Once Upon a Tartan

around her waist.

“Please, Hester.” A simple word. A beautiful, honest, heartfelt word rendered profound by the hoarse plea in his voice.

A single word that banished her misgivings, her self-doubt, her fear.

“Please. Please will you marry me, will you be the mother of my children? I’ve already told Quinworth he can keep his damned title, and I think he and my mother have finally set each other to rights. We’ll bide here in Scotland. Just… please, marry me.”

She grasped his hands, feeling as if every good, blessed thing in creation had been given to her with his words. “Yes, Tiberius. Yes, I will marry you. We’ll bide in Scotland, and we’ll have swarms of children, and they’ll have red hair, and we’ll love them all, each and every one of them, and we’ll love each other, for I do love you, so very much.”

He said nothing, not one word, but when she kissed him to solemnize her promises, she felt his body and his heart and every fiber of his being resonating with agreement.

And as it turned out, Hester was right: they married; they bided in Scotland; they had swarms of red-haired children—the first showing up something less than nine months after the wedding. That one was joined shortly by others who sang to trees, scared every fish in the burn, and cheated at cards when playing with their uncles and with their many, many, many cousins.