Epilogue
It was a few days later, days of continual movement while they tried to figure out their next steps that Kenna paused her mount next to a field of bright red poppies and said, “Here, I think.”
Torrin slowed alongside Kenna’s horse, whom Kenna had named Saorsa to celebrate their newfound freedom. The two mounts seemed as fond of one another as Arran felt of Kenna.
“Here?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said. “Do ye nae think?”
“I love it,” he said. “But are ye feeling well enough?”
After the high excitement of the first day had faded, Kenna’s pains had made themselves known.
She had bruises still ringing her throat, though they were slowly fading, going an awful green-yellow as they went.
Her ribs were bruised, too, and there were cuts on her hands from where she’d battered them against the door for hours.
Besides all that, she wasn’t used to sitting a full day atop a horse, so she ended each day stiff and aching.
She didn’t complain, though she had sworn a blue streak about the uselessness of the English and how they took good, honest Scottish girls and made them bad at riding horses that they’d first learned to mount as soon as they could walk.
“Damn, lassie,” Arran had said, impressed. “I dinnae even think that I ken that many foul words.”
Kenna had tapped her temple. “I practiced saying them up here since I wasnae allowed to speak them aloud.”
The second day had brought Kenna’s courses and the pain that she insisted was not at all unusual for such things. Her physical discomfort was strongly outweighed by the clear relief she felt at knowing, once and for all, that she had kept herself safe from Ashbourne in all ways.
“Ach, I’m fine,” she said, brushing off his query. “My hands are itching something dreadful, that’s all. And I cannae think of a better distraction.” She beamed across at him. “Besides, I dinnae wish to wait any longer, do ye?”
He leaned over to give her a quick kiss.
“Nay,” he said. “I dinnae wish to wait.”
They found a place to lash the horses, though it was hardly necessary. Torrin wouldn’t run off, and Saorsa wouldn’t leave Torrin.
Then, they found their way to the top of the hill, wading through the poppies as though they were water.
The sun was bright and warm, and Kenna was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, her golden hair streaming loose behind her, shining in the light.
It didn’t matter that her dress was still stained and increasingly tattered.
It didn’t matter that they had little more than their horses to their names, though Arran had plans to trade the fur from the game he had hunted for some coin.
Buying Kenna a new dress would be a priority.
If he was lucky, he’d find one in the blue of Lennox plaid. She’d look right bonny in that color.
That was a matter for later, though. For now, he had more important things to address.
They’d gone high enough. He grabbed her hand and spun her around, laughing, until her free hand pressed against his chest.
“Here,” he said, dipping for another kiss.
“Here,” she agreed.
She ripped a long strip from her dress, making it even more ragged, then used it to wrap their hands, holding them together.
“Makenna MacBrae,” he said, using his unbound hand to caress her cheek. “I, Arran Lennox, come here today with the intent to be your husband, and I call upon the ancient tradition of handfasting so that we may be bound with God as our witness without delay.”
A single tear escaped her eye, but her smile was as bright as he had ever seen it.
“These are the hands,” he said, recalling the words as best as he was able, “that will work alongside yours, as together we build a future.
These are the hands that will love and cherish ye as years go on, that will comfort ye whenever ye need to be comforted.
These are the hands that will hold ye when ye are afraid or grieving.
These are the hands that will give ye strength when ye need it.
And when we are old, wrinkled, and stooped, my hands will still be reaching for yours, so long as we both shall live. ”
She nodded fervently, then cleared her throat.
“I, Makenna MacBrae, come here today with the intent—and the joy—to be your wife. I call upon the tradition of handfasting so that we can become one without a single second more delay.”
He felt a tight bubble of emotion in his chest as she repeated the vows back to him. He could scarcely wait until she was finished to put his hand over the tie.
“The bond of marriage is now formed,” he said, choking past that intense feeling. “Nae by the cord, but by the vows we have made.”
Despite these words, his touch was reverent as he unwound the strip of fabric and wrapped it around his wrist, tying it securely. This tattered scrap of fabric was the most precious item that he owned now.
“Och, aye,” his wife complained, though her grin was still there, “tie the ribbon before ye kiss me. That’s the correct order—”
He cut her off with a kiss. Because that was what a good husband did. And because he felt he would die if he went a single moment longer without doing so.
“They cannae part us now,” Kenna said when they came up for breath. “Together, we will find the truth.”
“We will reclaim what was stolen,” Arran agreed, threading his fingers through his hair. “We are the future of Clan Lennox now.”
It seemed impossible, but her eyes went even brighter. “I am Makenna Lennox now. And ye, Arran—ye are no longer alone.”
He was no longer alone. It was a miracle. Neither of them was alone.
“I love ye, Makenna Lennox,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers.
“Oh, how I love ye, Arran Lennox,” she returned, throwing her arms around his neck.
They kissed some more, and then more after that, until their legs no longer wished to hold them.
But no matter, because the poppies made a soft enough bed, especially after Arran shed his plaid and laid it out to cushion them, and Kenna took off her tattered gown, her body long and strong and entirely without shame as she was revealed to the blue, blue skies.
They were weary and road-worn, and they had little to aid them as they fought to build the future they deserved.
But as Arran kissed every inch of Kenna’s body that he could reach, as she panted and gasped above him, as he slid himself home inside her until he couldn’t tell for certain where he ended and she began—then, he did not think of the future, nor of the hardscrabble road that had led them here.
He could only think of this one moment, perfect and free.
“I feel verra lucky,” he said with wonder in the moments after she’d reached her climax, his following directly on her heels as her body shuddered around him. “It has been an age since I’ve felt lucky. But… I cannae find fault with anything that has led me to this moment with ye.”
Kenna nuzzled fondly under his chin.
“It’s a right miracle,” she agreed. “Ye are my miracle, Arran.”
Arran felt confident that she was the miraculous one, but he did not intend to start his marriage with an argument.
“What about yer tea? Want me to fetch it?” he asked though he hoped she wouldn’t have need for the dangerous concoction anymore.
“Nay, never with ye, my love,” she whispered and pulled him close again.
Kissing her until she was gasping and aching for more was, he found, a much better way to show her all that he felt.
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