“Sleep,” he said.
She did. Wrapped in his arms, surrounded by stone and warmth and love, Lydia drifted into the deepest, safest sleep she could remember, certain, at last, that she was no longer just surviving.
She was living, and she was home.
EPILOGUE
Amonth later, the world felt softer. Lydia noticed it in the way the mornings no longer carried dread, in how the castle seemed brighter even on overcast days, in the steadiness of Kieran’s presence at her side—no longer guarded distance but quiet certainty. Healing had settled into their lives like a gentle rhythm, Kieran’s wound knitting slowly, her own body changing in subtle, miraculous ways, hope growing where fear once lived.
So, when Kieran told her only to dress warmly and trust him, she did.
She wore a gown of soft sage green wool, the waist set a little higher than fashionable to allow for comfort. Over her shoulders, she draped a light brown cloak, clasped with a simple silver pin Kieran had given her the week before—nothing ostentatious but something she cherished.
Kieran walked beside her, slower than he once would have but strong. He wore a dark tartan belted at the waist, a black woolcoat over it, and high leather boots polished but worn. His hair was tied back neatly, his beard trimmed with care. He looked, she thought with a sudden swell of affection, like a laird at peace rather than one at war.
They stopped before the Kirk, and Lydia’s breath caught. Her gaze snapped to Kieran, but he gave no signs of willingness to explain what was going on—even if Lydia had an inkling.
But nay… why would he do such a thing? We’re already wedded.
Even if their wedding had been far from the grand affair befitting a laird and his lady, it was just as valid as any. In the eyes of God and in the eyes of the clan, they were man and wife.
The kirk was small and old, built of pale gray stone weathered smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Ivy climbed one side of its wall, stubborn and green even as autumn crept closer. Narrow arched windows caught the light, throwing muted colors across the stone path leading to the door. The bell tower stood modest and solid, not grand but enduring, much like the faith it sheltered.
“This is…” Lydia began, unsure what she was meant to notice.
“Come,” Kieran said gently.
He opened the door for her. Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and old wood. Sunlightfiltered through the colored glass, painting the stone floor in quiet hues of gold and blue. Wooden pews lined either side of the narrow aisle, polished by generations of hands. At the front stood the simple altar, draped in clean white linen, a small bouquet of late summer flowers arranged carefully beside it.
And there, standing just beyond the first row of pews, was Iris.
She wore a deep blue gown, the color rich against her hair, the fabric fine but practical. A light shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and her hands were folded loosely in front of her, fingers fidgeting just slightly in a way Lydia recognized instantly.
Her sister looked up and smiled, and Lydia froze.
“Iris?” she whispered, disbelief rushing through her like a tide.
Iris’s smile widened, her eyes shining. “Lydia… how bonnie ye are.”
For a heartbeat, Lydia couldn’t move. Then she was crossing the kirk in a rush, her skirts forgotten, her cloak slipping from her shoulders as she threw her arms around her sister.
“I thought ye said ye had to stay home for a while. How did ye—” Lydia pulled back just enough to look at her, tears already blurring her vision. “What are ye doin’ here?”
Iris laughed softly and hugged her again. “Yer husband sent a very persuasive message,” she said, glancing past Lydia with fond amusement.
Lydia turned to look at Kieran where he stood a few steps back, watching them with an expression Lydia had never seen before on him: nervous, hopeful, and quietly proud all at once.
“I wanted her here,” he said simply. “For today.”
Lydia’s heart swelled until it ached. She reached back, taking Iris’s hand in one of hers and Kieran’s in the other, standing between the two people she loved most in the world, and the kirk suddenly felt warmer then, safer.
“I wanted her here,” Kieran continued, “because I wish to have a renewal of our vows.”
For a long moment, Lydia could only stare at Kieran.
“A… a renewal?” she asked softly, as though saying it too loudly might break the moment.
“Aye,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that betrayed his nerves. “Ye deserved a weddin’ ye chose. One ye remember without fear.” His gaze flicked briefly to her belly then back to her face. “I want this day to be yers.”
