MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol Page 8

  “Catching glowworms perchance?” she’d asked him, because he’d stared a bit too long, mouth agape. She had been captured in her chemise. Wet and looking more like a stray he’d nevertheless seemed entranced.

  “Bones o’ the saints,” he’d said. “‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the night. He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way in the dark.”

  There was truth to his words, and his barb had wounded her. No one had ever cared where Page went, or what she did—until the day she left this place.

  “Who are you?” she’d demanded hotly, and when Iain did not immediately reply, she’d asked, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”

  For the space of an instant he’d seemed taken aback by the question, stunned perhaps, and then he’d surprised Page with the rich timbre of his laughter.

  Twelve years had gone by since that day—twelve years of that very same laughter, wherein she’d thought never to return to this place…

  She cast a glance at her husband, reaching out to beg his hand.

  “Ready?” he asked, and Page nodded resolutely.

  All that her father had kept from her as a child was now hers to bestow.

  Malcom trotted up beside them, maneuvering his mount next to Page. He peered at her with a question in his eyes, in much the same manner his father had. “Art certain?” he asked, as though she might change her mind.

  Quite a lot had happened since the night her father died. Malcom was stronger now, bolder, filled with the strength of his own convictions and very little fear. That day in the woods, when he took her father’s life, all trace of his youth had fled from those stark green eyes. Pensive, and full of purpose, there was little left of the boy in him now.

  Page’s gaze softened at the sight of her eldest child. “I am ready,” she assured, and then she proceeded to tug the signet ring off her finger, handing it to her son—her one and only son, since God seemed to have blessed her only with girls.

  She laid a hand upon her belly, only slightly bumped, and smiled a secret smile. As yet, not even Iain realized, and she hadn’t yet told him because she knew he’d never allow her to come. But they could not delay this any longer, lest Aldergh become forfeit to the king.

  She gave Malcom the ring that had once belonged to her lord father, offering it up in her palm. It was a small gold signet ring with two feathers striking through a fleur-de-lis bearing the motto, Altium, citius, fortius.

  Swifter, higher, stronger.

  That day in the forest, her father’s spirit took wing long before Iain arrived—right there, whilst she’d knelt beside him on the forest floor, weeping with her head upon his chest. The fates were cruel, she’d thought, for just when it seemed he had changed his heart and come to embrace her, the gods intervened and took his soul away. She only prayed he was now with her mother—the two of them waiting for her wherever they might be.

  Malcom took the ring from her palm, and Page gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “Put it on your small finger, Malcom. Remember … what happens from the moment you ride through those gates will determine how they receive you. You are Aldergh’s new lord.”

  Still, he seemed to hesitate, and Page could only guess at his thoughts. He was far more brooding than his father, although some would belie that claim. And, in fact, she recalled a time when they’d hailed him as a murderer and a fiend. Now, his son must overcome a similar epithet.

  “You have the writ from David, and my father’s ring. That will be enough.”

  The countries were at odds now. Henry of England was dead after eating a number of bad eels, or so they’d said. But, there were some who suspected he’d been poisoned. Stephen of Blois—Henry’s nephew—moved at once to seize the throne, and his daughter Matilda now prepared for war.

  Once Malcom wrested control of Aldergh, Stephen would no doubt cede to him the baronetcy, if for no other reason to lessen the number of barons prepared to do battle against him.

  If somehow Matilda managed to take her rightful place, Page would intervene, petitioning for the baronetcy on her son’s behalf.

  In either case, David would support Malcom’s claim, for Scotia’s King meant to strengthen his hold over Northumbria and Malcom would provide him another means to do so—whether or not he’d slain its lord—some also claimed the bastard son. But Page and Malcom knew the truth. Her own brother had been prepared to kill her, and her father stood ready to protect her. Malcom accidentally took his life.

  Up on the ramparts she could see the watch signaling for the portcullis to be raised.

  “You are my son,” she told Malcom when he sat unmoving upon his mount.

  Even as young as he was, she had every faith he was ready to embrace this destiny.

  God willing, her husband would have many years remaining, and if she bore Iain no other sons, Malcom would inherit Aldergh along with Chreagach Mhor. In the meantime, he was no longer fated to build his legacy in his father’s shadow.

  Page studied him, seated upon his warhorse—his deep golden hair ruffling in the morning breeze.

  “Are you ready, Mal?” his father asked.

  Behind them, an army provided by David of Scotia stood ready to defend his claim.

  Peering down at the sigil ring, Malcom slid the golden two-headed falcon upon his finger, and gave Page one final glance. He nodded firmly, spurring his mount forward, once and for all taking the lead—a boy now become a man.

  Page and Iain shared a proud glance, and then fell into pace behind their son, moving swiftly toward the open gates. Dressed in her father’s cloak, and wearing his sigil ring, Malcom Ceann Ràs—hot head—as they’d begun to hail him, rode in before them, looking like a king in his own right. He carried with him all the fury of the north.

  Cantering along behind him, Page rode through Aldergh’s gates, first the anterior, and then through the barbican, across the moat and into the familiar bailey.

  “Welcome home, Lady Aldergh,” someone shouted up at her.

  And then another, “Welcome home!”

  One after another, her father’s kinsmen hailed her as she passed, familiar faces welcoming her home.

  Page sat a little straighter in the saddle. No more was she that nameless child, for whom nobody had cared. In truth, she didn’t need her father’s legacy to feel esteemed, and yet, one by one, they gave her obeisance, falling to their knees. Tears swam in her eyes.

  Welcome home.

  She heard the last greeting whispered at her ear as the wind blew the curls of her hair. Her father’s voice—perhaps but a memory, but she felt him in her heart.

  Welcome home, he said.

  Welcome home.

  Afterword

  Dearest Reader,

  Throughout the years, I’ve gotten countless emails from readers, lamenting the lack of an epilogue in The MacKinnon’s Bride. Many reviews shared that sentiment, and I’ve had a few who gave the book one less star for the lack of one. At the time I wrote The MacKinnon’s Bride an epilogue just didn’t fit the story, and yet it is the only full-length Highland Brides book that doesn’t have one. So why an epilogue now, after all these years?

  In part, I wrote it for you. In part, for me—I really wanted to revisit these characters and see them happy. But if you’re following along in the Guardians of the Stones series, you know these books are connected and take place thereabout the same time. The next two Guardians books will leap forward eleven years to 1135. And yes, you guessed it, one of them will be about Malcom. I won’t give away his destiny, but if you think about it really hard, you can pretty much figure out who his soulmate will be in Highland Fury.

  One thing I will tell you, however, if you follow medieval history, you know that the proverbial brown stuff is about to hit the fan. King Henry of England dies December 1, 1135, plunging England into civil war. Stephen of Blois is crowned on December 22, the eve of the Winter Solstice, and will spend the next nineteen years until his death defending his throne against Henry’s daughter Matil
da.

  Highland Storm and Highland Fury will both take place during these years of turmoil.

  Think you have an idea who Malcom’s destiny is? Send me an email and tell me who you think it might be. And be sure to sign up for my mailing list to be sure you don’t miss any updates!

  Much love,

  Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The Highland Brides

  The MacKinnon’s Bride

  Lyon’s Gift

  On Bended Knee

  Lion Heart

  Highland Song

  MacKinnon’s Hope

  Guardians of the Stone

  Once Upon a Highland Legend

  Highland Fire

  Highland Steel

  Highland Storm

  The Medievals Heroes

  Once Upon a Kiss

  Angel Of Fire

  Viking’s Prize

  The Impostor Series

  The Impostor’s Kiss

  The Impostor Prince

  Redeemable Rogues

  Happily Ever After

  Perfect In My Sight

  Sagebrush Bride

  Kissed

  Anthologies & Novellas

  Lady’s Man

  Mischief & Mistletoe

  Married at Midnight

  The Winter Stone

  Romantic Suspense

  Speak No Evil

  Tell No Lies

  About the Author

  Tanya Anne Crosby’s novels have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two moody cats in northern Michigan.

  For more information

  @tanyaannecrosby

  tanyaannecrosby

  www.tanyaannecrosby.com

  tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com