Castle MacLean, Scottish Highlands, January 1691 – One Year Later
“Would ye take me tae visit Iona Abbey?”
Keane’s quill stopped mid-stroke, ink bleeding into the parchment in a dark starburst. He set the quill down with deliberate care before looking up at his wife, who stood in the doorway of his solar with her fingers worrying the edge of her shawl—that old tell that meant she was nervous about something.
“Why?” The word came out flat. Careful. He kept his hands on the desk, fighting the urge to curl them into fists.
Alyson stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. A year of marriage had transformed her—filled out all the hollow places Campbell’s captivity had carved, brought a healthy flush of color back to her cheeks and light back into her eyes.
But standing in the afternoon light streaming through the narrow window, she looked nervous. Vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in months.
“I want tae see it,” she said softly. “Make a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage.” He kept his tone even, but something cold had settled in his chest. “Ye want tae visit the place ye were fleein’ tae. The place where ye meant tae hide from the world.”
“Aye.” She finally met his eyes, and he saw determination there alongside the nervousness. “Will ye take me there?”
“Alyson.” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk toward her. “If ye’re unhappy here, or with me—”
“I’m nae unhappy.” The words came quick, fierce. Her hand found his chest, palm pressing over his heart. “That’s nae what this is about.”
His hand covered hers, holding it against him. “Then explain it tae me. Because tae me, it sounds like ye want tae visit the life ye almost had. The one ye gave up.”
“I was saved from it. There’s a difference.” Her voice softened. “Please?” Her other hand came up to frame his face, forcing him to look at her.
“When dae ye want tae go?” His voice came out rougher than intended.
“Soon. Before…” She paused, and something flickered across her face—something he couldn’t quite read. “Before winter truly sets in.”
He searched her eyes, looking for the truth behind her sudden request, but found nothing but love and that stubborn determination he’d come to know so well.
***
The journey followed the same route she’d taken a little over a year before, though that time with a full escort of MacLean warriors and her husband riding beside her instead of Grant’s men hunting her like prey.
Alyson glanced at Keane. He’d been quiet since they’d left Castle MacLean, his jaw tight with tension he thought he was hiding. But she knew him now, knew every line of his face, every tell that betrayed his emotions beneath that controlled exterior.
He was afraid. Afraid she was running toward something that would take her away from him.
If only ye kent the truth, dear husband. Blessed Saints, give me the right words tae tell him…
Iona Abbey rose on the horizon just after midday— the ancient stone walls haggard and weathered by centuries of storms, standing in silent sentinel there on the edge of the world. The sight of it made Alyson’s breath catch, memories crashing over her in waves.
She’d been so broken when she’d set out for that place. So desperate for walls thick enough to keep out the world and all its cruelty. Had truly believed that taking vows, locking herself away, was the only path to peace.
I would have withered here…
Keane’s hand found hers where it rested on her saddle. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye.” She squeezed his fingers tenderly.
They left the warriors to make camp at a respectful distance and approached the abbey on foot. Father Domnall, the elderly priest who tended to the small community of monks and nuns, greeted them with genuine warmth.
“Lady Alyson MacDonald as I live and breathe!” His weathered face creased into a smile. “Though I suppose I must call ye Lady MacLean now! I’d heard ye’d married instead of takin’ vows.”
“Have we met?” Alyson blinked at him, surprised.
“Och, nay. Yer braither, Laird Tòrr MacDonald wrote tae me about a year ago, makin’ arrangements fer yer arrival.” His gaze shifted to Keane, shrewd despite his age. “Me Laird. Come, let me show ye the chapel. ‘Tis where most pilgrims find what they’re seekin’.”
The chapel was small and simple—stone walls bare of ornamentation, narrow windows letting in shafts of pale light. The air smelled of candle wax and old incense, and something about the space felt ancient, sacred in a way that had nothing to do with the Church and everything to do with the land itself.
Alyson moved to the altar, her fingers trailing over worn wood smoothed by countless hands. Keane stayed near the door, watching her with those amber eyes that saw too much.
“Father Domnall,” she said softly, “may ye give us a moment alone?”
“Of course, me lady, me laird.” The old priest withdrew, his footsteps fading into silence.
For a long moment, Alyson simply stood there, breathing in the stillness. Then she turned to face her husband.
“A year ago,” she began, her voice steady despite the emotion threatening to choke her, “I would have stood in this chapel and taken vows. Promised me life and me body tae God and the Church.”
Keane’s jaw tightened. “Alyson, ye dinnae have tae—”
“Let me finish.” She crossed to him, taking both his hands in hers. “I would have been safe here. Protected. But I would have been half-alive. I would have spent the rest of me days just… survivin’. Hidin’. Lettin’ fear make all me choices fer me.”
His hands tightened on hers. “Ye dinnae need tae explain—”
“I dae.” She pulled him deeper into the chapel, toward the small altar where candles flickered in their holders. “Because ye need tae understand. This place… it was me destination. But it turned out tae be the beginnin’ instead.”
“I dinnae follow.”
She smiled, tears blurring her vision. “If Grant’s men hadnae attacked that day, if ye hadnae shown up all heroic and saved me, I would have made it here, taken those vows and spent the rest of me life convinced I’d made the right choice. But instead I was ambushed by a monster and saved by a man who showed me what true strength looks like. What true gentleness feels like. What real love is.”
Keane’s breath caught. “Alyson—”
“This place was supposed tae be me sanctuary,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But it turned out ye were me sanctuary all along, Keane. Ye and yer patience and yer fierce protection and the way ye never asked me tae be anythin’ other than what I was. Ye gave me back me life. Gave me back meself.”
“Ye did that yerself,” he said roughly. “I just… stood there lookin’ handsome most of the time.”
Alyson laughed.
“Ye did so much more than that.” She released one of his hands to reach into the pocket of her cloak, pulling out the small object she’d been carrying since the day she’d left Keppoch. A simple wooden cross, carved by hand—the one she’d commissioned when she’d planned to take vows. “I had this made, thinkin’ I’d wear it fer the rest of me days as a reminder of me choice tae leave the world behind.”
She placed it on the altar, a small offering, a symbol of the life she’d almost chosen.
“But that’s nae the life I want anymore,” she said, turning back to face him fully. “I want the life I have. With ye. With our clan. With…” Her breath hitched, and she pressed his hand to her belly, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “With our bairn, Keane.”
The words hung in the air between them, suspended in the sacred silence of the chapel.
Keane went absolutely still. His eyes dropped to where her hand pressed his palm against her stomach, then snapped back up to her face. “What?”
“I’m with child.” Joy and tears and overwhelming love flooded through her.
His knees buckled. He actually staggered, catching himself against the nearest pew, his face going pale, then flushing with color. “A… bairn? Ye’re… we’re…”
“Aye.” She moved closer, framing his face with her hands. “We’ve made a wee one, Keane.”
“Mo chridhe.” His voice broke on the endearment. His hands cradled her face. “Ye’re certain?”
“Aye.”
“And ye’re… ye’re happy about this?” The vulnerability in his voice nearly undid her. “I ken ye never planned fer children. I ken the things Campbell did tae ye made ye afraid—”
“Och, aye, I’m terrified,” she admitted. “Terrified somethin’ will go wrong. Terrified I willnae be a good maither. Terrified this bairn will somehow be tainted by all the darkness I’ve endured.” She pressed her forehead to his. “But I’m also happier than I’ve ever been. Because this is proof that light can come from darkness. That love, true love, can heal what cruelty tried tae destroy.”
Keane’s arms went around her, crushing her against his chest with a fierceness that spoke of emotions too big for words. She felt him trembling, felt the wetness of his own tears against her hair.
“I love ye,” he rasped. “God, Alyson, I love ye so much. And I’m goin’ tae protect ye both with everythin’ I have.”
“I ken ye will.” She pulled back just enough to kiss him—soft and sweet and full of promise.
They stood there in the chapel for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the ancient stone walls bearing witness to their joy.
Outside, the world continued—waves crashing against distant shores, wind singing through heather, life moving forward in its endless dance.
But in that moment, in that sacred space, there was only them. Only love. Only the absolute certainty that they’d found exactly what they were meant to find—not sanctuary in stone walls, but sanctuary in each other.
“Ye ken Boyd’s goin’ tae be insufferable when we he finds out,” he said as they approached the camp.
Alyson laughed. “He’ll probably try tae take credit fer it somehow.”
“Aye, I can hear him already, ‘I told ye tae stop broodin’ and just get tae it!’,” Keane mimicked Boyd’s voice, earning him another laugh. “Ye just wait and see, that’s exactly what he’ll say.”
“Then we’ll let him have it.” She squeezed his hand. “Because he was right, wasnae he? All those months ago when he told ye tae stop fightin’ what ye felt.”
“Aye.” Keane stopped walking, pulling her close. The sunset painted her face in golden light, turned her eyes to sapphires. “He was right about everythin’.”
They reached the camp to find Boyd organizing the evening meal, his scarred face brightening when he saw them. “Well? Did yer lady find what she was seekin’ at the abbey?”
“Aye,” Keane said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “She did.”
Boyd’s eyes narrowed, reading them both with the keen perception of a man who’d known Keane for decades. “There’s somethin’ ye’re nae tellin’ me.”
“Aye,” Alyson agreed, her hand finding Keane’s. “But ye’ll hear about it soon enough.”
“Secrets?” Boyd shook his head, but he was grinning. “I dinnae ken how I’ve put up with ye two fer this long.”
That night, lying beside Alyson in the tent they’d erected, Keane’s hand rested on her belly—still flat, showing no sign yet of the miracle growing inside.
“I cannae believe that I’m goin’ tae be a faither,” he whispered into the darkness.
“Aye.” Her hand covered his. “And ye’re goin’ tae be wonderful at it.”
“I dinnae ken how tae be a faither, Alyson. Mine was—”
“Ye ken exactly how tae be a faither,” she interrupted gently. “Ye’ll just be everythin’ yers wasnae.”
They fell silent, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the wind singing outside their tent. The next day they’d ride for home, would share their news with the clan, would begin preparing for the child that would arrive with summer.
But that night, beneath ancient stars and blessed by the same winds that had brought them together, they simply held each other. Two people who’d been broken by different kinds of cruelty, who’d found healing in unexpected love, who’d built something beautiful from the ruins of their pasts.
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