Epilogue
She had not noticed him leave the Great Hall.
One moment, he had been beside her near the hearth, listening to Duncan tell a story that grew more embellished with every cup; the next, Katherine drew her into a conversation that required her full attention and he was gone.
She looked for him across the hall, found the empty place where he had been standing, and started toward the door.
His plaid landed around her shoulders before she realized it.
She turned around to find Magnus standing behind her, with his hands on the plaid’s hem, softly settling it on her shoulders. He looked at her once and tilted his head toward the yard.
She followed him out.
The air hit her sharp and clean after the heat of the hall, and she pulled the plaid tighter around her shoulders while Magnus fell into step beside her. They crossed the yard in the direction of the sheep track without discussing it.
Above them, the sky had grown vast, stars covering it from edge to edge. She could have sworn there were more than last time.
She looked up again and nearly walked into a fence post. Magnus caught her elbow without comment and steered her two inches to the right.
“Thank ye,” she said.
“Watch where ye’re going.”
“I’m watching the stars.”
“Aye. And walking into fence posts.”
“I can do both.”
“Ye cannae,” he said, and kept hold of her elbow for the rest of the yard.
The sheep track was steep enough that she needed both hands for the first stretch.
Magnus stayed close, one hand on her back where the ground was rough, not pushing, just present.
By the time they reached the flat ground of the circle, her breath had gone white in the cold air, and the hall below was a warm blur of light and faint music drifting up the hill.
She stood in the middle of the stones, looking up. Magnus stood beside her, looking at her. She caught him at it and let him have the moment before she teased, “Ye stole me from me own cèilidh.”
“Aye.”
“Duncan will notice.”
“Duncan is telling a woman about a thing he did six years ago that wasnae as impressive as he remembers. He’ll nae notice for at least an hour.”
Elspeth looked back up at the sky. The stars were unreasonably bright.
She thought about the poem she had quoted to herself up here last night, the one in green ink in her old journal, and felt, with some bemusement, that she had been right about it all along.
She had just had the wrong idea about who she was saying it to.
“I should have walked with ye to see the stars,” Magnus said.
She looked at him. He was watching the sky now, his jaw set.
She reached up and kissed him.
“I’m here now,” she said against his mouth. “We’re here now. That’s enough.”
He looked at her for a moment after she pulled back, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb.
They found the broad stone she had sat on before, and she settled against his side, pulling his arm around her. The silence was of the comfortable kind. She let it sit for a while.
The music drifted up from below, faint and sweet.
It was a slow air now, the cèilidh winding down.
She could see the Great Hall windows from here, glowing warm and gold, the line of the yard, and the dark shape of the stables—all of it spread peacefully below them.
A feeling of belonging stirred in her chest. It was not only this world that belonged to them; they belonged to it too.
“So,” she said.
“Mm.”
“Poetry.” She felt him shift slightly beside her. “I thought ye decided princes were exhaustin’.”
He turned toward her and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly, his hand cupping her jaw. She smiled into the kiss.
“They are,” he said.
“Good.” She settled back against him and looked up. “Because I prefer beasts anyway.”
He smiled. She felt it brush her hair, rare and unhurried, and his arm tightened around her.
“Aye,” he rumbled. “And yer beast finally brought ye to see the stars.”
She looked up at the sky, brighter than any poem had ever gotten it right. Her mind flashed back to her fourteen-year-old self with her green ink and her dramatic poetry, being certain beyond a doubt that love would arrive with good hair and a prepared speech.
“At last.” She smiled gently.
Magnus stood up and extended a hand toward her. She looked up at him, the stars framing his dark hair. There was a certain expression on his face. It looked settled, content.
“We’ll be seein’ the stars together, wife,” he said.
She took a brief look at his hand and then at his face. Understanding spread warm across her cheeks, and she pointed a finger at him.
“Magnus Wallace.”
“Aye.”
“Ye brought me up a hill in the dark on the night of our handfasting to look at the stars.”
“I did.”
“And now ye’re suggesting…”
“I’m suggesting we go inside.” His mouth curved teasingly at the corner. “Where it’s warmer.”
“That’s all ye’re suggesting.”
“I’m a practical man, Elspeth.”
She took his hand and let him pull her up and tuck her under his arm. He turned them back toward the track, and she laughed into his shoulder.
“Ye promised me stars,” she complained playfully.
“And I fully intend to keep me promise.” He kissed her temple, the line of her jaw, the shell of her ear, working his way down with unhurried thoroughness while they walked, and she shivered. “We’ll be seein’ them from a more comfortable position.”
“Indoors, in me chamber.”
“Aye.”
“That’s very practical of ye.”
“I’ve always been practical.” He lifted her at the steep section of the track, easily and without warning. She let out a sound of surprise and grabbed his coat while he carried her down the hill toward the castle with minimum effort.
“Ye’re going to drop me,” she teased.
“I’ve nae dropped ye yet.”
“The night is young.”
“Elspeth.” He looked at her briefly, the golden glow of the Great Hall windows catching in his eyes as they came down into the yard. “I willnae drop ye.”
She looked at his face and believed him.
It surprised her slightly how easily she trusted him, how little she had had to work at it once she had started.
She pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw and felt his arms tighten around her.
She kept her lips there, allowing his warmth to seep in, while he carried her toward the door.
Above them, the stars kept their watch over Ben Cruachan.
Below, the music played on, and neither of them looked back.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. The warmth of the corridor enveloped Elspeth, a stark contrast to the biting chill of the hillside air that clung to Magnus’s woolen plaid.
He set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist. They stood for a moment in the shadowed stillness, the only sound being their breathing, slow, deep, and ragged.
“Yer chamber or mine?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
“Ours,” he said, the single word resonating with a finality that settled deep in her bones.
He took her hand, his grip firm and sure, and led the way.
The stairs were narrow, twisting upward into the heart of the keep. She followed, her free hand trailing along the rough-hewn wall, feeling the cool, pitted texture beneath her fingertips.
The distant hum of the cèilidh faded with each step, the music and laughter becoming a ghost of a sound, leaving only the soft tread of their boots on stone.
When he pushed open the door to his chamber, the fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows that licked at the edges of the bed and the heavy wooden furniture.
He turned to face her, and the low, flickering light caught the hard line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow, his longing shining bright through the dancing shadows as his eyes moved over her with a slow, deliberate sweep, claiming her.
She reached for the silver brooch at her shoulder, her fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp, but his hand covered hers, stilling them.
“Let me,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.
His fingers were deft, working the pin loose with an ease she could not muster. The plaid slid from her shoulders and pooled in a heap of wool at her feet.
He moved to the laces of her bodice, his knuckles brushing against the linen of her shift as he worked.
He took his time. Each pull of the cord was measured, patient, and the slow, deliberate tension coiled in her belly, making her breath catch in her throat.
She watched his face in the firelight. His throat bobbed as he focused on the task with a newfound intensity.
The bodice loosened, and the heavy dress sagged, slipping down her arms to land with a soft rustle around her ankles. She stood in her thin shift, the fine linen doing little to shield her from the sudden chill his gaze sent down her spine.
He reached for her again, but she caught his wrist, her fingers encircling the warm, solid flesh.
“Me turn,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
He briefly looked at her with a mix of surprise and intense delight. Then he offered himself to her wondering hands.
He stood perfectly still as her fingers reached for the laces of his leather jerkin, then the buttons of his shirt beneath. She progressed slowly, mirroring his unhurried pace.
When she softly pushed the worn linen from his shoulders, her palms flattened against the warm, solid wall of his chest. She could feel the powerful thrum of his heart against her skin, a rhythm that seemed to echo the frantic pulse between her thighs.
She traced the sharp lines of his collarbones, the sensitive hollow at the base of his throat, and he remained a statue beneath her touch, his gaze burning into her skin.
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. A slow, open-mouthed kiss that was an invitation.
His hands finally moved, closing around her waist and pulling her flush against him. The thin linen of her shift was no barrier at all. She could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body, the rough texture of his kilt against her thighs.
His fingers searched for the hem of her shift and drew it up slowly, his knuckles grazing her hips, her ribs, her arms. He pulled it over her head and let it drop, letting her stand bare before him, the firelight painting the hollows and furrows of her skin in varying shades of gold and red.
His eyes ran over her, warm and covetous.
A smaller part of her, a part that still clung to the girl with the green-ink poetry, wanted to shrink, to cover herself.
But she did not. She stood tall, letting him see, and in his eyes, she did not see judgment, but something closer to reverence. She felt found.
His hands started moving over her body, slowly exploring her curves. They traced the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the delicate line of her spine.
When his thumbs brushed the soft undersides of her breasts, a sharp gasp escaped her lips. He caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply, his tongue stroking hers until she forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed to the taste of him and the feel of his hands on her skin.
He carefully walked her backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sank onto the thick furs, pulling him down with her. He braced himself over her, his arms locked around her body, the firelight carving the powerful muscles of his shoulders into relief.
She reached up, her thumb tracing the stubborn line of his jaw.
“I want to feel ye,” she whispered. “All of ye.”
He lowered himself over her. She felt him then, hard and thick, pressing against her thigh through the rough wool of his kilt, and her body answered with a liquid heat that flooded her core. She arched against him, a silent plea for more, and his mouth began a slow descent.
He kissed her throat, the sharp line of her collarbone, the soft valley between her breasts. He moved lower with a reverence that made her fingers curl in the thick furs beneath her, his breath burning her skin.
When his mouth found her sensitive bud, she softly cried out, her hips rising instinctively to meet him. He was moving slowly, maddeningly thorough.
He learned her with his lips and tongue, exploring every ridge and hollow, circling her bud with a pressure that built a devastating tension deep inside her.
He nipped gently at the tender skin of her inner thighs, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as her breath broke into ragged, desperate gasps.
“Magnus,” she breathed.
The sound seemed to reach into him and undo him. He moved back up her body, his mouth finding hers, and she tasted herself on him—salt and musk and a dark, primal sweetness.
She reached between them, her fingers closing around his thick, pulsing length. He groaned against her mouth, his hips pressing into her hand as she stroked him, feeling the velvet skin over the rigid steel, the bead of moisture at the tip.
“Elspeth,” he muttered.
She guided him to her entrance, and the slow glide while he entered her stole the air from her lungs. She welcomed the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness of him inside her. It felt right, as if she was born into this world to hold him like this.
He stilled, buried deep inside her, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming out ragged and hot against her cheek.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He did.
His eyes were dark with longing, and shone in the firelight like lit coals. In their depths, she saw herself. She saw the want, the tenderness, and the absolute certainty that had brought them here.
She met him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him deeper with every stroke.
The sounds of their coupling filled the room—their ragged breaths, her cries and his groans, the sound of his manhood pistoning in and out of her slick channel.
His hand found her bud, rubbing tight, hard circles that pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm exploded through her, violent and overwhelming, making her quiver. She called out his name, her voice raw and hoarse, her vision blurring as white-hot ecstasy consumed her.
Magnus followed her over, his hips stuttering, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own release claimed him. He buried himself deep inside her with a guttural growl, his manhood pulsing, filling her with his hot seed.
He collapsed on top of her, boneless and spent. Their bodies were slick with sweat, their hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.
They lay tangled, the fire crackling low, the night settling around them. The air was thick with the scent of sex, woodsmoke, and him.
Elspeth traced idle patterns on his damp chest, her fingers sliding through the coarse hair. He pressed a soft kiss to her hair, his arm a comforting weight across her back.
“Practical,” she murmured into his skin.
“Aye,” he said, smiling against her forehead. “Very practical.”
The End?