“And the laird?” Morgana asked, though her smile suggested she already knew my answer.
“I choose love,” I declared. “Whatever pain or joy it may bring. I choose to live, truly live, rather than merely survive.”
Morgana nodded, seemingly pleased with my response. Mist rose around us, and a tugging sensation gripped me.
“Return now,” Morgana said. “Live the life ye’ve chosen. Love the man who waits for ye.”
Warm pressure against my lips pulled me from the mists and thrust me into a body that felt leaden and afire all at once. My eyelids seemed weighted with stones, but I forced them open, blinking against the sudden intrusion of light. Munro’s face hovered above mine, so close I could count the golden flecks in his blue-grey eyes. His beard had grown fuller since I’d last seen him, and dark shadows beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless vigil. When he realized I was awake, watching him, a guttural sound escaped him that clutched at my heart more painfully than the wound in my chest.
“Murieall,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips. His hands trembled as they framed my face, rough palms against mycheeks with a gentleness that belied their strength. “Ye’re awake. Truly awake.”
I tried to speak, but my throat was parched, my voice a feeble croak that died before it could form words. Munro immediately reached for a goblet beside the bed, cradling my head with one hand as he brought water to my lips with the other. The cool liquid soothed my throat, though even the small movement sent lances of pain radiating from my chest.
As the water revived me, I became more aware of my surroundings. Stone walls enclosed us in what must be the healing chamber, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and poultices. A fire burned in the hearth across the room, casting dancing shadows over the sparse furnishings. Bandages wrapped tight around my midsection beneath the thin shift I wore, the slight pressure a constant reminder of Gordon’s blade.
“How long have I been asleep?” I managed, my voice a whisper.
“Four days,” he answered, setting the goblet aside but keeping his hand beneath my head, as if he feared I might slip away if he released me entirely. “For four days I feared I might lose ye.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears, and I marveled at the openness there. He was no longer trying to hide behind walls of anger or indifference. This was the true Munro, the man I had glimpsed in rare moments with me and his daughters, the man Isabella had loved.
“Gordon?” I asked, memories of the forest flashing through my mind—the dagger, the confession, the terrible moment of understanding.
“Dead,” Munro said, his jaw tightening briefly before softening once more. “I threw my dirk. It struck him in the neck.” He swallowed hard. “As he fell, he still clutched his dagger—” His voice broke, unable to finish.
“I remember,” I whispered, sparing him from having to say more. “And Magdalene?”
“Took her own life in the dungeon,” he replied, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my temple.
“Muno, I must tell ye what Gordon told me.”
Sadness filled his eyes, then a flash of anger. “Ye already did, lass. Ye mumbled the entire tale in yer sleep. I ken Magdalene took George’s life,” Munro said, his voice shaking with his emotions. “I ken of my uncle’s anger over nae getting the lairdship. Him and Aunt Magdalene plotting. Magdalene pushing Isabella from the cliff because Isabella heard the truth. And I ken they had every intention of taking the lairdship from me still. They were nurturing my grief and guilt to that end.”
I closed my eyes briefly, absorbing this information. So much death, so much pain, all stemming from ambition and jealousy. When I opened my eyes again, Munro was watching me with such intensity it took my breath away.
“I love ye, Murieall,” he said, running his thumb across my lower lip. “I thought I’d lost ye before I could tell ye. Before I could beg yer forgiveness for doubting ye, for nae believing ye.” His calloused fingers stroked my cheek now with gentle reverence. “I was blind with fear and suspicion. I let my aunt and uncle poison my mind against ye, against James, against the truth.”
The fervent declaration sent warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with fever. In my dream, Lisette had told me it was time to truly love, and here Munro was offering his heart to me without reservation. My carefully ordered world had crumbled, and in its place stood something far more precious, far more terrifying, and exhilarating.
“I heard her,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Isabella. In the forest, when ye were wounded. She spoke to me, told me she had saved yer life, and now I must give ye the oneye deserve.” He found my hand and squeezed it as his gaze filled with hope. “The one we both deserve.”
I raised my hand to touch his face, ignoring the screaming protest of muscles too long unused. My fingers trembled as they met his warm skin.
“I love ye too,” I whispered, the words simple yet carrying the weight of every moment, every choice that had led us here. “I came here to make ye feel, nae ever even considering that I needed to learn to feel as well.”
Munro pressed a kiss to my palm, sending shivers cascading through me. “Ye changed everything,” he said. “Ye brought my lasses back to me. Ye gave me the truth about Isabella and George. Ye made me a laird again, nae just in name but in truth.”
The memory of my dream floated through my mind. I had chosen to keep hearing the ghosts, to embrace the uncertainty of a life without carefully laid plans. Now I had to tell Munro of my choice.
“I do nae have plans anymore,” I told him, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pain that still coursed through my body. “I had my life so carefully plotted before I came here. But now I only plan to love ye, if ye’ll have me.”
His eyes widened, and then a smile bloomed across his face, transforming his features with joy. “If I’ll have ye?” he repeated, his voice tender with amusement. “Murieall Buchannan, I plan to make ye my wife, if ye’ll have me.”
The proposal, so direct and unhesitating, brought tears to my eyes. He was offering me love with all its uncertainty and promise.
“Aye,” I whispered, without hesitation. “I will.”
Epilogue – Muireall
