Cullen rushed out of the house, breathing in great gulps of clear, crisp air to force out the foulness of the sick room and his father’s last insults. He marched to the stables, where he found a man lying in the hay. At first, he thought it might be a corpse, but then realised the man was filthy and stinking of ale sweat, and he was snoring.
‘Get on your feet,’ he shouted, hauling the man up by his shirt.
‘What the…?’
The man recognised him, and his mouth fell open.
‘Did you have the sickness?’ said Cullen.
‘Aye, and I still suffer greatly. I am barely hanging on.’
‘If you are strong enough to stand, you are strong enough to ride. Go and find our clansmen. Tell them it is safe to return. Any who refuse to come and fight for the new laird this day need never return, on pain of death.’
‘Who…who is the new laird?’
‘That would be me,’ said Cullen.
Epilogue
The leaves were turning to a riot of gold and red, and the nights were drawing in. Summer’s warmth had been fleeting, and autumn was muscling it aside, so Lowri made the most of a rare sunny day to sit atop a hill with Cullen and just take a breath. Her husband looked unbearably handsome with the sun in his hair, turning his grey eyes to soft blue. He twirled a stem of grass, heavy with seeds, between thumb and forefinger. He seemed lost in thought until he said, ‘Do you think Peyton will soften, now that he has an heir?’
‘For a while, aye. The fool is hopelessly besotted with that bairn.’
‘Good, for then it takes his mind off tormenting us.’
‘He doesn’t torment me, only you.’
‘Aye. He will forgive you anything. He thinks the sun shines out of your…’
Lowri kissed him, and Cullen kissed her back for a while. Then he was back to his grievance against her brother.
‘You can try and distract me with your charms, but my point remains. Every time Peyton comes to see you, he glares and grunts at me. Your brother will never accept me.’
‘I don’t see why not? He has made peace with his enemies before, and if he can reconcile with Jasper Glendenning and Caolan Bannerman, he can reconcile with anyone. And he glares and grunts at everyone except Cecily.’ Lowri ran her fingersthrough Cullen’s hair. ‘Those clans once all bore a murderous hatred for each other. Any day now, they might go back to hating each other, for all I know.’
‘As you once hated me. It was not too long ago that I was your enemy, forcing you into my bed.'
Lowri grinned. ‘Aye, but I have well and truly surrendered since then.’
Cullen trailed his fingers down from her mouth to the cleft of her breasts. ‘Which I enjoy very much.’
‘And often. You are wearing me out, Cullen.’
He smiled, but it soon turned to a frown. ‘I hope you never go back to hating me, my love.’
‘When my birthing pains come, I might,’ said Lowri with a smile.
Cullen kissed away her bleak thoughts and then lay down and closed his eyes. He had a way of distracting her from worries and had become very skilled at it. Lowri cradled her stomach. She was no coward, but Cecily had endured a hard time birthing Peyton’s son. Her nephew, Logan, was a big lad with a lusty, demanding wail and his father’s belligerence written all over his wee face. He was as dark as night, and try as she might, Lowri could not find any trace of blonde, delicate Cecily in that bairn. And Cecily’s howls of pain still rang in her ears from the long, desperate night when Logan was born. She had never seen Peyton so afraid, pacing endlessly and tearing at his hair in frustrated helplessness.
But though Cecily might look delicate and fragile, she had surprising grit, soon recovering her strength. Now, both bairn and mother were thriving, so Lowri pushed the memory of thatnight aside. The wind was gentle on her face, calming, letting a thought creep in.
‘Cullen, it is not the fact we married that irks my brother, but the way it was arranged.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You see, Griffin got what he wanted. He forced a marriage between the Macaulays and Strachans, and now that he is dead, there is nothing Peyton can do to change that. Your father triumphed over my brother from the grave, and Peyton hates to lose. He is a prideful fool about such things.’
‘And he clings to that pride a little too tightly for my liking,’ said Cullen.
