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“Is that so?” I murmur, close enough that my words brush her mouth.

“It is,” she says, voice shaking but fierce. “If ye intend to keep up with me, Sinclair, ye’d best learn to move faster.”

I cup her face, catching the last of the wet there, and she shivers like the touch is weighty.

“I’ve been tryin’ to keep pace since the day we met,” I whisper. “I learned quick how hopeless a task that would be.”

Her mouth curves, nearly devilish, teeth worrying her bottom lip. Teasing me, as if she’s testing the strength of every good intention I’ve ever had.

“Fine, then,” she whispers, mouth near mine. “I’ll slow down long enough to let you catch me.”

The want in me surges hard. I can feel myself tipping toward her like a man about to lose his last shred of sense.

I make myself breathe. Make myself remember. I’m not letting her bold mouth and those soft eyes lead me by the throat. Not when there’s something sacred to do here.

Reluctantly, I set her back on her feet and take a step away. I need the distance to look at her properly. To see her as she is right now: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair slightly loosened at the temples, the perfect composure finally, blessedly undone.

My heart feels too big for my body.

I swallow, nerves hitting me all over again.

And then I drop to one knee in damp grass like it’s the grandest floor in Scotland. The entire world has narrowed to this patch of earth and the woman standing above me.

Ellen makes a small sound, startled.

I look up at her, and my voice comes out rough with all the truth I’ve been holding for months.

“Ellen MacGregor,” I breathe, staring at her like she’s the only light left in the world. “There’s no other woman for me. Bind yer life to mine. Stand beside me as my wife. Let me keep you. Let me come home to you, every day, until we’re both grey and the sea has forgotten our names.”

She stares down at me, and for a second she looks like she might fall apart again.

Then her mouth curves, sharp and beautiful and real.

“Of course I will,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

I stand too fast, grab her around the waist, and spin her once because I can’t help it. I have to put the joy somewhere or it’ll burn me from the inside out.

Ellen laughs, breathless, and smacks my shoulder. “Put me down, you great oaf⁠—”

“Never,” I say, and kiss her again, softer this time, reverent. As if I’m learning her anew, afraid to waste a second of her finally being mine to hold.

I force myself to draw back before I forget there’s any world beyond her. My forehead rests to hers for a single breath, my hands still at her waist, and I make myself steady.

Then I take her hands in mine.

Her fingers are cold, but her palms fit like they were made for me. I lace our fingers together, lift her knuckles to my mouth, and kiss them.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the strip of tartan I’ve concealed there.

“Handfast?” she says, as if she has to say it aloud to believe it.

“Did you think I came all the way out here only to give you a gift?” I ask.

Her brows lift. “What if I’d said no?”

“I’d’ve been thoroughly wrecked,” I admit. “But I dinnae think I could’ve let you go without puttin’ in a wee fight.”

Her expression softens at that, something warm and quiet passing through her eyes.