Caitlin woke on the pile of blankets which had been arranged for her on the floor, the sound of her aunt preparing tea had pulled her from her slumber. In spite of the rather uncomfortable conditions—while welcoming, the floor was hardly her first choice of bed—she had slept without moving or even dreaming.

“I did not wish to wake you,” Sorcha murmured.

“It is just as well you did,” Caitlin replied, groaning softly as she sat up. The muscles of her back and shoulders did not much care for the rough nature of her recent days of travel and sleep wherever—and whenever—she could manage it.

“Are you hungry? I have fish left over from last night’s supper.”

Caitlin’s stomach rumbled at the thought. “Yes, please.” When had she last eaten? In all the commotion over Alan, she had not taken a bite at the Anderson house.

“Will you tell me now what brought you here in the middle of the night? Hair hanging in your face, cheeks flushed, looking as though you were running from the very devil himself?” Sorcha cast a doleful eye in Caitlin’s direction. “Or must I wager a guess?”

Caitlin rose from the floor and set to work shaking out the blankets. “No, you do not need to guess. I came from the Andersons’.”

Sorcha nearly dropped the kettle onto the table. “What brought you there?”

“Alan Anderson is likely dead by now,” she reported, gooseflesh rising over her skin as she did. “My husband is dead.”

“What happened?”

Caitlin told all, the attack by Connor’s men and their escort back to the Duncans, the ride to the Anderson house, the wounds he’d sustained and the assessment Sarah had made. “She’s a good healer, quite the legend, from what I hear. And she said there was no hope. Even if we’d been there at the time of the fight, there would likely have been no saving him.”

“Och, poor lad,” Sorcha murmured, sinking into a chair. “I mean no disrespect to you, my dear. You know I have always had your side and always will, no matter what. But anyone could see he was an unhappy sort, never able to settle down and be satisfied with what he had.”

“He confessed to Rodric that he only wished for us to be wed in order to take something Rodric wanted,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together. It was an embarrassment to admit it, though she was not at fault for what her husband had done.

“He did, did he? I could have guessed that, as well,” Sorcha replied, sipping the tea. “Go on. Eat. You need to build your strength.”

The fact that both she and her aunt were widows occurred to Caitlin then. What a difference there was between them. She’d never loved her husband, hadn’t even liked him, while Sorcha’s eyes still always looked a bit red, slightly watery, as though she had only just finished crying or might start crying again at any moment.

Sorcha watched as she ate, which Caitlin found rather unnerving. “What is it?” she finally asked, making the ungraceful choice to lick her fingers free of every last delicious morsel of fish. Even a day past its full freshness, it was a marvel. Her aunt had always prepared an excellent meal.

“I merely wondered what you will do now,” Sorcha explained. “Where will you go?”

“I’m uncertain,” she admitted with a shrug, deliberately keeping her eyes downcast.

“You’ll marry Rodric, no doubt.”

It was an effort to keep her tone light. “Why is there no doubt?”

“Because he is the one you were always meant to marry. I know it. Your uncle knew it. Even Alan Anderson knew, considering what you just told me. He confessed on his very deathbed that he only wanted to take you from his brother. It seems everyone except for you knows of the path you were meant to take.”

“Not only me,” she muttered in reply. “I’m not the only one.”

“Do you mean Rodric?” Sorcha laughed.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry, dearest, but I cannot help myself.” It was an effort for the older woman to compose her features. “It’s only that the idea of Rodric Anderson, who’s been in love with you his entire life, not wishing to marry you is too amusing.”

“I don’t find it amusing at all. And if you would be so kind as to look back on the words I chose, Aunt Sorcha, you’ll find that I never said he doesn’t wish for us to be wed. Perhaps he does. But with Alan dead by now—I assume—there are far too many concerns for him to turn his attention to. With Connor banished and Alan dead, I’m no longer threatened.”

“Do you truly believe he would forget about you because you’re now safe? Do you believe he would push you aside because the needs of his clan would demand his attention? Oh, no, my dear.” Sorcha shook her head, wisps of gray-streaked hair floating around her face. “No, you will always be his highest priority. I’m as certain of it as I am of my own name.”

“What if…” She chewed her lip and stared at the wall, not seeing the wall but something much further away. “What if he blames me?”

“Why do you always think you’re to blame? Oh, Caitlin, you cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of others. Alan Anderson behaved much the way he has his entire life. He was selfish and stubborn and quick-tempered, and—God rest his soul—he has paid the price for it.”

“If I had stayed…”

“If you had stayed, you would not be the young woman I know my niece to be. I would never have expected for you to step aside and allow others to determine your future. Especially not if the future included a man you so clearly wanted no part of.”

“There are other considerations to be made,” Caitlin argued, leaning closer. “I should have considered what this would mean for both clans. I was the stepdaughter of the leader of one, and the new wife of the leader of another. This was always about more than simply my happiness. It wasn’t that I turned my back on the others involved. I simply never considered them. And that is what I cannot forgive myself for.”

“So, you assume that means Rodric will not forgive you, either.”

It pained her to do it, but Caitlin nodded. “How can he? Now that he sits where his brother did, he’ll be able to see things as his brother did. He will have to start thinking for the entire clan, not only for himself.”

“Why should he?” Sorcha asked, tilting her head to the side. “He has you doing all of his thinking for him.”

The comment—and the almost mocking tone in her aunt’s voice—sent her reeling back. “Aunt Sorcha.”

“Did it occur to you that you should speak with him about this before making up your mind on his behalf?”

Her cheeks flushed. “No. He was at Alan’s bedside.”

“And instead of waiting and offering him your strength, you came here.”

“To be fair,” Caitlin pointed out, holding up a finger, “there was no spending the night in the house with all of those men. Rough, drunken, loud-mouthed, angry.”

“A fair point. Even so, you sit at my table and fret and tell stories of what might be, what you think could happen if Rodric believes this or that. You’ve all but named yourself Alan’s murderer, my dear, when you were far away and had no knowledge of the fighting here. Why not wait until you have the time to speak with Rodric before you conclude what he’s thinking?”

Caitlin wanted to answer—wished to tell her aunt she had no understanding of things—but couldn’t. It seemed that all she could do was let out a long, frustrated sigh and wonder if there would ever come an end to her troubles. It seemed that no sooner did one fade away before another came up.

“You love him,” Sorcha whispered.

“I do. With all my heart, always.” It was the only thing of which she was entirely certain, and she answered without hesitation.

“Then, my dear, there is nothing to question, because I’m certain he loves you in the same manner. Do not allow what you only think to be true to cloud your judgment, because it might get in the way of the happiness you both deserve. You’ve waited your entire lives, after all.”

Caitlin smiled. “We have, that’s true.”

The splashing of a horse through the river brought them to their feet, both stepping outside to see what caused the commotion.

When Rodric trotted over to them astride a winded gelding, Sorcha merely patted Caitlin’s arm before retreating back inside the house.

“Why did you go?” he asked, not yet dismounting.

“It was too… too much, I suppose. Too many men, too much shouting.”

“You could at least have warned me you wanted to leave,” he murmured. There was no telling from his expression whether he was angry or merely stating a fact.

“You were at Alan’s bedside.”

He nodded. “You’re a widow now. He’s gone.”

And even in spite of the pain Alan had caused her, caused to so many in one way or another thanks to his carelessness and temper, she felt sorry to hear it for Rodric’s sake.

“You’re free,” he added in an even tone.

“Free.” She repeated it to herself once, twice, unable to quite understand it. She was free. “For the first time in my life, I have no laird and master.”

He nodded, his lips pursed. “No one to order you about or deny you what you want.”

“Are you telling me you would order me about?”

“Are you telling me you still wish to be my wife?”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know. You’re the one who ran from the house last night.”

“I told you why I did, Rodric Anderson! And I left out one important reason,” she added, her anger fully stoked as she charged over to where he still sat on horseback. “I was afraid you’d blame me for Alan. And you wouldn’t want me in your life any longer, now that the clan is yours.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable once again. “You thought that?”

“Of course. It’s only natural.”

“It isn’t natural at all! It’s the least natural thing I’ve ever heard come from your mouth, lass, which is saying quite a bit as you have a talent for coming up with strange things.” He slid from the saddle, taking her arms in his hands once he was in front of her.

“You don’t blame me, then?” she asked, awestruck. While she understood Sorcha’s assertion that it wasn’t her fault, that Alan had always behaved according to his own desires and had led himself into a fight with a man as ruthless as Connor McAllister, it didn’t make hearing him say the words any less surprising or wonderful.

His face contorted as though she’d said something truly unthinkable. “Why in the world would I blame you for what you had no part of?”

“I… don’t know. I thought you might, is all.”

“You blamed yourself and thought I would feel the same.” He took her in his arms, wrapping her in a tight hug. “Ye daft thing. Sometimes I wonder why I love such a daft lass as yourself.”

She was certain her heart would crack open from pure joy. “Because you know I love you, as well?”

He still loved her. He didn’t blame her. All was well.

No.

All was better than it had ever been.

He pulled back, looking down at her with more love in his grey eyes than she thought she’d ever seen. “My Caitlin,” he murmured, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger in order to draw her closer.

Her heart pounded out of control, her cheeks flushing and the breath all but leaving her body entirely as their lips brushed together—tenderly, gently, the way she’d dip her toe into rushing water to test how cold it was before stepping in.

Her very toes tingled, the racing of her heart all but deafening her as it sent blood rushing in her ears. He was as lovely and delicious as she’d always dreamed he would be.

They had never kissed before, not even when they were children. She’d only ever imagined the firmness of his mouth, the way his hands held her face so carefully. As though she might break. Large hands, hands capable of killing, holding her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.

The way he’d press his mouth to hers more firmly after the first taste, how the passion which had built between them over the course of their lives would suddenly break free and consume them both.

Her arms wound around his neck while his wound around her back, enclosing her in a tight embrace she sank joyfully into. Her head fell against his shoulder, her senses full of the scent and taste and even the sound of him as he groaned with every movement of their lips against one another’s.

Each groan increased a delightful tightness, the flickering of the flames she would swear were burning deep inside her body. Inside her soul.

Everything was right. Finally, all was as it was meant to be.

When he lifted his head, she strained toward him, hungry for more. His breathless chuckle broke her free of the daze she’d fallen under.

“A man needs to breathe, lass,” he whispered, smiling softly. “And there are limits to what he can endure without losing control of his better nature. We’ve had many happy times here—but I cannot imagine doing what I long for more than anything else on your aunt’s land.”

She giggled, turning her face to his shoulder to hide her burning cheeks.

“Besides,” he added, sounding solemn, “there’s something standing in our way. We aren’t yet wed.”

She looked up at him, hoping he meant what it sounded as though he meant. “You want to marry me?”

“Not the most expressive way I could imagine asking a lass to marry me—especially once I had always intended on marrying, ever since I was a wee lad—but yes. I can say with all certainty that I do wish to marry ye, Caitlin, if you’ll have me as your husband.”

“Oh, Rodric!” She was ready to sink into another one of his deep, delicious kisses, but he surprised her by dropping his arms from her waist.

His frown startled her, nearly stopping her heart.

“There’s still one thing we have yet to discuss,” he explained. “And you might not wish to carry on with what we’ve discussed once we’re through.”