FOURTEEN
Another day.
And Chrissi was, once again, mired in a bog.
This time . . . quite literally.
One would suppose she had learned over the past weeks to avoid the fen like a sensible, rational person.
But no.
Just as on the day of her arrival, she could not stop studying the gowk stane standing alone on its little solid island amid the marsh. Given that Alis could send her packing any day now, she felt some urgency to solve the mystery of the stone.
And after much contemplation, she had a hunch.
But confirming her hunch required standing beside the stone at sunrise. Which at this time of year, with the solstice looming, was more akin to staying up late than rising early. Being so far north meant that sunrise and sunset were scarcely two hours apart.
And so Chrissi had simply not gone to sleep.
Once the house was quiet, she had donned wellies, hiked up her skirts, and trudged into the muck. The sky was so twilight-bright, she didn’t need a lantern to light her way.
Of course, she had learned her lesson in the past. This time, she entered the bog with a plan. The workers assisting her on the excavations had charted a way to the stone—a path to follow that avoided the more treacherous holes.
The ground was, indeed, less swampy than it had been when she first arrived—the marsh grasses green and lush.
And she would have reached the stone without incident had her good foot not slipped and sent her toppling onto her hands and knees, covering her to the neck in cold, muddy sludge.
Fortunately, the ground under the mud was solid, enabling her to push herself upright. She stood, shaking mud from her hands. It was apropos, she supposed, to be covered in mud once more—ending her time at Kinord Castle as she had begun it.
This time lost and alone in the dim twilight.
Biting her lip, she blinked back tears.
Had she not shed enough over the past week?
But given the flood trickling down her cheeks, the answer was clearly no.
Why? she longed to scream at the sky.
Why did life have to be so difficult? Why did Alis have to betray her heart with both his words and his silence? Why did their babe have to die?
Why, why, why?!
She was crying in earnest now, muddy fists to her eyes, terrible loud sobs wrenched from her chest. Those in the castle probably feared a wild animal prowled the night.
A sound to her right had her lifting her head.
Alis trudged through the muck toward her, a scowl on his handsome face.
Similar to herself, he was dressed in wellies, shirtsleeves, and a long overcoat that dragged behind him. Unlike her, he hadn’t taken a cold mud bath, though his red nose testified to the chill of the pre-dawn air.
She shivered to see him.
Surely he would cast her out now. His good grace could only extend so far.
“Chris,” he growled.
“A-Alis,” she hiccupped, chest spasming as she fought to stop her tears.
He stopped two feet in front of her, eyes flicking up and down the muddy, disastrous expanse of her.
“I dislike finding ye covered in mud, lass.”
“I d-dislike being covered in m-mud.”
“Ye be mad to be out in the bog. And in the cold dark, no less. Have ye no concern for your wee neck?”
Chrissi wanted to reply. Truly, she did.
Something pithy and witty like, “Oh yes, well, I understand a chilly mud bath is excellent to invigorate circulation. ’Tis all the rage in Paris.”
Nothing came out but a wail.
She expected him to ask the meaning of her tears. To berate her or . . . something.
Instead, Alis’s expression turned soft and . . . and loving.
He pulled her into his broad chest, a large hand coming to cover the back of her head.
“Hush now, lass,” he whispered.
Chrissi melted into him, drenching his shirt with her grief and hopelessness. And, truth be told, a goodly bit of mud.
Unconcerned, his arms held her tightly and she felt him press a kiss to her sodden hair.
“Ah, Chris,” he murmured. “Could ye not have had a good greit in your bedchamber? The bog seems a wee bitty dramatic.”
His teasing words simply made her cry harder.
How she had missed him . . . missed this sense of closeness.
She had longed to be in his arms once more. To feel the thump of his heartbeat under her cheek, to burrow into the warmth of his body.
They stood for a long while, emotion pouring from Chrissi as the sky lightened around them.
“Oh!” She pushed off his chest with a start. “The sunrise. We can’t miss it!”
Hurriedly, she wiped at her tears and looked toward the eastern horizon and the light swelling there.
“Sunrise?” Alis asked.
“Yes!” Somehow, a warbling half laugh made it past her tears. “It’s why . . .” She reached for his hand. “It’s why I’m here. I promise; I am not entirely mad yet.”
He wrapped his strong fingers around hers.
“The stone.” She pulled him forward. “Hurry.”
Hand in hand, Alis steadying her, they reached the small island of sturdy ground where the solitary stone stood.
He scrambled onto the mound first, extending a hand to help her up.
Chrissi reached the stone just as the first rays of dawn streaked across the landscape. Standing beside the granite slab, she sighted along it back toward the chambered cairn and stone circle below the castle.
“Oh!” She clasped her hands to her chest.
Alis followed her gaze.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered in awe.
From their vantage point beside the gowk stane, the gleam of the rising sun threaded precisely between two of the standing stones and illuminated the center monolith, turning it into a pillar of fire rising above the rest.
“The summer solstice sun,” Chrissi said quietly, reaching for his hand once more. “A symbol of life and renewal. Of course the gowk stane would help light the way.”
Alis looked around them. “The celebrations must have been enormous, eons past. An entire population gathered to witness this single, miraculous moment.” He shifted, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him once more. “How did ye know?”
“A hunch. Other similar sites align to the winter or summer solstices, so it seemed probable that this one did, too. The lone stone out here felt key.”
“Ah. Ye merely had to brave the bog to reach it. I imagine a poet would make a lovely metaphor for life and living out of that. We can only truly see the light after toiling through perilous muck to reach it.”
Helpless to stop herself, Chrissi leaned her head on his shoulder.
They stood like that for a long while, watching the sunlight creep up the pillar until it crested the top and bathed the entire glen in golden light.
Words crowded her tongue, but she didn’t know what to say.
Alis had come to her. That had to signify something.
But what?
“Ye be a bit of a witch, lass, bringing long-hidden worlds to light.”
“A bog witch?” She lifted her head to look up at him.
He grinned, brushing a bit of sphagnum moss from her shoulder. “The moniker does appear to fit.”
“Alis!” She tried to step back, but he held her fast.
“If ye be a bog witch, then consider myself enchanted.”
Chrissi stilled.
“Ye know I am not skilled with declarations, Chris. But seeing those skeletons yesterday . . . knowing that they loved despite loss or doubt or betrayal . . . a love that is emblazoned on history for all to see. I simply couldn’t bear it.
That yourself and I would never have a similar record of our love. ”
Somehow, Chrissi still had tears to shed. Alis and the surrounding bog turned blurry.
“I love ye, lass,” he continued. “That simple fact has never changed. I should have come to ye after our fight in Florence. And for that, I am eternally sorry.”
“There is nothing to forgive there, Alis. I should have written you about our babe. I should have—”
“Hush, my love.” He pressed the softest of kisses to her lips.
“I cannot begin to imagine your terror at finding yourself increasing. We have both suffered loss and betrayal. But we are not the same people we were nine years ago—young and broken and hurting. Can we repair that pain with new life, do ye ken? I want to spend the rest of my days proving that love to ye. I want bairns and laughter and joy so bright it burns our souls. And when death finally comes for us, I want to be buried in a tomb at your side. A testament to future kin with a grand inscription”—his hand swept an arc in the sky—“Here, in this place, Alistair Maclagan loved Christiana Rutherford Newton.”
It was too much. Too much longing for her heart. Too much happiness to contain.
Nodding her joy, she collapsed onto his chest again. Only this time, she lifted her face to his, their lips tenderly meeting.
A kiss of promise. Of hope. That out of painful remnants, love can be reborn—strong, forgiving, and bright.
“Marry me, Chris,” he whispered. “For keeps, this time.”
“Y-yes,” she hiccupped.
He kissed her in reply, the sort of kiss that crumpled her knees and made her heart gallop.
“Be warned,” he said against her mouth. “I will likely track down the sheriff this morning and ask him to marry us. I cannot bear another day without calling ye my own.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want that life with you.”
As he had on the fateful day of their first handfasting, he clasped her hand in his. “Forever, Chris—yourself and me.”
“Forever,” she repeated and sealed the vow with a kiss.