“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 as Alis and the surrounding bog suddenly 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”—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.
September 10, 1859
Kinord Castle, Aberdeenshire
Scotland
