~*~
And so it came that much later that night as he and his bride stood on Lyongate’s battlements, watching the moon ride high above the dark and mighty North Sea, they both decided that Highland magic was alive and thriving, let no man doubt it.
The only question remaining was how did the crone get the carvings? And what was her connection to Farmer Steckles?
“How well do you know the farmer?” Lucian looked down at his bride.
“Fairly well,” she told him. “My father was fond of him and told stories of Steckles collecting fallen Cranleigh wood to whittle when my father was a lad.”
Lucian frowned. “Steckles was a man then?”
“I suppose. My father spoke him as an adult.” She was looking again to the sea. “And that reminds of the oddest thing…”
Lucian’s nape prickled. “What?”
“My grandfather told the same tales,” she said, her brow pleating. “Steckles must be older than Methuselah.”
“Or he is the crone’s friend.”
Melissa’s eyes widened. “You mean…”
He nodded. “Do you have a better idea?”
She didn’t, but her face held wonder. And as Lucian slid his arms around her and drew her to him, he knew when she nestled against him that the mystery of the crone and the farmer didn’t matter.
All that did was that he and Melissa were together.
And that they loved.
