She felt Thorfinn’s deltoids stiffen under her cheek. He held himself still. And she almost felt bad for being such a tease. Almost.
“But you know,” she said, slipping her hand over his chest until it covered his heart, “I am an American, so I must also marry for love.”
“Is that so?” The poor man practically wheezed out the words.
“Yes. Luckily, I have the perfect candidate in mind.” She tackled him then, sending them both sprawling onto the grass.
He reached up and cupped her face. “I love you, Rose Van Etten.”
“And I love you, Thorfinn Sinclair,” she said. “We do, after all, make the perfect pair.”
Epilogue
Hamarray, Orkney
June 28, 1920
Satisfaction swept through Thorfinn as he circled the nearly complete walls of the distillery. The lads of Frest had done a top-notch job. Not even the faintest bit of wind would make it through the solid structure. The roof would be erected just in time for the barley harvest, which was on course to be the grandest in recent history. In addition to the peat fields, Rose had opened some of Hamarray to cultivation, and Thorfinn was overseeing a series of drainage projects to reclaim more land on Frest. They would need the ability for surplus production given the number of whiskey orders that they had already received from places as close as Kirkwall and as far as London, Copenhagen, Paris, and even Montreal.
Rose had been right that the race last year had spawned interest in the isles. The well-connected competitors had returned home wearing Widow Flett’s sweaters and having a taste for Frest Whiskey. Percy—whom Thorfinn had begrudgingly begun to consider a friend—had insisted that all his London clubs stock their spirits, and he served it at all the events that he hosted.
Thorfinn had traveled with Rose to Edinburgh, England, and the Netherlands as they’d met with her contacts to find buyers. They’dbrought the children along, and the twins had absolutely adored the hotels where they’d stayed. Margaret had asked question after question. Alexander had practically eaten his weight in fairy floss. Hannah had dragged her siblings to a long list of museums. And Freya had gone shopping with Rose and, to his initial dismay, had ordered Thorfinn more than one suit.
But he found that the tailored clothes not only fit but feltright.Hefelt right—walking into places of business and negotiating contracts. But even more extraordinary, he didn’t feel out of place attending Society functions that came along with being Rose’s husband. People were ultimately just people, and he wasn’t confined to being the perpetual outsider. One did not have to be born to a certain station to fill it.
Even though Thorfinn did not mind visiting mainland Britain or even the Continent, his and Rose’s home was here, on Hamarray and Frest. It didn’t matter if he carried English blood or she American. They belonged here—both of them—working with the crofters, making the twin isles productive again.
A low whistle of appreciation attracted Thorfinn’s attention, and he turned to find David Craigie studying the distillery. Now that Thorfinn was not only the estate manager but married to the laird, the islanders had chosen the miller for their representative. With his cheerful enthusiasm and mechanical knowledge, he was an important partner in the improvements.
“Now that is a fair sight.” David patted one of the stones they’d repurposed from the multiple ruined crofts on Hamarray. It was good to give new life to the building materials that had been lying in the gorse since their owners had been pushed off the island during the Enclosures.
“Aye. All from local stone and built without a single worker from outside Frest.” Pride swelled through Thorfinn to see his and Rose’s vision brought to life. It had felt good to be able to offer jobs to the men returning from the war. Despite the United States enacting the VolsteadAct and prohibiting the sale of alcohol in that country, Rose and he had found plenty of markets for the island’s whiskey.
“The sight of it warms my heart even more than that grindstone that your missus bought from France, and I’m not ashamed to say that the big rock made me bawl like a bairn when my son, Young Thomas, and I unpacked it.”
Thorfinn clapped his hand over the older man’s shoulder. “Speaking of Rose, I’d best head back to Muckle Skaill. Between the grand opening of the retreat and the ceilidh tonight, things are a peedie helter-skelter.”
“Go on then, lad.” David gave him a grin. “I’ll make sure everything is put to rights afore the men head home to prepare for the evening festivities.”
Thorfinn bobbed his head before taking off at a jog through the grasses. His relationship with the islanders had changed. Rose was right that once he started to see himself as land agent, he would realize how much the crofters accepted him as a leader. Instead of setting him apart, it made him feel more connected. He’d come to realize that he’d always regarded himself as more of an outsider than his neighbors on Frest ever had.
Thorfinn slowed his pace as he reached the area where tents were being set up for the archaeology students who were arriving today to help Myrtle excavate the broch. Despite Rose’s financial backing, Myrtle had experienced a devil of a time getting her college and the British authorities to allow her to lead the dig. In the end, though, between her and Rose’s determination, she had prevailed. Depending upon how the summer progressed, Rose and Thorfinn had agreed to erect more permanent but still rustic lodgings, separate from the more expensive hotel, for the students and the less wealthy bird-watchers.
Thorfinn was just about to pick up his speed again when he spied some Scottish primroses fluttering in the ever-present wind. It was a second—and last—blooming of the season, and they’d become a favorite of Rose’s ever since Alexander had gifted her with the single blossomover a year ago. Thorfinn bent down and carefully broke off one sprig. Whistling softly to himself, he resumed his original pace.
When he reached Muckle Skaill, he didn’t even pause as he bounded up the front stairs. His simple crofter’s clothes were caked with mud, but Rose wouldn’t scold him. She’d accepted the dirt and sweat of his life as much as he’d learned to become comfortable with the gilt and perfume of hers.
Rose had replaced the heavy wooden doors with stained glass ones inspired by the sea cliffs of Hamarray with tammie norries flying above, sea pinks blooming on the rocky crevasses, and seals bobbing below. They were bright and light and celebrated the island’s real beauty, not some sexualized, inverted version of their folklore.
He burst inside and smelled the faint trace of roses that his wife preferred. Everything sparkled, from the freshly washed windowpanes to the polished parquet floors. Ann Inkster, who was currently manning the front desk, smiled at Thorfinn, her chin straight, her eyes bright. She would never be the boldest of lasses, but she possessed a quiet confidence now, and her serene demeanor was exactly the kind of welcome Rose wanted their guests to experience.
Semicircular, silk-upholstered seats that Rose calledart nouveau club chairshad replaced the brutish furniture of the earl. The curved pieces seemed ready to wrap around weary travelers and offer them a sense of privacy as they rested their feet or chatted a bit with their companions. The whole of Muckle Skaill had been transformed into this peaceful yet stunning haven. And it never failed to make Thorfinn think of Rose.
As if conjured by his thoughts, the Lady of Muckle Skaill herself appeared. She wore the flowy poppy-red trousers that he’d become eminently fond of. The bold, unconventional outfit with its fluid lines suited his wife perfectly, and his heart always seemed to flutter right along with the lithe material.
“You brought me a primrose!” Rose exclaimed as she stood on tiptoe while he bent down to buss her mouth. If it hadn’t been for Ann’s presence, he would have kept their lips together longer ... a lot longer.
Rose must have sensed his thoughts, for she pulled on his hand and guided him into the nearby guest parlor. The room was as tastefully appointed as the entrance hall with warm, inviting hues that felt homey and intimate. She carefully placed the flower in a vase on one of the windowsills and then wrapped her strong arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He eagerly obliged. When their mouths met, sensation, as golden and long lasting as the simmer dim, unfurled inside him. He drank in the marvel of their love.
