Page 88 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

His dark locks blew chaotically around his face. Bedecked in his own kilt, his own brooch, the MacLeod heir was reinstated, though there was no longer much need for a piece of royal parchment to bind their kin together anymore.

Water sprayed on deck and she shielded her coif as the balinger lurched, welcoming Owen back onto her lap, her arms coming around him.

“I fear it nay does weel to play games upon a ship,” he deduced as they scooped the pieces up and dropped them back in the purse, then rolled away the checkered mat.

After a sennight of trials, though, they’d stubbornly kept trying.

She smiled at Tormund, resting her cheek aside Owey’s as fondness burgeoned for her quiet warrior. His attention was rapt upon them. It always was. Happy or alarmed, every outburst garnered a cursory glance to his familial ranks to ensure no casualties. Sometimes she caught him gazing at her doing the most mundane tasks, as if she fascinated him, as if he still couldn’t believe she was real. And on this voyage, every lurch of the ship drew his attention hard upon them as if they might slip through his fingers.

Astern at the steering, her Demon of the Seas manned the wheel, tunic slouched as his kilt wavered on the wind. His wind-tossed hair bundled at his nape. A tattooed arm enshrouded a sling across his chest, knuckles whitening upon each groan of the vessel. Within the sling was a source of pride in his life who, apart from herself and Owen, had been the only other to bring this fearsome man to his knees.

Calm overtook his stormy brow and he reciprocated her smile with a quirk of his lips, now more easily summoned, though still rare. His gaze returned to assessing the waters, calling out commands.

“Reach in the sails! Rowers in position!”

His impulses to protect were seared into every fiber of his being from all he’d endured. But he’d learned to temper his fear. Still, she knew this voyage was fraught with turmoil for him. He would beat back the sea spray if he thought it would protect them.

Ye could be tossed overboard.

We could be attacked.

Ye and Owen are nay safe.

She’d heard his every grumble under his breath when strategizing this journey. He was wearing his every blade now, as were his men.

But we’ll never be truly safe, she’d argued. How can one possibly live a full life by remaining cloistered behind curtain walls?

He’d laid down his sword for her a year before, unless training or traveling, and chose more often to sprawl by the hearth at Stornoway upon piles of furs, reading to her and Owen as they nestled close, his hand idly caressing her belly while Owen drew. Or silently to himself in his solar when she was otherwise occupied, surrounded by maps and manuscripts. He’d even begun writing again. Words he’d not shared with a soul, but it was a start.

And she knew it hurt for him to do so without his brother, knew that he’d shunned those arts of his youth because of the grief they evoked. But young Owen loved to draw and often shared his company. Their lad’s presence eased that sting, just as it was doing for herself and James.

At last, the poisoned arrow was extracting, inch by inch. He’d promised to be the man she deserved when they’d handfasted, but how could she ask for anything better than the man he already was? There was less need for secrets and bloodshed than there used to be. Peace was fragile, but it had been sown between two headstrong warriors whose love for her had outweighed their need for vengeance. A year later, the fruits of their labors were budding.

MacNicol was on trial while his son, Alasdair, assumed the lairdship.

Brodie was imprisoned for his crimes.

James and Tormund had formed a tentative…brotherhood?

Forgiveness was a hard tonic to drink. But the more the two men she loved most dearly in this world sipped from the chalice of peace, the stronger their bond grew.

She’d spied Torm and Jamie from the shadows of Tioram’s gallery after Aileana’s childbirth, sprawled before the hearth at James’s table, like two sated kings, imbibing and sharing a chuckle as young Owen slept on James’s lap and wee Maudie, who’d taken a shine to Tormund, had nestled onto his chest.

The ship groaned as it dipped upon a swell. Again, Tormund’s eyes darted to her and Owen.

“Niall to the helm!” Tormund ordered, summoning his uncle from the ratline, passing off the wheel and his astrolabe to him, then lumbered toward her, helping her rise from her pile of velvets, hair beaded in seed pearls and crystals.

“Can I use the looking glass, da?” Owen begged.

Tormund withdrew a rudimentary instrument he’d crafted out of a magnifying glass as the bundle slung across his chest squirmed. Owen leaped off her lap.

“Look through here,” Torm instructed. Owen drew the makeshift tool to his eye, squinting. Someday soon, someone would refine a tool like this for sailors to use, Tormund had said more than once. Tormund leaned over him, pointing. “Look over there.”

“’Tis a tower!”

Tormund rested his hand upon the lad’s shoulder. His own excitement to be returning to his homeland sparkled in his eyes, though he remained stoic. “Beyond lies an enormous forest—” His arm spanned the horizon. “The Brécheliant, enchanted like in the tales of King Arthur—”

“Enchanted?” Owen’s eyes rounded. “Like in the book ye gave me?”