Page 136 of A Borrowed Scot

He could almost see the ghosts of his past, James and Alisdair on either side of Caroline, hands linked, arms swinging, walking into dawn’s horizon. Their laughter caught at his heart, reminding him of days gone by and hinting at days to come.

“What about you, Montgomery Fairfax?”

He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand her.

She pulled back, watching him, feeling her heartbeat escalate as he smiled at her. From the beginning, passion had linked them, leading to something stronger, more complete.

“I didn’t want a wife,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” she said flatly, stepping back.

He pulled her into his arms again.

“Then Fate or Providence gave me you,” he said.

Loneliness had once lived in his eyes, as well as pain. Now, however, another emotion was there, something that had her throat closing and tears washing to the surface.

Her head tipped back, her face offered up to his gaze. Her features were perfect, her eyes a pure green this morning, thesoft rose of her cheeks and lips adding color to the ivory of her complexion. His lips hovered over hers, a mere breath away.

“Do I love you? How can I not? You’re confusing, amusing, fascinating, and I suspect you’ll lead me a merry race for the rest of my life.”

“That was not the most romantic declaration of love I’ve ever heard, Montgomery Fairfax.”

“Shall I agree to work on it?” he asked, bending his head to kiss her cheek. “Each day, in every way.” He kissed the edge of her jaw.

He looked at her, not at Doncaster Hall. The sunlight struck her hair, lit her eyes, and illuminated her lovely face. Her beauty, face, feature, and soul, struck him and stole his breath.

In that instant, he realized Doncaster Hall was neither more substantial nor blessed than any other building. It was, after all, only a structure, not capable of sentient thought or feeling.

Home was here, with this woman, with her courage and optimism, with her strength and resilience. Veronica was his home.

She stood on tiptoe, laid her cheek gently against his, feeling the abrasiveness of his unshaven skin. Turning her head slightly, she brushed her lips against the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his chin, before slowly trailing a path down his throat. Her lips rested against the pulse furiously beating there, placed the tip of her tongue there tenderly, breathed against the spot of moisture.

“Are you for seducing me, Veronica Fairfax?” he asked in the brogue of Scotland.

She smiled, feeling his lips against her temple as he spoke.

“I am, Montgomery Fairfax. Have you any objections?”

He pulled back, looked at her, amusement fading from his face.

“I love you, Veronica. There, is that better?”

Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in response.

Epilogue

Mary Tulloch looked into the surface of the mirror. Her reflection was the same image she’d seen on that long-ago day when she was little more than a child.

She’d no complaints with life. She’d been loved and had loved; her children were healthy and a comfort. She’d been kind when she could and cruel when the occasion warranted it.

Now was time for it to end.

The reflection changed, as if the Tulloch Sgàthán had heard her thoughts, brown clouds boiling around the edge of the reflection.

A young girl, shockingly attired in faded blue trousers, stood there, her face twisted in an expression of irritation. A white pea was tucked into each ear, both peas connected by a white vine to something clutched in her fist. Behind her stood a crowd of people being led by a woman in a strange dress, consisting of a kilt and a man’s jacket.

She could almost hear the derision in the girl’s voice as she spoke to someone and wondered at the reasons for her anger. As she watched, the girl separated herself from the others,stomping away until she came to a plot of land so familiar Mary’s heart clenched.

Her cottage was different, however, marked by placards and ropes. She tried to read one of the signs, but her vision had faded over the years. Instead, she concentrated on where the girl had gone, some distance behind the cottage.

She tripped on something laid into the earth, something existing even in this age. Her heart racing, Mary watched as the girl knelt, tucked the white beans and vine in her pocket, and lifted a rotting board. Slowly, the girl bent, her hand outstretched.

The image faded, but the purpose of it had been clear enough.

The day was blustery and threatening a storm as Mary Tulloch left her cottage. She took her time walking to the edge of her land, knowing that it might be the last time she made the journey. With some effort, she lifted the boards placed over an abandoned well, the very place she’d found the mirror all those years ago. Gently, she laid the Tulloch Sgàthán on a pillow of dirt for a girl in the future to discover again.