Page 87 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

He heaved them up the stairs, bumping into James, bolting down the corridor toward the light from outside, felt the burn of the smoke in his lungs and coughed, heard the crackling of beams above them, the heat so intense, it nauseated, and they tumbled out into the yard where Reaper, Angus MacDonald, the Gordon, the friars, townsfolk and clansmen alike were hoisting water up from the river, splashing it onto the building, as Niall dragged an unconscious Brodie in bonds to the Gordon’s waiting cart.

Skidding through the grasses, Tormund didn’t stop until he was well beyond the walls, blocking the bloodshed from view, and finally collapsed, dragging his woman and his lad into his muscled embrace. He buried his face between them and felt anguish finally lift off him, as if a boulder had been sitting on his belly for years. Felt them cling to him, as his chest rose and fell and relief crashed in waves to feel them breathing against him. The sun had progressed considerably by the time any of them finally moved. His heart still thudded hard.

“I thought I was going to lose ye,” he croaked to neither in particular. “I once thought I’d lost everything, but now I ken, I had everything to lose. Here,” he gruffed out, throat so husky and eyes pricking with some sort of stinging, he blinked away the burn.

His arm squeezed his lad and his other hand clenched golden heaven, burying her face and lavender perfection into his neck. He pulled up as Brighde dragged his tartan scrap from her face, the wool tangled now in her fist.

He barely registered others approaching them, barely noticed that the city that had rallied around them had now put out the fire and was salvaging what had survived, for he was gazing hard at his angel, her body relieved but her eyes still untrusting as she bit that lip. He plucked it free. Reminding her. Cradling her jaw. And the stinging in his eyes finally won the battle as a tear blinked, foreign and wet, onto his cheek.

“Je t’aime ma belle femme intelligente.” His native tongue poured out everything he felt about her. “God help me.”

His eyes darted between the boy and her, her lips wobbling, her tresses clenched in his fist so desperately to make sure she wouldn’t slip away. The lass who’d trounced him in chess and made peace offerings and fit so perfectly in his arms. The lass who’d finally touched him and dragged him out of the shadows that had shackled him for so long, he’d forgotten what the sunshine felt like on his face. The lass who he’d sought to give freedom, who in turn had unchained his heart.

“I love ye both so much,” he bit out hoarsely. “And the thought of losing ye today… I hurt ye, angel. I broke yer trust in me, because I feared.”

“Ye nay need to now,” Owen said as his grip tightened.

The lad, so sweet. He kissed his crown. Then his gaze migrated back to Brighde. “I thought I was protecting ye, but I was cruel. I pushed ye away to shield ye from the danger I’ve always known. But I hurt ye worse.”

She smiled, nodding, cupped his cheek. “I forgive ye, Torm—”

“Nay forgive me so easily, love,” he gnashed out. “Ye were never a mistake. From the moment ye challenged me, I was yers.” His fingers yanked for emphasis. “I nay want to give ye up. I nay deserve ye, but I’ll spend every day trying to earn back yer trust if ye’ll just complete me and the lad—”

She threw her arms around his neck. He encircled her, cinched her tightly to him. Planted another kiss to Owen’s crown and then turned his mouth toward her, taking her lips and devouring her essence.

Hell, he’d missed this. One night of thinking all was lost had made him starved as he drank her in. Felt her forgiveness pouring forth with Owen nestled between them, where he belonged.

The Reverend Father’s throat cleared. Tormund came up for air, sensing James had kneeled beside them, noticing wee Owen was giggling at the display of affection. He rested his forehead to Brighde’s, breathing in her scent of home. Their hands were tangled in his strip of sodden colors. He inspected their fingers, turned their haphazard clenching in the sunlight, seeing just how right it looked.

James coughed hoarsely, fist at his mouth. A glance told Tormund it was emotion he was clearing from his lungs, not smoke. And his eyes were rapt upon Owen.

“’Tis yer Uncle Jamie, Owey.” Brighde smiled to the boy, pointing. “My brother. And he’s wanted to ken ye.”

Owen looked to James. “He has Margie’s eyes,” James gruffed out, smiling, eyes watering as he touched the lad’s face reverently.

“And her chin,” Brighde added on a sweet laugh, when James opened tentative hands to him.

With a nod of encouragement from Tormund, Owen cautiously climbed to his feet and went to him.

Tormund pushed to his boots, pulled Brighde up. Untangled the tartan from their clenching.

“Owen,” he said, drawing back his lad’s attention. He handed the wool down to him. “Will ye do the honors, son, and handfast us?” He glanced to the abbot. The Reverend Father seemed to understand that a birth that had divided them, could unite them, and nodded.

Tormund laced his fingers into hers, knuckles caked with drying blood, as Owen grinned. Squeezed as Owen wrapped the tartan around and around their hold.

“Shall I seize what I want, angel, like the blackguard I am?” Tormund’s voice, so husky he swore he could see his future unravelling before him, and for the first time noticed that it was as bright as her eyes.

She smiled up at him and cupped his cheek, a hint of vixen twisting her lips. “A blackguard would nay ask.”

Epilogue

Anno Domini 1548, beginning of August. Lughnasadh

“Catch it!” Brighde exclaimed as her son scrambled for the token that was tumbling away.

Owen, eight years strong, snatched it before it rolled through the rails.

“I saved it, Maw!” He held it up triumphantly.