Page 82 of A Constant Blaze

Her fingers threaded through his hair clutched convulsively. “It is right, isn’t it?” she said with sudden anxiety. “We do need this reunion, just you and I, before we join our children and our people?”

He moved, hauling at the blankets separating them until he, too, was beneath them. “It’s what we should have done when I first came home. Just as you said.” His breathing was too fast and uneven. “Do I have to take my boots off?”

Laughter fought through her tears as she welcomed him with passion. No words were necessary after all, but they came anyway in whispers and sighs and gasps. As he crushed her mouth beneath his, she surrendered to him utterly, not just her body and her love, but the earldom she had ruled so long in his name.

Her lord had come home.

Chapter Twenty

Amonth later,the first serious snow fell on Brecka. It was as well winter had come late that year since the earl’s entire family had spent the last four weeks progressing around Ross, staying a night or so in each of his halls, or in those of his most important followers, showing the returned lord to his people, while the lord himself assessed his domain.

By any standards, Halla had done more than well. She’d worked miracles, transforming his war-torn earldom back into a place of prosperity and peace and law. She had always possessed patience for the everyday, and mundane, responsibility for the needs of the people, and wherever they went, Malcolm recognized the benefits she’d brought them, despite the earldom’s supposed isolation. She traded timber to the north, she’d brought regular markets to Rosemarkie and Tain, and delivered justice without discrimination. His pride in her swelled with wonder.

Although this progress was a tiring if necessary duty, Malcolm found himself enjoying every bit of it. The wit he had been able to practice only on the more amiable of his jailers, and latterly, Mairead, broke free. He bantered with his larger-than-life family and charmed his people who had stood by him so long and so loyally. He renewed some old, half-forgotten friendships, including that with the Bishop of Ross’s son, Symeon, now bishop himself, and made new ones with sons and daughters and grandsons. So much had changed, and yet so much stayed the same.

Finally, they rode back through the gates of Brecka in the bright, fast-falling snow, which clung in white layers to their clothes. Trails of breath streamed out from both horses and riders. The household—no longer just Halla’s well-trained people but his—ran out to welcome them, seeing to the horses and ushering them into the clean, warm hall, already set up for dinner. Delicious smells from the kitchen assailed Malcolm’s nostrils as he saw Halla gaze quickly, critically around her before nodding once to her women, who smiled as widely as if God had just blessed them. His Halla ruled with a rod of iron, a rod no less respected for being used with such a light touch.

Gormflaith danced off to her own bedchamber while Donald yelled for his son. Adam ushered Christian to his old bedchamber to rest before dinner. Malcolm opened the shutter on the nearest window to watch the snow and smiled.

“Winter in Brecka.”

“You are content?” Halla said, coming to stand by him. She had removed the snow-covered, fur-lined cloak. Beneath it, she wore a heavy gown of deep, dark green wool over an undergown of a paler shade, which was visible at the hem and sleeves and neck.

“Do you not know that I am?”

For answer, she threaded her fingers through his in silence and they watched the snow together.

“And when the snow is gone,” she said at last. “When spring becomes summer and even that begins to fade to autumn?”

He knew what she was asking. “Then I will make my peace with the King of Scots as I promised. He will recognize me as Earl of Ross, and the only wars I fight will be his.”

There was a pause. “Will you hate it?” she asked.

It was a subject he’d often considered. “It will go against the grain,” he admitted. “But no, I won’t hate it. I fought and I lost long ago. That is another life.Thisis what I value.”

She didn’t need to ask whatthiswas. She rarely did, although they were still learning the new as well as relearning the old about each other.

“Lord?” It was the priest, Halla’s chaplain, whom he’d charged with reading any and all letters which came for him while they were away, and deciding which were important enough to send after him.

“Father Patrick,” Malcolm greeted him. “How are you?” He eyed the fat sheaf of parchment in the priest’s hands. “I see you’ve been kept busy.”

“But not as busy,” Halla said sweetly, “as you’re clearly going to be. Welcome home, husband.”

Although there was just the family and household for dinner, an atmosphere of festivity seemed to fill the hall that evening.

“I miss Muiredach,” Gormflaith said suddenly. “We need music.”

“Well, he taught all three of you,” Halla responded. “Earn your supper for once.”

“I’ve forgotten all that he ever taught me,” Donald said at once. “I always sounded as if I was playing with my feet anyway. Adam can play.”

Adam clearly could. He wasn’t Muiredach, but he had a light touch, and the music seemed to smooth the frown between his brows. Christian was smiling as she watched and listened, forgetting to eat. Findlaech and Adam’s other men grinned and nudged each other, half-proud of their strange young lord, half-amused by this un-warrior-like talent, as if they’d forgotten about it or hadn’t known in the first place.

“Will Muiredach come back?” Gormflaith asked.

“I don’t know,” Halla replied. “I hope so. I hope he will bring Mairead with him.”

“Really?” Gormflaith’s clear interest changed abruptly as the music suddenly paused.

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