Winter came in earnest over the days before Hogmanay. Each day brought a few more inches until a thick blanket covered all of Dunnedin. It could have been worse, though, for storms could move through the mountains and glens with vicious winds and dangerous amounts of snow and hail. This year seemed to want to slide away quietly and give way to the new one without a struggle.

Robena thought that Iain’s departure from her cottage would give her some peace, but that did not happen. Over the next days, days more of darkness than light, she was summoned to help at two more births, and Moira sought her out to finish the important tasks of storing enough of her supplies to see them through until spring.

She did not have to ask if Iain had left, for she saw him several times in the village. He would look at her for a few moments before smiling at her and moving on to whatever task he carried out. One day Moira mentioned he’d been working with Pol, and Robena had to stop herself from going to see him there.

Iain did not approach her and did not attempt to speak to her after that day, and she was glad of it. Or so she told herself, every hour of every day that passed. Mayhap she would believe it by the time he went back home? Of course, she did not have to ask about him, for in the days leading up to the end of the year, every other person they knew in the village, and many from the keep, spoke their minds on the matter.

From the cook who came to Moira’s for some ingredient needed for supper, to the midwife, to the miller’s wife, and even Lady Anice herself, everyone seemed more than willing to meddle in something that should have been a private matter between just the two of them. She’d not spoken to anyone of his offer apurpose, wishing not to insult the man who’d done her such a great honor. Somehow, though, everyone seemed to know, and felt free to speak of it to her.

Moira made her opinion known in a few well-chosen, well-timed words of advice that made Pol suggest she heed her own counsel. ’Twould seem that the healer and blacksmith were no closer to marrying this year than the last.

Even Margaret’s widowed sister-by-marriage spoke highly of Iain when Robena accompanied Daracha to see to the new bairn and his mother. When she thought on it, no matter which woman she encountered in the village, they all seemed to offer their unsolicited thoughts and opinions on the benefits of marrying Iain.

Lady Anice was the worst, though, for she spoke about every possible other subject save for the man during their chance meetings. By the time the lady went on her way, Robena almost begged for news of him.

As the last night of the year began, Robena understood that he’d been right. She lived in fear. She existed as she was because she knew her way in life as she lived—a whore. The recent bout of hopelessness that seemed to take hold of her confirmed his words. Letting out a soft sigh, she stared into the fire burning in the hearth, and knew that she could not find a way to leave the fear or bleakness behind.

Worse, although she truly did not wish to admit this even to herself, she missed him terribly. Missed his smile and his way of teasing her. And his touches and caresses. The way he saw to her needs before his own. The talks and walks they shared.

She missed his love. A love she could never claim.

Her love for him would not allow her to enter into a relationship that would bring him nothing but sorrow, separation from his kin, and humiliation. For his clan would never allow such a marriage to stand, even if he were too softhearted to make it, and he would be forced to choose one over the other.

She would accept his gift, the coins he’d left for her with apparently no intention of getting his money’s worth, and decide her path once he was gone from Dunnedin. Hopefully by the time he returned in the summer, as was his custom, he would forgive her for disappointing and refusing him.

Tears threatened once more as Robena lit the lantern and hung it outside her door. ’Twas an old tradition, but one the villagers observed each year on Hogmanay. A dark-haired man entering first predicted good luck, and if he carried bread or peat, or better still, uisge-beatha, prosperity would be hers in the coming year. A fair-haired man told of misery and ill-fortune, and so they were to be avoided or shunned if they did knock. By now, most of the villagers with blond or red hair were safely kept in their cottages so they did not tempt the fates and bring down bad tidings for the year.

Too hollowed out by the last days and their emotional toll, she’d not made arrangements for the “first footing.” Whoever entered through her door after midnight this night would foretell her fortune in the coming year, and she would have to accept whomever knocked this night.

Mayhap Moira would send Pol to her door to ensure her good fortune? Thinking on the heavy bag of coins hidden under her pallet, Robena did not need wealth. But inviting the fates’ blessings would not be a bad thing. So, as the hours passed, she waited for the sounds of the villagers making their way from cottage to cottage.

* * *

“Where are ye going now?” Rob asked.

“Where do ye think? To the damned village,” Iain said. He wrapped the thick cloak around his shoulders and grabbed up the chunk of bread he’d kept from supper, shoving it into a pocket sewn inside.

Iain had reached the end of his patience. Age and experience had given him a full measure of that quality, but even he had limits. He’d thought he could force her hand. Then he’d thought he could let her go. Now, as the year ended, Iain knew he could do nothing but take her on her own terms.

“I want her, Rob. If I have to, I will take her however she wishes. If she will marry me or not. I cannot lose her.”

If she wanted to continue as she was, then he would have to find a way to accept even that. He would do what he must to keep her in his life or to remain in hers. That did not mean he would stop trying to convince her to marry him, but he could not lose her.

“’Tis about bloody time,” Rob muttered.

“What?” Iain turned and faced his friend.

“Anice thought ye would have relented by now, but my guess was on the morrow.”

“Ye have been betting on me? On us?” Iain looked at him, shocked by this revelation. Rob just reached over and slapped Iain’s back, hard enough to make him stumble.

“Everyone has. Those in the village and those here in the keep,” Rob said with a laugh. “The only one not involved is Struan. He is yet convinced his cousin Gunna has a chance of catching ye.”

Iain shuddered then, at the thought of the poor man who would marry such a woman as Gunna. Rob gave him a shove and Iain strode to the door.

“If ye wish to make an impressive entrance, ye need to be there before anyone else. Get ye gone, my friend!”

Rob nodded and Iain ran to the stables. The gates remained open this night, and the villagers were carrying lanterns along the paths to light the way of those dark-haired men who would foretell good fortune when they knocked. Iain made it down the road to her cottage without seeing anyone approaching her door. He jumped down to the ground before her gate and tied his horse there.

He did not see the young woman until she nearly knocked him over.

Grabbing hold of her shoulders, he managed to stay on his feet on the slippery path there and keep her upright as well. When she raised her head, he did not recognize her.

“Are ye well, mistress?” he asked, studying her face. Tears yet streamed down her young face, and she nodded as she pulled from his grasp.

“Ask her to have a care for him, sir,” she whispered as she threw a glance over her shoulder towards Robena’s cottage. “There is no one else I can turn to. No one I would trust with him,” she said before she turned and ran away into the darkness between the roads and cottages there.

Iain watched for some sight of her, but he could not see her now. Only when he walked closer to the door did he see the bundle lying there on the ground. Robena opened her door and watched his approach. The faint cry echoed into the stillness of the night as the packet at her feet moved and shook.

“Iain? What is this?” She fell to her knees there and picked up the wrapped bundle and realized what she held. “What in all that is holy . . . ?”

“I dinna ken.” Iain had a suspicion, and he walked back to the gate and peered into the shadows looking for the young woman. He shrugged. “She left him and ran off.”

“Who?” Robena asked as she loosened the coverings and revealed a wee bairn inside the bundle.

“Take him inside,” he urged. “He will catch his death of cold outside on a night like this.”

Iain helped her to her feet and they went inside, closing the door against the cold. Robena placed the bairn on the table and loosened the woolen blankets, revealing a babe who could not be more than a few days old. The babe’s tiny wrinkled face eased for a moment before he let loose a strong and full cry. Just as quickly, Robena wrapped him back up, swaddling the bairn with an expert hand and lifting the babe to her shoulder.

“Who would do such a thing, Iain?” she asked as she held the bairn close and patted his back. Iain watched as Robena shushed the wee thing and rocked it in her embrace and understood what had happened.

“She said to ask ye to have a care for him. That she could turn to no one else but ye, Robena.” The dumbstruck expression on her face must have matched his own, for the implications were unbelievable.

“Someone left her bairn on my doorstep?”

Iain walked to her and gathered them both in his embrace. He kissed her then, hoping she realized the importance of this selfless gesture. In giving her son to Robena, this young woman told her of her value. Of her worth. Of her abilities.

“Someone trusted ye to care for the child she could not keep.” He kissed her then and wiped the tears she did not know she shed from her cheeks. “Will ye believe me now, my love? That others see in ye what ye cannot see in yerself? What I see in ye?”

Robena shook her head. He could see her struggle to accept this truth.

“Take my hand, Robena. Take my love. I ken ye are frightened, but surely ye will have the faith that others have in ye to try?”

The bairn let out a sleepy sigh and Robena stared at the rosebud mouth and thick thatch of dark hair on his head.

“Ye see, the fates sent ye a message this night. A dark-haired . . . male . . . was first over yer door for the new year. And in case that is not enough, I brought along bread,” he said as he pulled the chunk out of his pocket. “Surely this is a sign that ye will have good fortune in the coming year.”

He held his hand out then, hoping that she could take it.

* * *

Robena stared at his hand and the few steps between them and wondered if she would take hold of him. It would take less effort to reach for him than it would to resist, but something held her back.

Was he also correct about this being a sign? The bairn let out a burp and nestled against her chest then, settling down in her arms. He did not seem to care that she was a whore. His mother had not cared, for her words to Iain had made it clear that the woman knew who lived within, and who would see to her son. A stranger in need, who had sought out Robena’s protection for her child; it touched her heart and gave her a glimmer of hope in an improbable future.

Could it be that she was resisting Iain and his offer for another reason?

Robena had not hidden away from the truths of her life and her unsuitability for him. She’d argued it and accepted it, but no one else seemed to. And she’d not kept anything secret from him—he knew her as few did, the good with the bad. She glanced at his outstretched hand before meeting his gaze.

Love filled his eyes.

In spite of what she did, in spite of her limitations, he loved her. And she knew that she loved him, deeply and without expectations. So, what did she need to do to accept his offer?

Trust him. Trust that he understood what they would face. Trust that he would stand by her. Trust that his offer was an honest one.

Her throat tightened, even as her heart pounded in her chest. Though she might doubt herself and her worthiness, he never did. Gazing into his eyes, she knew in that moment that she trusted him. Trusted his word. Trusted his love.

How could she not trust herself, then?

“Aye, Iain. I cannot fight the fates . . . and ye,” she said. She took his hand.

His blue eyes flared at her words as he closed his fingers around hers and tugged her close, the bairn held between them.

“If ye still want to marry me—us—I will.”

“Oh aye, I would take ye as my wife, my love,” he said.