Fiona took a deep breath. The fiddles and the flutes did sound awfully inviting. Plenty of other people were already dancing —among them Isobel and Duff, and he so light on his feet it was a gladsome thing to observe. Everyone was having so much fun, and she—
She had been thinking about slipping away, to make sure Duff’s things had all been moved into Isobel’s bedchamber, and that Alasdair’s had been brought into hers, and that a maid would be sure to bring up a hot cup of tea for Mother at bedtime, and also—
But no. She could do all that later, or not at all. Everything would work out just fine. And meanwhile, the dancing looked like so much fun. And wasn’t it time that she allowed a little more fun into her life? Perhaps she and Alasdair could nip in there, inconspicuously—
“Yes,” she said to him bravely. “Yes, I will.”
And then he smiled, and led her into the dance.
They passed their first night together in her cold, draughty bedchamber. Her bed was really too small for them both. But Fiona and Alasdair noticed neither the cold nor the size of the bed. They were intent on each other, whether it was to rediscover, or to discover, each other it was impossible to tell. It didn’t matter. A second chance had been given them—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that together they had created this second chance—and they were both determined to make the most of it. Their lovemaking was by turns fierce and tender, raw and achingly sweet.
It wasn’t until the deepest dark of night was just beginning to yield to soft intimations of morning that they lay at rest, entwined, at their ease, utterly content.
“Now that,” said Fiona with a purr in her voice, “is what I call a proper wedding night.”
He kissed her ear. “Aye. Better this time around.”
“Indeed. It makes me wonder what our third wedding night would be like.”
“I don’t think we’d survive it.”
She laughed, and snuggled her head a little more cozily into that wonderful hollow between Alasdair’s shoulder and his neck. How good he felt, and smelled, and tasted. And how tired she was. But in a nice way. She yawned, and lifted a hand—happily conscious of the rings upon it—to cover her mouth.
“Alasdair.”
“Aye, Fiona?”
“I’ve just had the strangest thought.”
“Tell me it.”
“It suddenly occurred to me that the discovery of that second decree, which seemed so dreadful at the time, actually helped bring us together again. Doesn’t it seem that way?”
“Aye,” he said, thoughtfully. “It was a kind of impetus, wasn’t it? It helped each of us realize we wanted to fight. Fight to find each other again.”
Lovingly she pressed her lips to the warm, faintly salty skin of his neck. “How wonderful, and how mysterious.”
“Life is, I think, filled with mysteries.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “There’s so much we can’t know.”
“How Isobel came to read the Tome in the first place.”
“Why goldfinches arrived at Castle Tadgh,” Fiona said.
“Is there really a mysterious Greyman roaming the summit of Ben Macdui.”
“The reason dogs turn in a circle before lying down.”
“Why people like bad poetry,” said Alasdair.
“Will Monty let me have some roses in the spring.”
“The spices your cook put into the mutton stew.”
In the cozy dimness Fiona smiled. “That, I daresay, we’ll never know.”
“And may be better off not knowing.”
The edge of the thick wool blanket had slipped away from Fiona’s shoulder, and Alasdair brought it up again, tucking it securely around her.
“Thank you, dear heart,” said Fiona, drowsily, and yawned again. “Good night,” she said to him, “sweet dreams,” and then, as if it was the most natural thing in all the world, she gave a soft, happy sigh, closed her eyes, and fell deeply, deeply, asleep in his arms. And a minute or so after that, Alasdair had fallen asleep, too.
There were, in fact, so many things Alasdair and Fiona could not have known.
They didn’t know that on this night they had conceived a child, who would grace them with his presence some nine months later. They would call him James Amhuinn Gavin Penhallow—Amhuinn being the masculine version of Nairna. James would have the dark-red hair of his father, the changeable blue-gray eyes of his mother, and a merry laugh so contagious that you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
They didn’t know that James would be joined by a little brother approximately two years later: Archibald Stuart Bruce Penhallow, known at once and forever as Archie, much beloved by James—and vice-versa.