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Epilogue

Early October 1728

Dunnancrief Manor

Scottish Highlands

High-pitched quickly shushed giggles carried to Bryston as he strode into Dunnancrief Manor’s entry. Ah, his bairns were playing their usual game when he arrived home after being away for a day or two.

Checking a grin, he covertly eyed the entrance.

Nae place for mischievous imps to hide here.

“Is my wife in the solar?” he asked Stoute, passing his cap and sword to the butler.

“Aye, sir.”

Scarcely an inch over five feet tall, the majordomo nonetheless ran the household with military precision. Except for when it came to the trio of impish McPherson offspring. Those urchins he doted upon, and they could do no wrong in the crusty bachelor’s eyes.

His gaze snapping with merriment, and eyebrows shied to his dusty red hairline, Stoute cleared his throat as he made an exaggerated visual search of the area. “Though, I have nae idea where the bairns have disappeared to.”

A happy yap, promptly followed by a loud, “Shh,” revealed six-year-old Meddy and Alba, the mixed-breed mongrel Bryston had given Branwen over seven years ago, were nearby. Probably hiding behind the door to the dining room, given the slight creak of the walnut panel.

Better have that oiled, else a good hiding spot would be spoiled.

And since Meddy no doubt peeked at Bryston through the crack between the door and the doorframe, the smothered giggles came from Eliot and Errol.

Footsteps echoed on the floor a moment before Branwen appeared around the corner, her distended belly leading the way. A radiant smile bloomed across her face upon seeing him. “My love, ye are home. I thought I heard yer voice.”

She came into his embrace as naturally and easily as a glove slid onto a hand or a foot into a shoe. They’d always fit together, and in the years since making her his wife, he’d come to know a love that surpassed that which he’d experienced with Delphine.

His first wife would always be a cherished memory, but Branwen had given him a reason for living again and fulfilled him in a way he’d not have believed possible.

The bairn in her belly chose that moment to kick, and she laughed.

“A feisty rascal, isna he?” Bryston chuckled as he placed his palm over her rounded stomach. “Ye are well, lass?”

Though he’d been away less than forty-eight hours, he’d missed her. Each day they grew closer, their very spirits fused, to the point she often finished his sentences and he knew her thoughts.

A small grimace pulled her pink mouth down and caused two neat creases across her forehead. “I am, but confess, though I have two months until the wee one arrives, I feel I could burst.” She lifted quicksilver eyes to him, and he recognized a hint of apprehension swirling in their depths. “Ye dinna think ’tis twins again?”

What were the odds of that?

Unease lanced him, but he feigned nonchalance.

“What a gift that would be,” Bryston soothed, his mind already scrambling to put a plan in place if that were the case again. A breech birth, they’d almost lost Errol. As a result, the lad possessed a slight limp. “Dinna fash yerself, jo. We’ll prepare for twins, just in case.”

“Hmm.” She made a noncommittal sound in her throat.

If he could take her place, he would, and spare her the suffering and angst.

Draping an arm around her shoulder, Bryston guided her toward her favorite place in the house—the solar. The many treasures they’d collected on their sojourns in the first year of marriage were proudly displayed there.

All the while, he watched for sneak attacks from his offspring.

Bryston had the addition built for Branwen when they’d returned to Scotland. They’d sailed the world after their wedding. However, once Branwen was increasing, she’d wanted to settle down and create a home for their bairn.

“What have ye done with my bairns?” Bryston casually asked.