Drew stared down at his nephew, hands on his hips. “What were ye thinking when ye did it?”

Owen held his tongue, choosing to return his uncle’s stare with a defiant gleam in his eye.

Heaven help me when he begins to grow, he thought with a silent groan. The lad was difficult enough to tame as a bairn.

He turned his head, regarding Moira. Moira whose eyes were red-rimmed, having only just shed tears. Moira whose lovely, shining, black curls were now nothing more than an uneven mass with bits of hair sticking out here and there.

“Well?” Drew asked, gesturing to his niece. “What made ye do it? Ye took a knife to your sister’s lovely hair, and now she has spent the morning weeping while there is work I ought to be tending to.”

“We wished to find whether we looked the same if Moira’s hair was short as mine.” Owen shrugged as though this made no difference. “We do.”

“Not quite.” Drew bit back a rueful grin for Moira’s sake. “Now, Davina will have to do her best to mend what you’ve done. And ye shall have to make it up to your sister.”

Owen went to her, taking her hand. “I am sorry, Moira. I did not wish to make ye cry.”

Moira nodded, sniffling.

And that was that. No more was needed.

How was apology so simple for bairns?

Not only apology, either. Forgiveness.

He wished he might ask, and that they might be able to provide an answer. He wished someone, anyone could. For he had made a terrible mistake and had not the slightest notion of how to right things again.

He also had no notion of how to care for the twins on his own. Over the short time in which Anne had been part of their family, she’d made life easier. More pleasant.

Safer, for had Owen slipped with the knife… He would not allow himself to think on it.

Would that turning Anne out of his thoughts could be so simple.

“Come along, then,” he scowled, shaking his head. “On with your cloaks that we might go to visit Davina.”

The guilt over leaving the bairns with her and Innis plagued him terribly, especially now that Shana had returned to Clan Munro’s land. One fewer lass to keep watch on the twins. Davina was still feeling well, which was a blessing, but the time would come for the bairn to arrive and she would no longer be able to care for them.

What would he do then? Hope Owen decided against cutting his sister’s hair again?

He knew how much good hoping did, none at all. For he’d hoped many times over the past fortnight that Anne would return. That she would somehow see through the terrible wreck he had made of them, and forgive his foolish, cruel, thoughtless words.

Words he would have given anything to take back, to wipe from her memory. And from his own.

What had he been thinking? He still had not the first notion. What a fool he’d been, his blood up, his body aching nearly from head to toe. He had not given the first thought to why Anne might have taken the chance of heading him off.

Nay, he’d assumed. Assumed she’d betrayed him, that she had gone ahead to warn the men of his approach.

If she had, would they have been in such terrible condition? Would Malcolm have not prevented them from pouring from the house in that state? Or from becoming so inebriated?

She had seen to it that they drank far more than they might have otherwise. She’d seen to it that he’d battled one man and one man only, that none of the others had laid a finger on him. That he was fresh for the fight.

Malcolm might easily have hurt her, badly. He might have thrown her into the massive fireplace, for one. He might have done worse than tearing a handful of hair from her head.

Drew had been in no position to think things through at the time. He’d merely reacted in anger and stubbornly refused to see the truth.

Now? He had never known such misery. Such loneliness. He’d never considered himself a lonely person before then. He’d never given it a moment’s thought, in fact, too involved in himself, his travels, and then the rebuilding of the farm.

Perhaps he had filled his time with such pursuits so as to avoid seeing how loneliness for what it was.

Now, he was not only lonesome, he was aware of it. Aware of the stark difference between life before Anne, life with her, and live without her. Nothing was the same. Nothing was nearly as good as when she’d been there.

The twins had ceased asking after her, at least. They’d ceased crying themselves to sleep. He had not considered them, either, fool that he was.

If he’d considered them, he might have considered how attached they would become. Children tended to attach themselves easily. Especially orphans.

Anne understood that, being an orphan herself. She understood them in a way he could not.

He had ruined everything for all of them.

Davina’s eyes went perfectly round when she first laid them on Moira. “Och, heavens. What have we here?”

“We’ve had a morning with a knife.” He shot daggers at his nephew with his gaze.

“I see.” Davina ran her fingers through what was left of the dark curls with a soft smile. “It shall grow back. Hair always grows back. And ye are such a bonny lassie, it matters not.” Just the same, she exchanged a stricken look with him over the top of Moira’s head.

“It appears as though I must grow eyes in the back of my head so as to watch them at all times.” He was glad to accept a cup of tea from her while the twins went about creating a game to play. “I suppose this is a lesson for ye, as well.”

“Aye. No knives in the house.” Davina chuckled, shaking her head. “Poor bairns.”

“Poor bairns? Poor uncle.” He stifled a yawn. “’Tis worse than before.”

“Before Anne?” she asked, her voice soft so as not to attract attention.

No use arguing, for it would merely make him look like a worse fool than he was. “Aye. Ye know what I mean.”

“Ye might easily mend everything between ye.”

“I disagree, and I have no desire to discuss this with ye again.”

She shook a finger at him. “Ye see, this is the sort of talk that got ye into trouble. Ye are too hard. Ye act and speak before ye think. Yet for some reason, the lass cares for ye and longs for ye. I canna imagine it, to be honest.”

Drew was about to dispute this—until he thought about what she’d just said. “What are ye on about? How would ye know any such thing?”

Her mouth slowly opened, widening until it hung loose. “Och, I ought not have said it.”

“Why did ye, though? Speak, woman, before I go mad.”

She grimaced, rolling her eyes. “Shana paid a visit to Anne before turning north, and dropped in first thing this morning to tell me of her and Liam.”

He all but jumped from his skin, so great was his desperation for her. “What did she say? How is everything?”

Davina offered a knowing, understanding smile. “She is well. Very well, in fact, and everything at the house is going well. She and Liam are comfortable and cared for.”

He waited. When nothing else followed, he asked, “What else? What of me? Ye said she longs for me.”

“Ye sound as though she means a great deal to ye.”

“If ye dinna cease torturing me…”

She covered his mouth with one hand. “She longs for ye. She does. She wept when speaking of ye, for ye caused her great pain. She misses the twins terribly and wishes for all of ye to be together.”

When she lowered her hand, he found his voice. “Ye mean it? That is the truth?”

“It is.”

“Because if I make a fool of myself…”

“More of a fool than ye have already made?” When he lowered his brow, looking at her through narrowed eyes, she chuckled. “I mean it. I speak the truth. Now, tell me. What do ye intend to do about it?”

What did he intend to do?

He turned to the twins. “Put your cloaks on. We are leaving.”

“So soon?” Owen despaired.

Drew ruffled his hair. “Aye, and I believe ye shall be glad when ye see where we go.”

Shana had not exaggerated when she told Davina of the improvements Anne made—or, rather, the improvements she had overseen. The house and the surrounding buildings were in better condition, the walls having been scrubbed and rinsed, the thatched roofs patched or replaced. The weeds and brush which had grown thick along the bottom of the stone wall bordering the road were no more, the broken bits of tools and carts and harnesses which he’d noted beside the stables were a memory.

Men from the village had been out to assist them, he’d learned upon passing through Avoch. Once the villagers had learned of what the brother and sister had suffered, they’d decided to do all they could to help them build their lives.

Drew did not envy the men in question, knowing full well how challenging such work could be. Neglect was more damaging to land and buildings than nearly any other force.

Even so, he ought to have been there to oversee. At least to help. Instead, he’d left her on her own.

And Shana said she longed for him? How was it possible? Had the girl gone daft?

“Uncle Drew, where are we?” Moira looked about, kneeling in the cart when he’d asked her not to only twenty times—which was a hundred times fewer than Owen, he would grant her.

He looked over his shoulder to where the bairns rode side-by-side beneath a pile of furs. “Ye shall see. Not much longer now.”

“Are ye taking us here to…” Owen exchanged a troubled look with his sister. “Leave us?”

Drew brought the team of draught horses to an abrupt halt and turned on the bench. “Let us get one thing clear, now and always. Ye ken?” He looked them both in the eye, taking turns between them.

How dark their eyes, how large and wondering and doubtful. How silent they were. Such a rarity for the two.

He leaned down, his voice low. “I love ye both as if ye were my own bairns and I would never abandon ye. Do ye ken? Not ever. I intend to keep ye with me, always, or at least until ye grow old enough to tire of me. I dinna wish to hear ye ever, ever say such a thing again, for it simply is not true. I could not…”

Emotion stole away his words, his breath. He could not live without them now. Being without Anne for even a fortnight reminded him of what it meant to lose someone he loved, and he had no intention of suffering so again.

A creaking noise came from the house. The three of them turned to find Anne standing in the doorway, peering out as she wiped her hands on her apron and blew an auburn curl back from her forehead. That small gesture, so thoroughly hers, all but melted Drew’s heart. How he had missed her.

How he had not been the only one. The twins, upon recognizing her, fought their way out from beneath the furs and jumped up and down in the cart.

“Anne! Anne!” they shrieked in utter joy, waving their arms, barely waiting for Drew to place them on the ground before running to her.

For her part, she lifted her skirts and dashed from the house, scooping them both up and nearly toppling over. “My dears!” she gasped, holding them close while they hung from her neck.

“Where have ye been?” Moira demanded.

“Is this your home?” Owen asked.

“Ye did not say goodbye!”

“I cut Moira’s hair!”

Anne crouched, staring at Moira. “Ye did, indeed,” she marveled. “Why ever did ye do it? Moira, did ye tire of your hair?”

The three of them burst into giggles. “All is well. It shall grow back lovelier than ever.” She kissed Moira’s head, then Owen’s. “I have so much to tell ye and show ye. There is a great room inside where he can run and play, so long as ye stay far from the hearth. My brother is inside—go in and get warm, and ask him to fetch the biscuits I baked yesterday. If he has not eaten them all up while my back was turned.”

The bairns made haste, giggling all the way, and their shouts of laughter echoed once they were inside the house.

Drew cleared his throat, standing just inside the wall. “They have not been this happy in a fortnight.”

Anne wiped away happy tears as she stood, turning to face him. “Nor have I. ‘Tis a pity we were kept apart.”

He sighed. “There is nothing I can say to take back these last days. I wish there were.”

Her eyes narrowed in much the same manner as they had in the early days, when they’d first met. In fact, the way she studied him brought to mind an entirely different lass. One who stole that she might survive, one willing to sacrifice herself for the sake of one she loved.

Not different, he reminded himself. For she had sacrificed for him, as well. That would never change. She would always be the sort to think of what another needed and do what it took to bring it about—no matter what might come of her as a result.

“Dinna say that to me,” she whispered, cold now. She lifted her chin. “That is a lazy, cowardly thing to say.”

That was unexpected. Had her heart hardened so? “What are ye on about?” he asked, dazed.

She scoffed. “Ye come here, ye bring them along that I might soften. Did ye believe I would run to ye? Forgive all without a single word? Ye might just as well continue waiting if that was the case, Drew MacIntosh, for I have no intention of letting ye off without telling ye what is on my mind.”

He leaned against the wall, folding his arms and planting his feet. “I would expect nothing less, and I deserve nothing less. On with it.” He braced himself.

She had not anticipated this, it was clear. After a moment’s sputtering, she managed to gather herself.

“Ye hurt me. Terribly so. I never imagined ye had it in ye. Ye think of yourself as a fighting man, and, after witnessing what ye are capable of, I see why. But I thought ye were fighting for me. For us. Was I wrong? Tell me now. Did I mistake what happened that night, with ye?”

He shook his head. “Nay, lassie. I wished for much more that night. It was because I did that I rushed out like a fool, determined to kill the man who’d hurt ye. Because I knew then, after taking ye in my arms, that ye were the only woman I would ever want. Ye were mine, and he had hurt what was mine. He’d hurt what mattered to ye. I was headstrong and unthinking—though it seems ye have come out all the better for it.”

She stared at him, breathing through parted lips, her chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. “Yours?”

“Mine. So long as ye wish it so, yet even if ye did not, ye would be here.” He tapped a fist to his heart. “And here.” To his head.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to calm her racing heart. “Och, Drew.”

“And now I am the man who hurt ye, but what is there for me to do? I canna fight myself. How can I make it up to ye?”

“I—I dinna expect ye to fight yourself, and I dinna expect ye to ever fight for me.”

“That is what I do. ‘Tis who I am. It canna be helped, just as I canna help but love ye.”

He went to her, taking slow steps—still hesitant, for there was no telling what she thought of his. Her face was a mask of surprise, and it was as yet unclear whether that surprise was pleasant or otherwise.

“I do love ye, lass, and I was the worst sort of fool to push ye away. I assumed. I wish Rufus or Clyde, or anyone had knocked sense into my hard head, for look at the time we’ve wasted—that is…”

Her lip trembled.

He placed his hands on her arms. “That is, if ye love me. If ye want me as I want ye, Anne.”

Her blue eyes were as wide as he’d ever seen them. As if she had received a great shock.

“Anne? Are ye hearing me?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I have little practice with this sort of thing, but I believe that now is the time when ye tell me if ye want me or not.”

“I do.” It was little more than a gasp, so soft he might have imagined it.

Yet the flush of her cheeks and the smile which began to tug at the corners of her sweet, full mouth told him he’d heard correctly.

Wind rustled in the trees, sending her hair flying about her head, and he tucked it behind her ears before leaning in.

“I do love ye, woman,” he murmured, reveling in her nearness and her scent and her warmth. Everything that made her who she was, everything he could never find in another lass if he searched the world over. There was only one of her, and she was his.

“And I love ye, foolish man.” She let out a breathless laugh. “I suppose I am just as foolish.”

Cupping her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, he laughed along with her. “I would rather be a fool with ye than with anyone else, my heart’s darling.” And then he was kissing her, sweeping her up in his arms, holding the entire world against his body and his rapidly beating heart.

She clung to him, clutching the cloak he wore, and he wrapped it around them both to block out the wind. It was only the two of them, holding each other, forgetting everything around them for just a little while.

A very little while, for within moments something small but fierce collided with them and nearly sent them both sprawling.

“What are ye doing to each other?” Owen demanded, a biscuit in one hand and crumbs down the front of his tunic.

Life would never be dull.

Anne giggled, hiding her face against his shoulder.

Drew could only laugh as he ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Ye shall understand someday, lad. If ye are very fortunate.”