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Cailin had ever seen.
    “And Ian will stay out of sight.”
    When had Mums become so tolerant? Of course, her mother wanted her youngest sister to be happy. But marriage to another Highlander? Cailin’s stomach fluttered. Dear Aunty Moira certainly would have no other opportunity to wed. Perhaps she was right to grasp what happiness she could find.
    War changed life so drastically. For everyone. Long erected barriers fell. Society’s taboos changed. Perhaps these were the only good results of war.
    She leaned over and hugged Aunty Moira. “I love you, and I will so enjoy your wedding. When will you marry?”
    “Today. I have but to change my frock. We are meeting Pastor Fergus in our own little chapel.”
    “Oh my. Oh my. Oh my. Why so quickly?”
    “Ian and I do not know if soldiers will continue to search for him. Or if he will be detected as a Highlander. And neither of us is growing any younger.” Aunty Moira’s broad smile belied her age. She looked no older than a young girl being presented to the Queen. And her lovely gray eyes danced.
    Cailin dropped the lid of the chest, creating a cloud of dust. Both sneezed. “Let us hurry. I cannot wait to meet my new uncle.”
    Their high-heeled boots clattered on the wooden steps, and then on marble as they sped, each to her room.
    “Jenny!”Cailin called.
    The rusty-haired Irish maid seemed already to know how the wind blew, and she had Cailin’s pink silk dinner gown spread on the massive bed.
    The wedding was lovely. Sunlight glowed through the stained glass windows of the small chapel, bringing peace and joy with its soft rays.
    Because Ian was a hunted man, he and Aunty Moira simply clasped hands in the outdated Scottish way and pledged their vows in front of a beaming Pastor Fergus.
    And she, Mums, and Megan witnessed their troth.
     
    ****
     
    Cailin’s mind drifted like a wisp of smoke, uncertain she had really awakened. She turned on her side in the luxurious bed, and cupped her cheek in her hand. Her dream had recalled Aunty Moira’s and Ian’s sweet expressions as they had gazed into each other’s eyes during their wedding.
    She sat bolt upright in the huge, empty bed staring into the darkness. “Aunty Moira and Ian are so very happy that their happiness wraps around each person near them. Their love is palpable.” A sigh worked up from the depths of her chest. “Why cannot I find that happiness?” She caressed the empty sheet where Avondale should be lying. “Love is not just what one feels, it is how one acts,” she whispered. “We’ve been married over three months, and I still know so very little of you, my husband.”
    Fumbling noises emerged from their small drawing room. The normally open door was shut, and candlelight gleamed above the threshold. Bumping sounded as though someone dragged a huge chest across the floor.
    Oh, Father, not again. Please, not again.
    Something crashed to the floor.
    She slid out of bed and cringed as her bare feet landed on cold granite. She pulled on her dressing gown, and the cool fabric against her bare skin drove away the last vestiges of sleep.
    Tiptoeing to the door, she placed her hand on the latch, and then hesitated. She wasn’t afraid.
    Avondale had never hurtfully laid a hand on her, but occasionally during the last few days his eyes had looked so wild she scarcely recognized him. Caught between his distance and his wildness, he seemed to be two men.
    She folded her arms gently across her stomach. Now she had the baby to think of.
    In the adjoining room, Avondale’s voice reverberated around the walls. His footsteps paced the length of the chamber and back. He stumbled, and she heard the thud of flesh against iron. A shiver crept up her spine.
    Love meant taking care of the loved one. Love decreed taking action when her husband needed her. Love entailed more than feeling warm and cherished. Love gave. And gave. And kept on giving. Even when the giver had no idea how to help.
    She pressed her ear