Josette Mackenzie hurried out of the front door of the distillery, buttoning her gloves as she went. The wind tried to take her hat, but she caught it, tying its ribbons more firmly.

“Will!” she called. “Duncan! Abby! Shift yourselves. It’s time.”

From the shrieking, she deduced that her husband, son, and daughter were playing raucous games in the grass beyond the courtyard. Sure enough, in a few moments, all three came running up, breathing hard, gleaming with sweat, and looking a bit guilty.

The two children, Duncan nine, Abby seven, had already managed to stain their good clothes. So had their father. Josette sent them back inside to change to their second-best—hurry. When they emerged again, they fell in line to trudge the short way to the main house.

Beitris, the old dog, thumped her tail as she lay curled up on a blanket in the courtyard. These days, she preferred to nap in the sun rather than run about the lands. Her two pups, however, now five years old, gamboled behind small Abby.

The Mackenzie mansion gleamed golden in the soft Scottish sunlight. Malcolm and his engineers, along with the local men, had constructed it over the past ten years, and now it rose like a fine palace from the heather. Malcolm claimed work still needed to be done—it was a slow business—but he declared the house to be habitable.

Luxurious was a better word, in Josette’s opinion, but Malcolm liked to be modest.

The front door hung open to admit the summer air. A tall and stately man welcomed them—Henri, who’d become the majordomo of Kilmorgan Castle, Naughton retiring to live with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren.

Will and Lord Wilfort had long ago found and released the Scottish family who had been so kind to Henri. Now they also lived in peaceful retirement in a cozy cottage, leasing out the house Sir Harmon had been forced to vacate.

Henri had remained with the Dunbars for a few years, marrying another young woman the Dunbars had rescued, and accepting Malcolm’s offer of employment when the Dunbars had retired. Naughton had trained Henri well, and he now ran the house as capably as Naughton had.

A table in the middle of the staircase hall held a vase of wildflowers—violets and wild pansies. The vast staircase wound upward, the walls covered with paintings saved from the old castle, many rescued by Naughton from Clennan Macdonald, others brought by Mal and Alec home from Paris.

On the first landing was the portrait of Allison Mackenzie, smiling down on her son Will as he strode inside.

His two children squealed when they beheld the young woman stepping off the last stair. “Glenna!” they shouted, and launched themselves at her.

Glenna, twenty-six, and married to a Mackenzie cousin, opened her arms to gather in her stepbrother and stepsister. Glenna had a wee one of her own now, and Josette’s heart warmed with gladness as Dougal Mackenzie, Glenna’s husband, carried him in. Small Michael had a tuft of dark hair and beautiful brown eyes, taking after his mother.

More voices beckoned Josette and Will beyond the staircase to a spacious dining room. There, Malcolm Mackenzie, flanked by his brother Alec, turned from a sideboard. “Will! About time. Welcome, Josette. Will, come here and tell me what you think.”

Mal’s wife, Mary, rolled her eyes. “They can’t wait to get at the whisky. Dinner won’t be long, but I think we should leave them to it.”

She put one arm through Josette’s, the other through Glenna’s, and they stepped out of the dining room’s long windows to the terrace.

The gardens—some parts still under construction—stretched from the bottom of the steps to the woods in the distance. The flower beds, laid out in Alec Mackenzie’s designs, were filled with riotous color, summer at its height. Box hedges and more beds flowed around walks and fountains, encouraging a stroll.

Alec’s idea was that gardens ought to be more natural, unlike the rigid formality of older designs. Walks should lead one casually to a shady bench, which would be a perfect spot to sit and read, contemplate the world, or kiss a beloved.

Celia, Alec’s own beloved, joined them, and the four ladies ambled into the garden. “So fine to see you, Josette,” Celia said in her gentle voice. “I am always happy when we can return to Scotland. It does Alec such good.”

Josette squeezed her hand, happy to see Celia again.

About ten years ago, Malcolm Mackenzie had been declared officially alive, absolved of all charges of treason, and allowed to return to Kilmorgan and take up its title. Lord Wilfort, Mary’s father, was a powerful man indeed.

The rest of the family remained listed with the dead. Alec and his father, comfortable with their lives in Paris, were happy in France. Alec painted for its king, and the old duke enjoyed the company of other Scots in exile—including Bhreac Douglas and his wife, Lillias—as well as that of a rather no-nonsense French lady. The duke had remained behind with her—Alec had already hinted that there’d likely be an announcement of an engagement by the time Alec and Celia returned.

Lord Will Mackenzie had officially ceased to exist. However, Willie Mackenzie, distant cousin and now steward of the Kilmorgan estate, lived in the distillery with his wife, Josette, and his son and daughter, his stepdaughter having married and gone to live with her husband. Will and Josette looked after the distillery and were consulted by Mal and Mary as to the business of the farms, the brewing, and the tenants.

The distillery had flourished under Will’s and Mal’s tender care. A new, gleaming copper still had been installed, and production had been going strong for years now. Will had been correct that Englishmen would purchase Scots’ whisky with enthusiasm, and it sold well abroad too. Mackenzie Malt—once again legally brewed—was famous throughout the British Isles and the Continent.

Josette now understood what Will had meant when he’d said there was more gold in the Highlands than coins.

“Well, ladies,” Mary said. “Life has certainly turned out differently than we imagined, has it not?”

The four glanced back through the terrace doors where Will, Mal, Alec, and Glenna’s husband tasted whisky from a copper cup Henri passed between them. Will’s voice rumbled something, and he laughed. Mal groaned, and Alec clapped Will on the back.

“Indeed,” Celia said. “My parents expected me to marry a frightful boor of a man. Thank heavens for Alec, my scandalous art instructor. Though my mother would have fainted if she’d seen exactly what Alec wished me to paint. Or more likely, burst into flames.”

She gave them a secret smile, and Mary, Josette, and Glenna laughed. Josette had heard the story many times of how Alec had decided Celia needed to learn to paint the male anatomy.

Celia had reconciled with her mother over the years, the woman mellowing as she’d aged. Celia and Alec’s children—a boy, Magnus, and a girl, Catherine, as well as Alec’s daughter Jenny, now twelve years old and keeping a keen eye on her siblings—had softened Celia’s mother a great deal. Celia’s father doted on them all extensively.

“I was engaged to a horrid man myself,” Mary said, and shivered. “I was already contracted to the marriage when I discovered how cruel Lord Halsey was. Thank heavens for my Mackenzie who stole me away.”

They shared another laugh. The Mackenzie men had a way of taking what they wanted.

Josette did not join with a tale of her own. Until Will, she’d never had a man wish to marry her, whether she’d wanted marriage or not. She’d been poor and desperate, abandoned by a married lover, and raising a fatherless daughter.

But Will had swept her up, pulling her into his adventures, relying on her, trusting in her, while at the same time making certain she and Glenna were always cared for and well.

“He’s a good man, is Will,” Glenna said. She’d mellowed somewhat since she’d fallen in love with and married Dougal Mackenzie and then born him a son, but she retained her cheeky smile and the glint in her eye—a young lady never subdued.

The brothers and cousin drifted out to the terrace with their whisky. The tall men no longer wore the outlawed plaid, but they were plenty handsome in breeches and boots, linen shirts, and coats that clung to broad backs.

They’d be Highland warriors no matter what they wore, Josette realized. Whether wrapped in a great kilt or formal suit, their strength and vitality couldn’t be tamed.

Will spied Josette and Glenna and lifted his cup in salute. Copper caught the sunlight, as red as his hair, the glints as golden as his eyes. This morning, he’d looked down at Josette with those Mackenzie eyes as he’d slid into her, celebrating their waking with a lazy smile.

Children burst around the men, nearly knocking Alec over. They exploded from the terrace and ran shrieking down the paths, from Malcolm’s oldest—Angus, who would be duke after him—to Catherine and Abby, born the same year and determined to keep up with their older cousins.

Glenna’s babe toddled out, lowered himself determinedly down the steps, and waddled speedily after the others.

Will caught little Michael before he could go too far, lifting him to his shoulder. “Not yet, grandson,” he said. “Too much mischief ye can land in, and wouldn’t your Mum and Grandmum light into me for letting you?”

Alec and Mal charged after their respective offspring, and Glenna took Michael so Will could do the same.

Will slid his arm around Josette’s waist as he moved to follow his brothers, pulling her close and landing a firm kiss on her lips.

“Dinner might be delayed, love. While we round up Mackenzies.”

“As usual,” Josette said in mirth. “You can make it up to me later. As usual.”

Will’s eyes heated, and his embrace grew more ardent. “Aye, I always look forward to that, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

Josette’s heart warmed with a steady glow of happiness as Will kissed her again, hands hard on her back. The kiss tasted of love, of laughter, of the spice that only Will Mackenzie could bring her.

“Love you,” she whispered when the kiss ended.

“Love you, my Josie.” Will brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the confines of her hat. “The making up will be pleasing, I think.”

“Go on with you now,” Josette said.

Will flashed her a grin, gave her yet another kiss filled with hot promise, and spun away to run after his children.

Sunlight flashed on the solid house, Malcolm Mackenzie’s pride and joy. A breeze flared through the garden, stirring skirts and hat ribbons and sending to Josette, her sisters-in-law, and her daughter the golden sound of Mackenzie laughter.