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T he sound of bairns' laughter rang through the stone corridors of MacNeil Keep as Lileas hurried about their chambers, trying to locate her eldest son's wooden sword whilst braiding holly into her hair for the Christmas feast.

"Mama, where's my sword?" five-year-old Alasdair called from beneath their great bed, where he appeared to be hunting through the rushes like a wee warrior on campaign.

"Try looking where ye last wielded it, lad," Lileas replied, though she was already searching the chamber. After five years of motherhood, she had yet to invent a contraption that could find lost playthings.

Four-year-old Finlay tottered past wearing one of his father's leather belts cinched around his small frame, the end trailing behind him like a tail. "I'm Papa!" he declared with great pride, as if the overlarge belt had somehow transformed him into the laird himself.

"Aye, ye've the look of him right enough," Lileas agreed with a smile, catching the belt before he could tumble over it. "But perhaps we should find yer tunic first."

The chamber door swung open and Ewan entered, baby Flora nestled safely in his arms. The bairn was swaddled in wool dyed MacNeil green, her dark hair crowned with a tiny circlet of winter berries that made her look like a Highland faerie princess.

"The Fergusons have arrived and are in the hall with Connor's brood," Ewan announced, then paused to survey the disorder around him. "Should I ask why our lad is beneath the bed?"

"Lost sword," Lileas replied.

"Found it!" Alasdair emerged in triumph, brandishing the wooden blade above his head before promptly losing his footing and colliding with his father's legs.

Ewan steadied himself whilst keeping hold of baby Flora, who cooed happily at the commotion. "Easy there, young warrior."

"Are our cousins below too?" Alasdair asked eagerly. "Can we go to them now? Please, Da?"

The sound of running feet and joyful shouts from the hall confirmed that Connor and Fiona's bairns were indeed already wreaking their own brand of merry havoc. The keep had grown loud with children over the years, and Christmas gatherings had become wonderfully riotous affairs.

"In a moment," Lileas said, finally wrestling Finlay into his proper tunic whilst he squirmed like an eel. "Once everyone is dressed properly and Finlay, nay, ye cannot carry Papa's dirk to feast."

Ewan rescued his blade from his youngest son's eager grasp. "When ye've grown a hand span taller, perhaps."

"Can we go now?" Alasdair pleaded. "I want to show the lads my sword skills!"

"Aye, away with ye both," Ewan relented, and his sons bolted from the chamber swift as deer.

Suddenly, the room was blessedly peaceful save for Flora's gentle burbling. Lileas and Ewan looked at each other across the now-quiet chamber and both breathed a sigh of relief.

"Merry Christmas, my love," Ewan said softly, shifting Flora to one arm so he could draw Lileas close.

"Merry Christmas, husband," she replied, reaching up to smooth his plaid. "Can ye believe it's been five years?"

"Five years of blessings I never dared dream of," he murmured against her hair. "A bonnie wife, three healthy bairns, peace with our neighbors, and more happiness than one man deserves."

"We've been fortunate indeed," Lileas whispered, gazing down at Flora's smiling face. "I never imagined such contentment when I first ran from marriage."

"And now ye run toward it daily," Ewan teased gently.

From somewhere down a corridor came Connor's booming voice: "Ewan! Get yerself here before the feast grows cold!"

They shared a laugh at Connor's impatience.

"Ready?" Ewan asked, offering Lileas his free hand.

"Ready," she replied, taking his hand in hers.

Together they made their way toward the great hall, baby Flora secure in Ewan's arms, their fingers intertwined, walking into the warmth and light of their Christmas feast surrounded by clan, allies, and the kind of joy that comes only from love freely given and gratefully received.

***

The End