Her expression was one of marvel. “Good lord, you built this? How long did it take you?”
“Many years, every moment I could steal away from my chores.”
“And you never told anyone?”
Broc shook his head. “What’s one more cairn among so many.”
“But this one you built with the sweat off your back. Tell me … what is written there on the stone?”
Broc stepped forward to the big stone blocking the entrance, pleased to see that it remained undisturbed. “That is, Elsa, the name of my mother, and Fiona, the name of my sister. And that one,” he said, running his fingers reverently over the old carvings, “is the name ofmy da. He was called Kenneth after the first son of Alpin.”
Elizabet stretched her fingers over the deep etchings… marks that had taken Broc years to engrave. With a stone in hand, he had cut these names over long hours, shaping them with thoughts of vengeance until the faces of his family had long faded from his memory.
“And what of this?” she asked. “What does this say?”
Broc swallowed, unprepared for the assault of emotion he felt simply by being in this place—the deluge of feeling he had denied from the day he’d first wielded his father’s sword—the sword he still carried in his scabbard.
“Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich”
She peered up at him curiously. “What does it mean?”
“Hills and streams and MacAlpin—that is to say, not one existed without the other, and it is the MacAlpin blood that runs through the veins of all these hill tribes… someday mayhap through the veins of my sons.”
She couldn’t know how much this moment meant to him. “I never thought to bring anyone here,” he admitted, giving her a meaningful glance. “Never thought to even have a son. I was too afeared to open my heart lest I die with grief to lose again.”
“And now?”
Broc swallowed. “I realize only now do I feel alive… with you…”
He hadn’t known her long, but it didn’t matter. He’d spent a lifetime without her and knew what he was feeling was unlike anything he’d ever known. He hadn’t met a woman in all his years who’d made him hope.
He wanted to protect her, love her and keep her.
“Be my wife, Elizabet,” he said, reaching out to grasp her by the hand. He suddenly wanted this morethan life, and he wanted her to look into his eyes and know that he meant every word he spoke. “We needn’t say our vows before a priest to make them true and I will keep you safe and treat you well.”
She stood before him, looking beautifully bewildered, and he took her face into his hands and kissed her with all the feeling he could muster. He wanted her to feel his soul, wanted to bathe her in adoration.
“Marry me,” he insisted. “Let us breathe new life into the MacEanraig name—let our sons and daughters bury us here together when the sun sets on our last embrace.”
Her lips parted to speak and he held his breath.
“Say yes,” he bade her, “and I will protect you and keep you always—and though I have no riches or great manor, you shall want for naught.”
Elizabet shuddered at the warmth of his breath against her face. She had expected for him to do as other men would—take her maidenhead and then forget his lovely promises.
Her dreams had been of freedom... but in his arms, the thought of matrimony no longer felt like a sentence, more like a beautiful promise.
“I gi’ ye my word to wed you properly later, and will do my best to make you happy.”
He hadn’t said he loved her, but love only existed in troubadours’ tales…
He waited for her to answer.
Clearly this place meant something to him and he had brought her here and laid bare his heart, offering more than she had dreamed any man ever would.
Her brother would think her mad, she knew.
And yet... if she was mad, indeed, then so be it. She couldn’t think of anything that would make her happier than to sleep every night in Broc’s arms.
