The Sinner

“Don’t ever leave me,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “because I love ye go siorai.” Forever. It was still hard for him to say it, though it had been true for a long time.

When he released her, she held out her hand and smiled as she examined the ring again.

“I suspect Ilysa and Tearlag put all sorts of magical charms on it,” he said.

“Ye don’t need magic charms to keep me.” Glynis took his hands and looked straight at him with her dead- serious gray eyes. “Ye know how stubborn I am. Ye couldn’t be rid of me now if ye tried.”

Alex felt himself relax. Glynis was the most determined woman he’d ever known, and she’d decided to keep him.

Her expression softened, and she said, “We’ll make a home for our children that’s filled with love, mo shiorghra.” My eternal love.

Alex took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her long and slow.

EPILOGUE

Saint Brigid’s Day (La Fheill Brighde)

February 1, 1516

I missed ye,” Alex said, kissing his wife’s cheek again as she walked up with him from the beach. He had just returned from a meeting with Connor and the others at Dunscaith.

“Ye shouldn’t have sailed across the Minch to Skye this time of year,” she scolded.

“I have Saint Michael to protect me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest where the medallion rested. “Besides, it’s been a mild winter.”

He wrapped his plaid more tightly around Glynis’s shoulders. Judging from the sharp wind coming off the water, they were in for a change in weather.

“There’s a wee bit of commotion in the hall,” Glynis warned him. “So tell me the news now, before we go in.”

“Angus and Torquil are dead,” Alex said. “The Clanranald chieftain had Angus tied in a sack and dropped at sea, straight off, since he was the one who offended their clanswoman.”

“What about Torquil?”

“He was kept prisoner for a time, but then he bragged about how fast he could run. When they let him run on the beach to prove it, he tried to flee. He was shot in the leg with an arrow.”

“He died from that?”

“Well…,” Alex said, “they decided the wound was incurable and put him to death.”

“Hmmph. And how is Connor?”

“Hugh has vowed to take bloody vengeance for his brothers’ deaths,” Alex said. “And if that is no enough, there’s a rumor floating about that the MacLeods and the Macleans have secretly advised the Crown that they are willing to switch sides in the rebellion—for a price.”

“For a price?”

“Aye, and the price is usually someone else’s lands,” Alex said. “And then, Connor’s heard that his sister Moira is being treated poorly by her husband.”

“Ach, that’s terrible,” Glynis said. “What will he do?”

“He’s sent Duncan to Ireland to find out if it’s true,” Alex said, giving her a sideways glance.

“That’s a lot to ask of Duncan,” Glynis said.

“I haven’t told ye the most startling news,” Alex said, still not believing it himself. “My parents are living together—and they’re acting like a pair of lovebirds.”

Glynis laughed and squeezed his arm as they climbed the steps to the keep.

“They still think of no one but themselves, but they’re more pleasant to be around.”

“I’m glad ye made it home in time to celebrate Saint Brigid’s Day,” Glynis said, as he opened the door for her.

Alex had no idea it was Saint Brigid’s Day.

When they entered the hall, he saw Sorcha with the group of women and children at the long table. They had made the traditional figurine of the saint from sheaves of grain and were in the midst of decorating it with ribbons and shells.

“Da!” Sorcha ran to greet him and tugged at his hand. “Come see Saint Bridget.”

Alex dutifully admired the doll in all her finery.

“Come, children,” his wife said, “and I’ll tell ye about Saint Bridget’s Day.”

As the children gathered around her by the glowing hearth, Glynis rested her hand on her swollen belly and smiled at him. They were both so happy about this baby.

“Saint Bridget’s Day comes at a time when the sheep get their milk in preparation for the birthing of new lambs,” she told the children. “Although winter is not over, we see the first glimmer of spring. We celebrate new life, the reawakening of the land, and our hope for good fishing after the stormy season. No spinning or other work involving a wheel is permitted because the wheel of time is turning between the seasons.”

Alex chuckled to himself. Like most Highland feast days, this was a pagan celebration wrapped in the guise of a Christian saint.

“The fishermen gathered seaweed for fertilizing, while we women spent the day cleaning,” Glynis continued. “And then we placed live limpets outside the four corners of our clean houses to foster good fishing.”