Page 102 of Wild Wicked Scot

Arran’s frown deepened. He cupped her face. “Diah, Margot, you must speak plainer than this. Do you carry my child?”

Margot laughed. “I think so,” she said hopefully. “Yes, I think I am.”

Arran lurched forward, reaching for her waist and tumbling back into the bed with her. “Woman, you canna be rid of me now,” he said gruffly. “A child!”

He began to kiss her, every inch of her, muttering how happy she’d made him, and Margot thought, as she smiled up at the rough, wood-planked ceiling above them, that this was just the beginning of her new world.

EPILOGUE

Balhaire

1713

THELADWASnearing his second birthday, and already the old dogs waddled after him as if he was leading them into battle. Naturally they would think so, because the boy wielded his wooden sword everywhere he went.

They’d named him Cailean after Arran’s father. He had the look of the Mackenzies of Balhaire—big for his age, a crop of auburn hair like his mother and the stark blue eyes of his father.

“He’ll break hearts across Scotland one day,” Margot predicted.

“He’ll break noggins,” Arran said with gruff pride as they watched him terrorize Fergus with his little sword.

Arran helped ease Margot into a chair—she was heavy with child again, and he could scarcely contain his excitement. The midwives said she would deliver him a girl, and secretly, Arran hoped it was so. He had in mind to give his daughter the sort of life Margot had been given, with balls and ponies and pretty gowns.

“I hear the pipes, Arran,” Margot said.

“Aye.” He signaled Sweeney to wrangle Cailean. The wedding party was nearing the great hall.

“We didn’t have a procession for our wedding,” Margot mused as the doors swung open and the first of the revelers entered.

“Would you like a procession, then,mo gradh? I’ll give you one.”

“What I would like is for this child to proceed to be born,” she said with a sigh, and rubbed the bottom of her belly. “She’s a hellion, always kicking.”

“Patience.”

“That’s quite simple for you to say, isn’t it, a man quite at his leisure without a small piglet in his belly?”

He squeezed her hand fondly. “Uist, now, the bride and groom are coming.”

The bride and groom entered the hall behind the standard bearer, the groom dressed in a plaid and standing very tall, a head taller than anyone, and the bride in a wreath of flowers and a sash of plaid. “I don’t believe it!” Margot exclaimed. “She wore the plaid!”

“Did you think she’d no’?” Arran whispered.

“No! Nell is quite opposed to Scottish customs, you know,” she said. “She says they are for heathens, and that Jock is the biggest heathen of them all.”

“Aye, that he is,” Arran agreed. “But a gentle heathen. And she doesna seem unhappy.”

“No,” Margot said, smiling fondly. “On the contrary, she seems indescribably happy.”

It was true—Nell was beaming. And so was Jock. Arran had never seen a smile as wide as the one he wore now.

They reached the dais, and Jock bowed to Arran. Arran stood up to receive the couple and bless their union. He stood aside as the vicar received their vows and proclaimed them husband and wife. He turned them back to the crowd gathered and pronounced them as Mackenzies of the clan, and the round of toasts, as was the clan’s custom, began.

Margot touched his leg.

“One moment more—I must give the final toast, aye?”

“You’d best be quick about it,” she said.