Mary’s pulse sped. “It is a splendid memory for me as well.”
“We will make another memory.” Valentin feathered kisses down her throat. “One that will last a lifetime.”
“I love you,” Mary whispered, her heart in her words.
“I love you, my Highland Mary.” Valentin’s eyes danced in sudden amusement. “But perhaps I should not allow you to carry my saber.”
Mary sent him a wicked look. “You are absurd. A claymore is much more effective.”
Valentin laughed, a rumbling, comforting sound, and she twined her hands behind his neck. “May we begin making those memories now, please?”
“By all means.” Valentin swept her into his strong arms and carried her into the bedroom.
“I want to love you all night, Valentin.” Mary touched his face as he laid her down, and then his warm weight pressed her into the bed. “And tomorrow, we’ll go home.”
Epilogue
When they reached Castle MacDonald several days later, Mary insisted that Valentin knock on the door and enter first. Julia and Sir John, a bit breathless from the precarious ride up the hill to the castle perched on top, watched, mystified, as Valentin approached the huge door. Dougal grinned, knowing why Mary had insisted.
The courtyard was strangely deserted, the castle quiet. Valentin pounded on the thick door, but only silence met them when the echoes died away.
Valentin tried the door, found it unlocked, and pushed it open.
Cheers and laughter erupted from inside the brightly lit hall. A young Nvengarian woman rushed forward, her arms outstretched, and the tall, massive form of Mary’s brother followed her. Egan MacDonald balanced a tiny cloth-wrapped bundle in his great hand.
“Welcome, First-Footer!” the young woman cried, hugging Valentin. “Remember, Valentin, you were to have been our first-footer last year? And then …”
“I got shot,” Valentin said, warmth touching him. He’d been left to die out in the cold, but Egan had found and rescued him. Then Mary had come to Valentin’s chamber to nurse him, finding him bare in his bed …
“I have brought your sister,” Valentin said to Egan. He drew Mary into the circle of his arm. “And Dougal. And friends.”
The Highlanders inside—Mary’s cousins and their neighbors, the Rosses, cheered again. Cousin Angus shouted, “More friends, more whisky!”
Mary held out her arms for Egan’s bundle. Egan relinquished it carefully, and Mary peeled back a blanket to gaze at the next heir to Castle MacDonald.
Charlie Olaf MacDonald had been born not long before Mary had departed. Mary marveled at how much he’d grown in the scant weeks she’d been gone. She remembered wanting to escape the collective joy of the house, a joy she’d not felt part of.
She realized how foolish she’d been. Of course she was part of the happiness, and now she could bring Valentin into it with her.
Mary handed the baby to Zarabeth, who hugged Charlie to her as though he were the most precious thing on earth.
“There will be more celebrations at Hogmanay,” Mary said to her merry family and friends. “I have asked Valentin to be my husband.”
Valentin, behind her, enfolded Mary in his arms and drew her back against him. “And I have accepted.”
Egan let out a roaring laugh. “That’s my sister. Never a demure, soft-spoken creature was she! As laird, let me be the first to say—Welcome to the family. If ye can stand us, that is.”
The MacDonald clan behind him yelled at this and pelted Egan with bits of mistletoe. Valentin rested his cheek against Mary’s hair, his unshaved whiskers pleasantly rough. “I believe I will be able to stand it,” he said. Mary turned and met his lips with hers.
“Aye, and there is nae even mistletoe above them,” Dougal said in mock disgust.
To the sound of more cheers, Egan and Zarabeth led them all into the Great Hall, Valentin with his arm around Mary.
Everything was as Mary remembered, the high beams, the huge hearth, the sense of light and happiness. The long tables were laden with food, and fiddlers and drummers waited in the corner. As the family filed into the hall, the musicians struck up a lively tune.
Dougal seized Julia’s hands and danced her into the center of the room. Men and women paired up, and a flame-haired, buxom MacDonald woman grabbed Sir John to be her partner.
Mary clasped Valentin’s hands and spun around and around with him as the fiddlers played and the drummers beat a rapid time. Mary was a Highland woman, and this music was in her blood, as was her fighting spirit. She’d no longer be afraid to leave these shores and travel to far-off Nvengaria, because she understood now that friends awaited her there too.
But it would be inevitable that she and Valentin would come back here—always. Mary was a part of Scotland as much as Valentin was a part of Nvengaria. And no matter where she and Valentin roamed, it would always be home where they were—together.
Valentin pulled Mary into his arms and held her close as the Highlanders danced around them. Julia was flushed with happiness, and Sir John attempted a mad jig that had everyone hooting with laughter.
“Sophie would have loved this,” Valentin said as he and Mary withdrew into a corner.
“My darling, I am so sorry that I never got to meet her,” Mary said, hurting for him.
Valentin nodded. Sorrow filled his eyes, but the anguish, the stark grief, had faded. “You would have loved her as I did. But she is with me again, in my heart. When you stopped me from killing the ambassador, she returned to me.” Valentin touched his chest. “She is happy for us.”
Mary did not know whether he spoke metaphorically or whether Nvengarian magic really did allow him to know what Sophie felt. It did not matter, she realized. Valentin had found his peace.
Mary leaned against his tall strength. “Welcome home, my love.” She gestured at the Highlanders spinning to the music. “To all the family you can handle.”
“I believe I can handle you best of all,” Valentin murmured. He licked the shell of her ear. “I look forward to bed.”
“We had better wait, I think, unless you want them all following us upstairs and shouting lewd remarks outside the door.”
Valentin looked surprised but not alarmed. “I am happy to dance with you for now. Tonight, we will begin the rituals of Nvengarian courtship.”
“Rituals?” Mary raised her brows. “What sort of rituals?”
Valentin’s blue eyes, with their slightly inhuman cast, darkened with promise. “They are numerous, and very erotic.”
Pleasant heat snaked through Mary’s body. “I anticipate them with much interest.”
“That is my brave, Highland lass.”
Mary kissed him again, ignoring the whoops from around the room as the kiss turned passionate. Valentin traced Mary’s cheek, took her hands, and pulled her back into the dance.
End
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed Mary and Valentin’s story! It was originally printed in an anthology called A Christmas Ball, and I’m happy to be able to present it on its own.
When I first accepted the request to contribute a story to A Christmas Ball, I was under severe word-count restriction—I remember going through and taking out so many things! In this version I was able to restore what I’d been forced to cut or expand scenes I thought had been given short shrift.
I have enjoyed re-releasing the four tales of the Nvengarian series (Penelope and Prince Charming; The Mad, Bad Duke; Highlander Ever After; The Longest Night). I have great fondness for this mixed world of historical and fantasy, with its fairy-tale kingdom where all kinds of magic can happen.
Please consider posting a review of this book or the other books in the Nvengarian series whether you are new to it or enjoyed it in the past—it is difficult to get visibility for re-releases and every little bit helps!
Thanks again for joining me in these stories about the fairy-tale kingdom of Nvengaria and its wild inhabitants.
Keep reading for a
look at one of my other re-releases, The Pirate Next Door, a tale of what happens when a pirate moves in next door to a proper widow in Regency London.
All my best,
Jennifer Ashley
Excerpt: The Pirate Next Door
Regency Pirates, Book 1
London, June, 1810
Alexandra Alastair lay in her slim-posted bed beneath green silk hangings, her hands flat on the coverlet, and debated whether she dared add the viscount next door to her list of eligible suitors.
Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke.
She knew very little about him, save that he’d disappeared from England as a lad and had turned up again a week ago to take the title of Viscount Stoke, left to him by his second cousin.
Alexandra’s friend Lady Featherstone had discovered that the new viscount was thirty-five years of age, unmarried, and quite rich. Very possibly, Lady Featherstone had speculated, he’d opened up the house in Grosvenor Street because he intended to seek a wife.
He certainly was different from the other gentlemen on Alexandra’s list, who were all polite, respectable, and likely to make her a quiet and steadfast second husband. Her first husband had been anything but steadfast, dying by falling down the stairs in the house of one of his mistresses.
Alexandra’s head throbbed in the summer night’s humid air. Thoughts of her deceased husband always made her head ache. Which was why she and Lady Featherstone had so carefully pared down the list, learning about any shortcomings of each gentleman on it. The gentlemen who had succeeded in remaining on the list were dependable, trustworthy, respectable.
And dull. Hopelessly dull. Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut.
The viscount, on the other hand, was extremely interesting. His skin was sun-bronzed, a liquid color that spoke of lands far from foggy London, and he wore his gold-streaked hair unfashionably long and pulled into a queue. His gaze, which lingered on Alexandra more than was polite when they passed at their front doors, showed her that his eyes were dark blue like twilight in June.
Sometimes he went out with only a loose greatcoat shrugged on over a shirt and calfskin breeches, and leather boots that reached above his knees. His broad shoulders filled out his coat, and the small smile he sent her way made Alexandra’s heart race.
Yes, he was quite different. Alexandra refused to let herself use Lady Featherstone’s words — most splendidly and magnificently handsome.
The carriages and horses the viscount hired were fine, but Annie and Amy, her twin downstairs maids, had told her that he’d opened up only a few rooms in the house next door. Everything else remained dark, dusty, and unused.
The viscount kept a massive manservant with very dark skin and a bald head creased with scars. Alexandra’s footman, Jeffrey, a big lad, was terrified of the viscount’s manservant. Of course, it was difficult to imagine someone of whom Jeffrey was not terrified.
Other gentlemen who came and went included a young man of about her own age, who dressed as casually as the viscount, and a short man with a leathery face, a cheerful grin, and an Irish brogue.
None of them looked terribly steady and dependable. But, on the other hand, definitely not dull.
Alexandra opened her eyes and took a long breath, trying to still the pounding in her head. She wanted a steady and dependable gentleman, did she not? One who, above all, had a fondness for children. Because if she did not marry one of the steady and dependable gentlemen from the list, Alexandra Alastair would never have children.
Once, long ago, she’d borne a child. Her husband had looked almost relieved when the little lad had died, only hours old. Alexandra’s grief had taken her to a place of darkness, from which she’d never quite returned. Theophile had pretty much ignored her after that, and Alexandra had never conceived again.
A cooling breeze from the window touched the tears on her cheeks. Her bedchamber faced her garden, and the scent of new roses drifted to her from the vines at the windows. She loved her garden, which had been her retreat, her sanctuary, during her five years of marriage to Theophile Alastair.
From the garden now, she heard voices. Male voices.
They came to her quite clearly — sharp, angry, grim. Puzzled, Alexandra brushed the tears from her cheeks and sat up.
She realized that the voices came not from her garden but from the house next door. The window next to hers must be open, and sounds were floating from one house to the next.
Alexandra flipped back the covers and slid from the bed, her feet finding the warmth of her slippers. She snatched up the peignoir that lay on the armchair and slid it on, tying the ribbons down the front. She approached the window and pulled back the drape.
A man’s voice, drawling and unfamiliar, was saying, “So tell me, Finley, why a man from the Admiralty visited you today. If I like your answer, I might just let you live.”
* * *
Grayson Finley struggled for breath. The coarse rope cut his throat as his feet scrabbled for purchase, and more rope burned his wrists behind his back.
The dim, dry part of his mind reflected that he’d survived James Ardmore’s near-hanging trick before. That time, Ardmore had relented and cut him down, but only after he’d extracted a terrible promise. This time . . . who the hell knew what Ardmore had in mind this time?
Grayson’s toes would not quite take his weight, only enough to keep the noose from completely cutting off his breath. Ardmore had looped the rope through a heavy ring in the ceiling, and he held the other end, able to pull the rope tight or loosen it as he chose. Ardmore wanted Grayson to struggle, to almost succeed in saving himself, until Grayson grew too tired of fighting and dropped, crushing his own throat.
The dark-haired, grim-faced Ardmore had once been Grayson’s closest friend. Grayson had rescued Ardmore from a cage on a pirate ship, and later, the two had joined the mutiny that had launched the adventures of Ardmore and Finley, co-captains of the Majesty and the terror of the seas. They’d been all of eighteen years old.
Ardmore had burst in not an hour before with his band of pirate hunters. Jacobs, Grayson’s second-in-command, had held them off while Grayson got Maggie to safety. Jacobs was lying downstairs now, holding his wounded side, five of Ardmore’s men pointing pistols at him. They’d trussed up Grayson and hauled him upstairs so Ardmore could string him up and try to learn his secrets.
He jerked on the rope, and Grayson’s feet left the ground. Black danced before his eyes. Ardmore drawled in his Charleston accent, “Tell me. Or Jacobs dies.”
Grayson drew stinging air into his throat. He didn’t really give a damn whether Ardmore found out English secrets, and throwing Ardmore a bone might make the man leave him alone for a while. “The French king.”
Ardmore’s eyes narrowed. “The last French king was beheaded twenty years ago.”
“King in exile. Gone missing.”
The rope slackened. Grayson’s feet hit the floor. He gulped air, fire flickering the edges of his vision.
“Louis Bourbon?” Ardmore asked in genuine surprise. “The English have lost track of their pet monarch? Interesting. What do they expect you to do about it?”
“They think pirates in pay of French agents took him,” Grayson said the best he could. “They think I’ll know who’s capable of smuggling him back to France. Besides you, I mean.”
“So they have you hopping to find out where he is? Or, what, they’ll arrest you for past crimes?”
“Something like that.”
Ardmore seemed to think this amusing, then he gave Grayson a long, cold look. He tied the rope fast to the bedpost, the line taut enough so that Grayson’s toes just touched the floor if he stretched them. Ardmore had been tying lines for seventeen years, and Grayson knew the knot would not be weak.
“I’ll leave you now,” Ardmore said. “Maybe Oliver will return in time to save you. Maybe he won’t. In the meantime, you can hang there and wonder how long it will take for you to die.”
Grayson tried to swallow air, tried to lea
n his head back to open his throat. Ardmore came close to Grayson and looked up into his face. “It took my brother a long time to die,” he said. “Think on that while you dance.”
His light green eyes were like ice. The trouble between Captains Ardmore and Finley had started on a long-ago day when Grayson had married the Tahitian woman, Sara, whom Ardmore had loved. That event had led, across years and through the waterways of the world, to James Ardmore staring up at Grayson in this London bedchamber and wishing him dead.
Ardmore gave Grayson a final look of cold fury and left the room, his heavy footsteps ringing in the hall. Grayson heard him descend the staircase then give curt orders to his men below. The front door opened, and, after a moment, closed. Then, silence.
The rope creaked from the ring in the ceiling. The ring also supported the chandelier, an iron thing from centuries past. If Grayson jerked hard enough, he might dislodge the circle of iron, which could sever the rope. Or, the chandelier might fall and crush the life out of him.
The bed was too far across the room to be of any use, but the straight-backed chair might help. Now to discover if Ardmore had left it just out of reach or near enough.
As Grayson walked his toes toward the chair, he damned himself for lowering his guard. Ardmore and his men had overwhelmed him and Jacobs while they’d supped alone together, trying to figure out how they were going to find Louis Bourbon for the Admiralty and gain pardon for Grayson’s acts of piracy. He’d wondered why Ian O’Malley, Ardmore’s man sent to watch Grayson, had gone out and not returned. Grayson should have been more suspicious.
Grayson’s foot reached the chair. He managed to hook his straining toes around its leg and jerk it toward him. His foot slipped, and he lost hold of the chair and swung heavily against the rope. His vision went black.
He heard voices from the stairs, ones he didn’t know, and a feminine cry. Pattering footsteps filled the room, accompanied by the rustling of silk and a brush of scent. Slim arms wrapped his legs and tried to lift him.