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EPILOGUE: LEGACY

Two months later …

“DO YE NOT like my guise, Davina?”

“No … ye look like an evil crow.”

Lennox snorted a laugh.

“That’s what Iver said when I wore something similar at Stirling.”

Arms folded across her chest, Davina eyed her husband.

They were both guised for Samhuinn and would shortly join the inhabitants of the broch and the villagers and farmers who lived around Dun Ugadale, upon a nearby hill, where the bonfire would be lit.

Davina had donned a black cloak and the mask of a crone.

It wasn’t a pretty guise, yet Lennox’s was worse.

He was dressed in black leather, a black feathered mask with a wicked beak protruding.

“Ye will frighten bairns,” she pointed out.

“And so will ye, wife,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

“Dressed as the Bean-Nighe. Shall we go down and see how many we can send running to their mother’s skirts?”

Davina gave an exasperated sigh, even as a smile tugged at her mouth.

“Ye, Lennox Mackay, are incorrigible.”

“One of the many reasons ye love me.” He then hooked an arm through Davina’s, steering her toward the door of their chamber.

“Come, angel, or they’ll have run out of soul cakes and wassail by the time we arrive.”

They left the tower, descending to the lower levels of the broch, and then emerging into the barmkin beyond.

The yard that surrounded the broch, separating it from the walls, was empty; as Lennox had predicted, everyone had gone out to watch the lighting of the fire.

Night had fallen, the sky a carpet of sparkling stars overhead, and the scent of woodsmoke lay heavy in the air.

And when they passed through the gate and walked down to the village, Davina’s gaze alighted upon the great fire that burned upon a hill to the north.

It glowed like a beacon, its golden light warming the sky.

Around its base, she spied the silhouettes of dancing figures.

Arm-in-arm, they took the winding path through the village.

Bairns ran past, dressed as brownies, their squeals of delight lifting high into the air.

And as they climbed the hill to the bonfire, Davina’s gaze slid over men and women guised as wulvers, selkies, and various other mythical creatures.

They joined the laird and his wife.

Iver had painted his face in woad and wore blue.

He’d also draped seaweed over his shoulders and through his hair, to make himself look like one of the Blue Men of Minch, blue-skinned ‘storm kelpies’ who were said to sink boats and drown sailors.

Next to him, Bonnie was clad as a forest sprite.

She wore an emerald surcoat and pine-green cloak and had woven foliage through her hair.

“Mother Mary,” Bonnie greeted them, her eyebrows arching.

“Ye two make a fine pair.”

“Isn’t that the same mask ye wore for the masquerade ball in Stirling?” Iver asked Lennox, screwing his face up in distaste.

“No, but I did my best to replicate it,” Lennox quipped, his mouth tugging into a grin underneath the jutting beak.

“A fine guise indeed, brother,” rumbled a familiar voice.

Davina turned to see a broad-shouldered figure standing behind them.

A ram’s skull covered Brodie’s face, yet she recognized his brawn.

Next to him, Kerr was shrouded in seal skin, his pale hair gleaming in the firelight.

Davina grinned. Unlike his terrifying-looking brothers, Kerr cut a handsome figure, this eve.

He made a fine selkie, indeed.

Around them, the festivities were already well underway.

Local women were carrying baskets of sweet, soft cakes studded with dried blackcurrants, which they shared with the hungry revelers.

Meanwhile, farmers’ wives ladled out cups of wassail, mulled apple cider.

“Is that really ye under there, Davina?” Bonnie asked, stepping close to inspect the mask that Davina had fashioned out of glue and crushed oats before painting it.

“Aye.” Davina reached up and touched the hideous visage she’d crafted.

“The Washerwoman isn’t supposed to be pretty.”

Indeed, the Bean-Nighe was hideous, and if one sighted the hag washing clothes by a river, it was an omen of death.

A young woman approached them, bearing a basket of fragrant soul cakes.

Tall, with a voluptuous figure and walnut-colored hair cascading over her shoulders, Rose MacAlister was dressed like a Sidhe maiden, with pointed ears and a crown of ivy.

Davina was sure the lass didn’t realize to whom she was bringing cakes until she halted before them.

Her smile then wavered, and her gaze hardened.

Wordlessly, she held out the basket.

“Thank ye, lass,” Iver said, helping himself to a cake.

“These smell delicious,” Lennox added, taking two for himself.

“I baked them myself,” she replied stiffly.

“It was my mother’s recipe.”

Davina watched Rose with interest. Her relationship with the Mackays was a strained one.

After all, the laird had struck off her father’s right hand after his repeated sheep and cattle thieving.

However, she wasn’t foolish enough to be rude to Iver Mackay and his wife.

Kerr stepped forward then, reaching out to help himself to a cake, but Rose abruptly turned away and walked off.

Brow furrowing, Kerr dropped his hand to his side.

“Rose doesn’t like ye much, does she?” Brodie murmured, amused.

Kerr grunted as if he couldn’t care less.

Nonetheless, Davina marked how his frown didn’t ease, and how his gaze tracked Rose as she walked away.

Although she’d never remarked on it to anyone, Davina hadn’t forgotten how he’d stared at the lass in the kirk months earlier.

Judging from his lingering gaze now, Rose still fascinated him.

“I’m glad yer father joined us for Samhuinn,” Bonnie said then, drawing Davina’s attention.

“Although I’m not sure Sheena agrees.”

Davina’s attention shifted across the crowd to where Colin Campbell stood, resplendent in a deerskin cloak and antlers.

Cup of wassail in hand, he loomed over Sheena, while she listened to him, tight-lipped with irritation.

Unlike most folk, Davina’s mother-by-marriage hadn’t donned a guise for the occasion.

Instead, she wore a shimmering grey cloak, her pale hair swept high.

When Davina suggested she help her make a Samhuinn costume, Sheena had snorted.

“Such nonsense is for the young.”

Sheena and Davina’s relationship had deepened to a friendship of sorts of late, especially while Bonnie and Iver had been away recently.

They’d gone north to Castle Varrich, delivering Dun Ugadale’s taxes personally, and had been hosted by the Mackay clan-chief himself.

“She suffers my father surprisingly well,” Davina replied, her mouth quirking.

Bonnie laughed. The two women moved closer, while their menfolk walked off, in search of some mulled cider.

They watched the revelry for a few moments before Bonnie sighed.

“I wish Niel and Beth Mackay could have attended as well.”

Davina cut her friend a surprised look.

“Did ye invite the clan-chief here?”

Bonnie nodded.

“I was nervous about meeting him,” she admitted, “but he and his wife made me very welcome at Varrich. I met many others of the clan too, as well as some of the Mackay allies.” She paused then, her mouth curving once more.

“And I made a new friend.”

Davina inclined her head.

“Aye?”

“A lass called Greer … she’s the Forbes clan-chief’s daughter. She’s a little younger than us, although she has a way about her that lights up even the dreariest day. Ye’d love her.”

Davina smiled at this description.

“I’m sure I would, for ye are a good judge of character.”

“I invited her to join us for Samhuinn as well, but she couldn’t attend.” The disappointment in Bonnie’s voice was evident.

“Well, ye must invite her to stay with us in the spring,” Davina replied firmly.

Like Bonnie, she was keen to meet other women, to widen their circle of acquaintance.

It could feel isolated at times down here on the Kintyre peninsula.

“Mulled cider for ye both?”

Davina turned to find her husband standing behind them, two steaming cups of wassail held aloft.

“Thank ye, my love,” she replied, taking the cups, and handing one to Bonnie.

Meanwhile, Iver had returned to his wife’s side.

He murmured something to her, and Lady Mackay laughed, the warm sound carrying through the crowd.

Davina moved closer to her own husband, lifting up her mask so she could take a sip of her drink.

The warmed, spiced cider burned down her throat, and she sighed.

She then linked her arm through Lennox’s, leaning against him.

“I have news,” he murmured then, dipping his head close, careful not to stab her with his beak.

Davina glanced up at him.

“Aye?”

“Do ye remember what ye said on our wedding night, about us having land and a broch of our own one day?”

Her stomach fluttered, and she nodded.

“Well, Iver has just confirmed that we may have a parcel of land that runs alongside the western shore of Lussa Loch, inland from here.”

Davina’s breathing grew shallow.

“Truly?”

Lennox’s mouth kicked into a wide smile under his beak.

“Truly. It’s good sheep grazing country … and we can build a broch on the loch’s edge. What do ye think?”

Davina squealed with excitement and threw herself into his arms. Wassail sloshed over the edge of her cup, but she paid it no mind.

She and Lennox hadn’t spoken of her idea since their wedding, and she’d thought he’d forgotten.

But he hadn’t.

He’d remembered and had been working toward obtaining the land.

For her. For them.

Reaching up, she pushed up his feathered and beaked mask onto the crown of his head so she could see her husband’s face.

He was gazing down at her, his dark-blue eyes expectant.

“I think ye have done well,” she replied huskily.

“I know ye want a household of yer own, lass … and I too want us to have our independence.”

She nodded, warmth suffusing her chest. They both enjoyed their lives at Dun Ugadale, yet they were too independent in spirit to remain here forever.

Davina longed to build something with her husband, a legacy they could leave behind them.

“Such news deserves a kiss,” she said, smiling.

He grinned back. “Go on then.”

Looping her free arm around his neck, Davina raised her chin and leaned in, capturing his mouth with hers.

And there, amongst the Samhuinn revelry, she kissed him deeply, for all to see.