Snuggling her face into his chest, Trish closed her eyes as she released the last of her worries with a shuddering sigh. “I choose you,” she whispered softly into Maxwell’s tunic, wondering if she spoke loud enough for him to hear.
A deep rumbling laugh shook beneath her cheek, bubbled up from the depths of Maxwell’s belly, and burst free to startle the horses in their stalls. Trish smiled and snuggled deeper into his strong embrace. Yep. Maxwell had heard her.
ChapterThirteen
“You’ll speak your vows and then we’ll light the fires ofBealltainn.”
“So, I take it there won’t be a priest?” Trish turned into the brisk spring breeze caressing the face of the cliff and ran her fingertips across the rough surface of the glistening stone altar. Embedded bits of crystal danced like pinpoints of twinkling stars in the depths of the gray-black stone.
Ciara peeped around the side of one of the hulking obelisks standing butted upright against the massive rock table. “That won’t be a problem, will it? I seem to be a bit more than most of the priests who wander through this area can handle.”
Trish grinned at the mischievous glint in Ciara’s eye. She had no doubt that the church might have a few problems accepting Ciara with her history as a former Fury and warrior-daughter of the goddesses Brid and Cerridwen. “No. The absence of a priest will not be a problem.” An excited shiver rippled across her flesh triggering goose bumps atop her skin. She couldn’t believe she had actually decided to stay in this time and become a Highlander’s bride.
“You’ve chosen well.” Ciara interrupted Trish’s reverie with a soft pat atop her arm. “Maxwell is a good man.”
Trish turned away from the chilling wind, tightening the fringed arisaid about her shoulders. “I just hope he doesn’t regret choosing me.” Staring down at the hard-packed earth surrounding the altar, Trish scrubbed a toe against a clump of newly sprouted greenery.
“I will never be able to give him children. Don’t the men of this time feel an heir is pretty important?”
Ciara’s dark eyes narrowed as she lifted her face to the fleeting rays of the springtime sun as it skittered beyond a bank of gray-white clouds. “Never underestimate the power of the time ofBealltainnor the whims and wishes of the goddess.” Patting an escaped tendril of hair back into the dark shining knots of her intricate braid, Ciara faced Trish with a smile. “Leave the blessing of children to the Fates. All things happen for a reason, Trish. Whatever will be…will be, and Maxwell knows and accepts that.”
Trish couldn’t read the expression on Ciara’s face and didn’t really know if she wanted to. Sorting through her own chaotic emotions was enough of a chore without adding Ciara’s cryptic messages to the list of things to decipher. Trish hugged herself and pulled the shawl tighter against the uneasy chill stealing across her flesh. No looking back. She had to keep telling herself that…and Ciara was right. Maxwell was a good man who had seemingly accepted all she’d told him whether it made him laugh or fume.
Another thought pulled at her heart, triggering an uncomfortable stab of guilt. Ramsay. The boy had said he wanted to stay in this time as well, said his family back in the twenty-first century would be just fine without him.
“He can stay here with us and grow up with Keagan. They’re nearly the same age and an alliance with Ramsay will give Keagan an edge over the twins.” Ciara’s understanding smile tempered the fact that she’d read Trish’s mind.
Trish walked to the edge of the cliff and gave herself to the breathtaking vista spread before her. But no matter how glorious the sparkling waves of the endless sea gleamed; she couldn’t shake a sense of guilt from creeping into her heart. “Nessa and Latharn must be sick with worry. How could they not be? He is their son.”
Ciara joined Trish alongside the cliff’s edge, squinting her eyes against the endless wind. “I have sensed Latharn’s power reaching across the web. Ease your heart, Trish. Latharn found his son here and knows the lad to be safe.”
As the waves below crashed against the rocks with a steady rhythm, Trish watched the foam covered blue green peaks dance forward and then recede. “I know Nessa. Her heart is breaking because of the loss of her son, whether she knows he is safe or not.”
A tern shrieked a forlorn cry into the wind as it floated white against the graying clouds. Trish tasted the brine of the sea kissing her lips as the spray sparkled like a handful of diamonds tossed to the winds. Swallowing hard, Trish sniffed against the sting of tears threatening to overflow. “I hope someday, she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me for leading her son astray.”
Ciara turned Trish away from the sea, urging her back down the timeworn path of barren earth surrounding the altar. “Now is not the time for regret or fretting over things you cannot change. Heartache is sometimes a necessary stone in the path of life, but you must not allow it to end your journey. The key to reaching the reward of your destiny is to keep moving forward.”
Trish hugged Ciara’s hand on her arm and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re right, Ciara. I truly hope you’re right.”
ChapterFourteen
“And ye say Angus stands ready to play the pipes as soon as we light the fires?”
Faolan grinned and didn’t bother to answer as he glanced out the stone archway, seated himself on the window’s ledge, then turned to face Maxwell.
“Answer me, man! And wipe that wicked smirk off your face. What the hell do ye find so damn amusing?” Maxwell adjusted the straps of his finest sporran for what seemed like the fifth time.God’s teeth!Why wouldn’t the infernal thing hang where he wished? Running his fingers behind his tunic’s tightly fastened collar, Maxwell yanked against the heavy linen, trying to loosen its hold on his throat. “And who in the hell told Sorcha to fashion this collar after a tightly knotted noose?”
Faolan scrubbed his hand across his freshly shaved face, an amused chuckle escaping through his fingers.
“Ye are a vile, wicked man, Faolan MacKay. A vile, wicked man.” Maxwell stomped across the flagstones and joined Faolan at the window, stretching past him through the arch to peer up to the hill. “It seems to me I remember havin’ to shove your cowardly arse toward the altar on the day ye pledged to your bride.”
Faolan clapped a hand to Maxwell’s shoulder and pointed up the hillside toward the carefully constructed mound of broken limbs piled beside the stone altar. “Look just beyond the brush. See there? Angus awaits and he holds his pipes at the ready.”
Maxwell exhaled, barely relaxing the strangle hold he held along the edge of the window’s blocks. “This day will be the death of me. I ne’er thought I’d take a wife but now that I’ve met Trish, I canna stomach the thought of another day passing without her bearing my name.”
“Ye’ll be fine, old man.” Faolan thudded him across the back once more as he rose from the windowsill. “Come. ’Tis time we joined your bride at the altar before ye fret yourself into an early grave.”
As they stepped outside, Maxwell turned his face into the evening breeze, sucking in a great lungful of the crisp briny air. “’Tis a good evening to repeat our pledge. I feel Brid’s blessing on the wind.”
