have looked very serious all morning.” His thumb brushed weakly over the back of her hand. “I prefer that smile.”
Her throat tightened. She lowered her eyes before he could see too much.
Logan saw her anyway, as he always did.
“Ye should drink some more,” Logan said, his voice gentler now, though he addressed her father. “Fer Rose, if nae fer yer own sake.”
Lord Algernon looked at him for a long moment. “You have become quite skilled at that.”
“At what?”
“Using my daughter against me.”
Rose’s cheeks warmed. “Papa.”
Logan’s posture shifted, not quite uncomfortable, but close enough that Rose’s heart softened. “I wouldnae use her.”
“No,” her father said quietly. “I know.”
The chamber settled.
Rose felt Logan’s stillness before she looked at him. He could face steel more easily than praise. He could break through a stronghold wall, but kindness offered back to him made his shoulders go slightly rigid.
Lord Algernon turned his head more fully toward him. “I owe you my life, Laird MacKenzie.”
Logan exhaled faintly. “Me lord?—”
“And hers.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
Rose felt the change in him at once, the way his hand flexed once at his side before stilling again. He looked toward her, and everything that had happened passed between them without words—the inn, the broken window, the dungeon, the knife at her throat, his sword falling to stone.
“Ye have thanked me enough,” Logan said.
“I disagree.”
“I ken that.”
“Then you understand I shall continue.”
“Aye,” Logan said, and at last the corner of his mouth moved. “I have resigned myself tae it.”
Lord Algernon’s mouth curved, tired but real. “Good. Then allow me to say it once more.”
Rose’s breath caught.
Her father’s voice softened until it lost all trace of dry humor. “Thank you. For finding her and keeping her safe. For saving her when I could not.”
Logan looked down.
For a moment, Rose thought he would say nothing. Then he lifted his eyes to her father, and the steadiness in them was so simple, so certain, that it nearly broke her heart.
“I would dae it a hundred times over,” he said quietly. “Fer her.”
Rose’s fingers tightened around the bedframe.
Logan’s gaze found hers. “And fer the father who loved her enough tae set her free.”
Her father closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, they shone.
“You are a better man than I expected to find in the Highlands.”
Logan’s brow lifted. “That sounds suspiciously like an English compliment.”
“It is. We hide them poorly.”
Rose laughed softly, and her father looked at her with quiet satisfaction, the corners of his eyes creasing.
A knock came at the door and one of the younger servants stepped in.
“Me lady,” she said, dipping a quick curtsy. “There is someone asking tae come in.”
Rose’s hand tightened around her father’s.
The servant stepped aside.
At first, Rose did not understand what she was seeing. A woman stood in the doorway with a travel cloak on her shoulders, one hand pressed to the frame. Her hood had slipped back enough to reveal fair hair threaded with silver and familiar.
Rose did not breathe.
Then the woman whispered, “My darling girl.”
The world narrowed.
“Mama.”
The word broke from Rose in a small, wounded sound. She remained frozen beside the bed, too stunned to move, too afraid that if she crossed the room too quickly the vision might vanish.
Her mother took one step forward, both hands lifting toward her, and Rose forgot every rule she had ever been taught.
She ran.
Her mother caught her with a sob, arms closing around her so fiercely that Rose nearly stumbled. Rose clung to her, fingers twisting in the damp wool of her cloak, face buried in the place beneath her mother’s chin.
Her mother’s hands were shaking as they cupped the back of her head. Her mouth pressed kisses into Rose’s hair, her forehead, her temple, anywhere she could reach.
“My Rose,” she whispered, over and over, each word breaking. “My darling. My brave, sweet girl. I thought…oh, I thought I had lost you.”
Rose tried to answer, but only a sob came out.
“I am here,” Rose managed, the words muffled against her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, I am here.”
Her mother drew back just enough to look at her face, and the sight of the bruise still fading along Rose’s cheek made fresh tears fill her eyes. She touched it with a trembling gentleness.
“Did he do this?”
Rose swallowed. “He is gone.”
“I know.” Her mother’s gaze flicked past Rose, and something fierce passed through her grief. “They told me.”
Then she pulled Rose close again and kissed her forehead, lingering there, blessing away every fear, every bruise, every hour of separation.
“I am so glad you are safe,” she whispered. “So glad. So glad.”
Rose closed her eyes and let the words move through her.
After a long moment, her mother’s arms loosened. Her gaze moved toward the bed, and all the color seemed to drain from her face.
“Edgar.”
Lord Algernon tried to push himself upright.
Rose turned at once. “Papa, do not?—”
“Nonsense,” he said weakly, though his voice shook.
Her mother crossed the room faster than dignity allowed and sat at the edge of his bed, taking his face between both hands with such careful desperation that Rose had to press her fingers to her lips.
“Do not dare move,” her mother said, though she was crying. “Don’t you dare attempt to be noble while you look like this.”
His mouth trembled. “Ediva.”
She bent and kissed him like a woman who had nearly been widowed and had decided manners could go hang themselves. Rose looked away, cheeks warm, heart fuller than her chest could hold.
When she looked back, her mother had rested her forehead against his.
“You are alive,” she whispered.
“So I am told,” he murmured.
A broken laugh escaped her mother. She kissed his brow once more, then his cheek, then held his hand between both of hers as if she meant never to release it again.
Only after several breaths did she seem to remember the others in the room. Her gaze lifted to Logan.
Rose felt him straighten beside her.
Her mother rose slowly.
Logan faced Rose’s mother with an expression that was almost calm. But Rose stood near enough to see the faint tension at his shoulders, the way his fingers curled once before settling at his side.
Her mother crossed to him.
“You brought them back,” she said.
Logan inclined his head. “Me lady.”
“Both of them.”
“Aye.”
Her mother’s composure faltered. She took his hand before he seemed prepared for it, holding it tightly between both of hers. “Thank you.”
Logan looked thoroughly trapped.
Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling.
“Me lady, ye neednae?—”
“I do,” her mother said firmly. “And I shall. I have thanked God, and I have thanked every saint whose name I remember, and now I shall thank the man who carried my family out of that monster’s hands.”
Behind them, Lord Algernon gave a weak sound suspiciously like amusement. “I have attempted the same, my dear. The laird refuses to accept it properly.”
Logan turned his head slightly, giving Rose’s father a look of quiet betrayal.
Her mother’s brows rose. “Does he?”
“He claims I have thanked him enough.”
“How unreasonable.” Her mother looked back at Logan, still holding his hand. “If you will not accept gratitude, Laird MacKenzie, what will you accept?”
The chamber went very still.