Highlander Ever After

  The villagers had followed them to the kirk and now swarmed through with sprigs of holly and ribbons clutched in their hands. What better way to end Hogmanay than with the wedding of their laird?

  Olaf had tears in his eyes as he led Zarabeth to Egan’s side. “I should have understood and encouraged him to marry you years ago,” he whispered to her. “I made many mistakes, my dear, which I hope you can forgive. Now I want to put it right.”

  He looked so pleased and so relieved that Zarabeth didn’t have the heart to do anything but press a quick kiss to his cheek.

  The ceremony was a blur to Zarabeth, and she wasn’t quite certain what she felt. Anger at Egan and her father for their pity, grief over her marriage and five years lost, fierce joy that she’d be with Egan at last.

  Her body remembered Egan’s, his hot hands on her, his kisses, the way he felt inside her. Egan was her lover. She wondered if that would change once they were married—though from the noises coming from Angus and Gemma’s bedchamber, Zarabeth concluded that Highland husbands did not avoid their wives.

  Egan’s eyes gleamed in triumph when he slid a ring onto Zarabeth’s finger, a huge sapphire on a golden band. The ring didn’t quite fit, and the gold looked old.

  As soon as the vicar pronounced them man and wife, the Highlanders sent up a huge cheer. Egan turned and lifted his hand and Zarabeth’s to them. He was their lord and master, and he’d just become Zarabeth’s lord and master too.

  Back at Castle MacDonald, a piper met them in the courtyard and piped the laird and his lady inside to more cheers. In the Great Hall, Williams and his helpers served up another enormous feast. The fiddler and drummer played as they ate, and Egan’s family and friends continuously congratulated them.

  Adam leaned down and lightly kissed Zarabeth under Egan’s scrutiny. “Egan was quick enough to land you after you became a widow, the scoundrel. If I’d had more warning, you might be a Ross today.”

  Egan towered over Zarabeth, growling. “Not likely, man.”

  “You’re very kind.” Zarabeth gave Adam a warm smile, which only increased Egan’s frown, as she’d meant it to.

  Adam moved aside to make way for Gemma.

  “You’re a true Highlander now,” Gemma said, throwing her arms around Zarabeth. “And a cousin. Welcome to th’ family.”

  “I always wanted a big family,” Zarabeth told her, kissing her cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Well.” Gemma went pink. “Seeing as now we’re family, I wondered if ye could help me with a wee problem. Not now,” she said hastily, glancing at Egan. “Tomorrow. When you’ve done with your weddin’ night.”

  Zarabeth’s face heated. She wondered at her own shyness—she’d already shared a bed with Egan, but the thought of going upstairs with him tonight filled her with trepidation. “Very well,” Zarabeth said. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  Gemma nodded happily.

  Jamie came bounding over with the sword of Ian MacDonald in his hands, likely the happiest Highlander in the room. “Ye have to do it now, Uncle. It’s time to see if ye can break the curse.”

  Egan gave him an exasperated look. “Will ye leave off the curse nonsense at least until tomorrow? I carried the sword at the wedding for ye. Isn’t that enough for now?”

  “But everything’s right,” Jamie insisted. “Ye married a magical lass without shame. Ye need to openly declare the marriage and then break the sword.”

  “What about the rhyme?” Zarabeth asked, eyeing the sword with interest. “You said we have to chant a rhyme or a spell.”

  Jamie looked momentarily downcast. “If it exists, I can’t find it. I thought mebbe it had been etched on the sword itself, but no.”

  He showed her the blade, polished for the occasion. It was clean and plain, a workmanlike sword.

  “It’s likely to have been in Scots,” Egan said. “And probably destroyed long ago, either by the English or by the laird trying to avoid arrest or fines. The Gaelic language was banned after the ’45.”

  “Ye can try it anyway,” Jamie said. “Ye met the requirements.”

  “What about the brave deed?” Zarabeth broke in.

  “Aye, lad,” Egan said, brightening. “It’s been a while since I performed any kind of bravery.”

  “Ye rescued Zarabeth from the ocean,” Jamie said. “And carried Baron Valentin home. Both of those were plenty brave.”

  “And faced down the debutantes,” Zarabeth pointed out, keeping her face straight.

  Egan looked pained. “All right, all right, lad. Give me the sword, and let’s get it over with. If it breaks, will ye leave be the curse foolishness?”

  Jamie grinned. “Gladly.” He jumped up on the table and yelled for silence.

  “My friends,” he proclaimed once they all quieted and turned to him—a process that took a while. “At last we have a laird who has taken a witch to wife, and we have a chance at ending the Curse of the MacDonalds. Give your attention now to Egan MacDonald, laird of his clan.”

  The men roared enthusiastically, banging on tables with fists and cups. Their ladies were equally loud with their cheering. The drummer, piper, and fiddler kept up the din until Jamie waved for silence again.

  Egan leapt to the tabletop and lifted Zarabeth up beside him. He was so strong she landed lightly next to him without losing her balance. Jamie, smiling hugely, handed him the sword.

  “T’ please Charlie MacDonald’s beloved son …” Egan began.

  He paused encouragingly, and every glass shot high. “Charlie MacDonald!”

  Egan waited until they had drunk and quieted down again. “T’ please Charlie’s son, my nephew, I’ll have a go at breaking the Curse of the MacDonalds.”

  “The Curse of the MacDonalds!” his men bellowed, drinking to it.

  “I thought Jamie was the curse,” Dougal snickered.

  “Hush, lad.” Egan admonished Dougal and turned back to the crowd. “I have married today a lovely lady of Nvengaria, a magical woman in her country. She is now the Lady MacDonald.”

  “Lady MacDonald!”

  Egan thrust the sword high, waiting for the cheers to die away. Any more toasts and this lot wouldn’t make it to the dancing. “This is the sword of Ian MacDonald, who thwarted a witch three hundred years ago. Legend says that when a laird of Ian’s line and his lady have broken the sword, the curse itself must break.”

  More shouting as the drummer started up again. Egan brought the sword down and positioned it to break the blade over his knee. “Take hold of the hilt, love,” he said to Zarabeth under all the noise. “But be careful. I’ll try not to hurt ye.”

  Zarabeth laid her fingers on the hilt. She felt it then, a light tingle of magic, but it was not benevolent magic. A trickle of darkness touched her, anger old and honed. Jamie wasn’t wrong. A witch had cursed this sword, locking a piece of her rage inside it. Zarabeth gripped tighter, wanting to rid the castle and Egan’s family of that anger.

  “One,” Egan said, his dark eyes on Zarabeth. “Two. Three.”

  He brought the blade down across his rock-hard knee. A hollow clang sounded through the hall, but the sword stayed whole.

  “Ouch,” Egan shouted. “Damnation.”

  “Are you all right?” Zarabeth asked, touching his arm.

  Egan snarled and rubbed his knee. “Bloody swords. Bloody curses.”

  Someone below them laughed. “Now then, MacDonald, mebbe ye grew soft in the army.”

  “Stubble it,” Egan snarled. “I’m trying not to hurt me wife.”

  “More like preserving yer fishing tackle,” another yelled. “It’d be a short weddin’ night.”

  Zarabeth blushed, but Egan ignored the laughter. “Now then, let’s try again.”

  Zarabeth put her fingers on the hilt once more, flinching as she felt the stir of malevolent magic. Egan brought the sword up then swiftly down again.

  The blade banged off his knee, flew into the air, and clattered onto the table as the guests jumped away from i
t. Egan swore and wrung his stinging hand. “Ye all right, love?”

  “Fine.” Zarabeth rubbed her fingers, eying the sword in trepidation. If there truly was a curse and they couldn’t break it, things could become very bad.

  The jesters in the crowd were enjoying themselves. “Did ye hear our laird scream? He really did cut it off, hard luck to his missus!”

  “He’ll have to find a new one, mebbe buckle it on.”

  The shouting grew more lewd. Mot of the ladies didn’t seem to mind, and in fact joined in. “Well, he can’t borrow yours, Geordie Ross,” a woman shouted. “Ye must have lost it because I’ve not seen it these five years.”

  Amid the ensuing laughter, Hamish yelled, “Och, Geordie, where’ve ye been keepin’ it?”

  “Ye’re one to speak, Hamish MacDonald. I saw ye eyeing that sheep like a man with something on his mind.”

  “Aye, mutton chops and potatoes.”

  As the laughter burst out again Egan dropped to the floor then lifted Zarabeth down from the table, his hands warm on her waist. Jamie looked glum, but the rest of the party got caught up in the bawdiness.

  “Now then, Hamish,” Angus yelled at his brother. “Gracie McLean doesn’t look much like a mutton chop, does she?”

  Hamish turned beet red, and while all attention was fixed on him, Egan and Zarabeth slipped away.

  The Highlanders didn’t seem to mind them going. The gaiety continued, bright sounds in the darkness, flowing after them as Egan led Zarabeth up the stairs through the middle of the castle.

  Before they reached the floor of Zarabeth’s chamber, Egan stopped and lifted Zarabeth to the step above him. He was taller than she was even then, but she could look into his eyes without having to tilt her head.

  Egan studied her in silence. They hadn’t had a moment alone since their return to the castle the night before, and now Zarabeth felt the awkwardness between them. The loose sapphire band was heavy on her finger, Egan’s hands strong on her waist.

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t break the sword,” she said nervously, for something to say.

  “I’m nae bothered.” Egan’s eyes were dark like the night beyond the windows. “Jamie needs to learn that no’ everything in life can be so easily solved.”

  “But there really is dark magic in the sword,” Zarabeth said. “I felt it. Jamie’s not wrong about that.”

  Egan stilled her words with one finger on her lips. “Tonight I’m not interested in dark magic, or the curse.”

  Zarabeth’s mouth tingled where he touched it. “We shouldn’t pretend it away …”

  “Not tonight.” His gaze went stern. “There’s something else I want to do tonight.”

  Zarabeth was his wife now, his. She belonged to him. Gemma and Angus seemed to be partners and friends, Angus good-naturedly giving into Gemma’s bustling bossiness. What Egan expected of this marriage Zarabeth couldn’t guess. She’d spent much time teasing her old friend, but she’d never quite seen what was inside his heart.

  Right now Egan expected to kiss her. He bent his head to slant his mouth across hers.

  “Egan,” she whispered.

  He paused, his lips an inch from hers. “What is it, lass?”

  “I should look in on Valentin.” For some reason Zarabeth wanted to delay being alone with him. She needed time to gather her thoughts and a semblance of self-control.

  Egan gave her a conceding look. “Aye, we will. But I’m sure he won’t mind if I kiss my wife first.”

  Zarabeth tried to answer, but the will went out of her as his mouth connected with hers. He skimmed his hand down her back and scooped her against him as he kissed her.

  Zarabeth felt him hard through the folds of his kilt, smelled his warmth and the scent of his tangled hair. He swept his tongue into her mouth, tasting every inch of her.

  When Egan at last released her, she would have fallen but for his firm arm around her. He must feel her shaking, she thought, must sense her need and her worry.

  Egan gave her a little smile, his eyes sparkling. “Let’s go visit your baron.”

  Still shaking, Zarabeth took his hand and let him lead her on up the stairs, and they entered Valentin’s chamber.

  Valentin had been left in the care of Mrs. Williams’ mother, an elderly woman called Rose who had sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. The baron was awake, but his face was flushed with fever.

  “You married him,” Valentin said to Zarabeth when she and Egan entered the room. “That was wise.”

  “The best solution,” Egan agreed, sounding gleeful.

  Zarabeth decided not to rise to his banter and held her tongue. She took the damp cloth from Rose and dabbed it across Valentin’s hot forehead. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

  “I remember very little.” Valentin’s voice was weak, and he stuck to Nvengarian as though it cost him too much effort to speak English. “I was patrolling the grounds—I don’t remember why I went to the standing stones. Perhaps I heard something there. Whoever shot me came out of nowhere.”

  “The tunnels,” Zarabeth told him. “Egan thinks they came from the tunnels that run under the castle.”

  Valentin thought about this and nodded. “That could be. I never saw him. I smelled fear, a swamping wave of it. I sprang at it, then he must have shot me. I went down, and he disappeared. That is all I remember.”

  Egan folded his arms and regarded Valentin thoughtfully. “Did you glimpse anything—clothing, hair color, the man’s build?”

  Valentin shook his head, grimacing at the pain of even this simple movement. “If I did, being hurt has wiped away the memory. I could scent him again I think. But not like this.”

  He motioned to his inert body. From what Valentin had once explained to Zarabeth, because he was only part logosh Valentin’s predominant form was human, and he had difficulty changing from one form to the other when he was injured. Full logosh would revert to demon form when hurt and remain that way until they healed, but Valentin had too much human blood in him. He’d have to wait until he was better to take his wolf form again.

  “We will get ye well my friend,” Egan promised. “Then ye can go out and nose around—so to speak.”

  “I will do that.” Valentin gazed at Zarabeth, his hard face softening the slightest bit. “Be happy.”

  This was the closest thing to sentiment she’d ever heard from him. Valentin surprised her again with his next question. “Mary—Mrs. Cameron. She is well?”

  Egan’s brows climbed. “Aye, she’s downstairs trying to keep the guests in check and failing miserably. But that’s a Highland fling for ye.”

  Valentin looked as though he wanted to say more but subsided against the pillows.

  “You rest now,” Zarabeth said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll look in on you in the morning.”

  Valentin’s eyelids drooped and he merely nodded. Mrs. Williams’ mother shooed them out then, and Zarabeth and Egan returned to the cold staircase.

  Chapter 17

  Revelations

  Instead of heading for at Zarabeth’s bedroom, Egan led her up two more flights to the floor where his own chamber lay. Zarabeth paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath.

  “Why up here?”

  “Less noise,” Egan rumbled. “And the lads will be too drunk to climb this high and cheer me on.”

  Zarabeth’s face heated as she thought about the sounds she’d made when he’d come to her two nights ago—she hoped fervently he was right that no one would be up here tonight.

  Egan’s bedchamber was small, dominated by the fireplace on one side and a huge walnut bedstead on the other. When he’d had his bath in here, the tub had taken up most of the extra room. He didn’t have much in the way of other furniture, pictures, or decoration. Hardly a room fit for a laird—a spartan chamber for a man who traveled most of his time.

  “Now I know what Gemma meant,” Zarabeth remarked as she looked around at the whitewashed walls and dark ceiling beams, the small window gi
ving out to the night.

  Egan turned to her from closing the door. “Meant?”

  “After she married Angus. She said When you marry a Highlander, you marry the pack of them. I suppose I shall become used to it.”

  Egan chuckled. “I never have.” He went to the fireplace and bent down to add logs to the fire and stir it to life. His kilt stretched enticingly over his backside, reminding her of the night at the inn in Ullapool.

  “We don’t have to stay in Scotland, ye know,” Egan said as he worked. “We can go to London or Paris, as ye said, and as soon as Damien declares it safe, I’ll take ye back to Nvengaria.”

  Zarabeth couldn’t look away from him. “I like it here.”

  Egan glanced at her over his shoulder. He saw the direction her gaze had taken and burst out laughing.

  “Ye have a strange fascination for my fundament, love. I’d be flattered if I didn’t think ye liked it better than my face.”

  Heat fluttered through Zarabeth’s body. “Nonsense. You are a very handsome man, Egan.”

  “You’re kind t’ say so, but Charlie had the looks.”

  Zarabeth lifted her chin. “I did not marry Charlie MacDonald.”

  He straightened up, his movements quiet. “Don’t tease me, love.”

  “I’m not teasing.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I decided years ago I wanted to marry you—from the moment you woke up and looked at me in my mother’s best guest room. And now I have. I’m no better than Gemma, chasing Angus all her life until she got him to the altar.”

  “She didn’t have to chase him far,” Egan said. He returned to poking at the fire. “Angus has always been in love with Gemma, only he didn’t know how to show it.”

  Zarabeth thought of the longing looks Angus gave Gemma whenever she passed. “It seems she’s taught him.”

  Egan’s expression became thoughtful. “Ye liked me all that time, did ye?”

  Zarabeth flushed. “I was twelve and you were so handsome. I knew you’d make the perfect husband—all I had to do was grow up.” She sighed, wistful. “Life is simple when you are twelve.”