When she dared kiss that tip, he woke with a surge and a groan, and she was on her back, him deep inside her.

He brought her higher in three deep strokes than he had all night.

So blessedly good, his weight atop her. She'd take him any way she could, but this glorious, ordained way, this was perfect.

They climbed and soared, then like water cascading down a mountain pure, bubbling, wild and free they floated as one, peaceful, at rest.

After a time, he reversed their positions and settled her atop him in lazy contentment.

"Gabriel, we're at peace now, right? We've formed a truce?"

"As your mattress, I say, aye, peace."

"Was her service beautiful?"

"What service, pet?"

"My baby's funeral. Did you make it wonderful? Tell me."

"Ach, Jace, your Mother wanted no service. The babe was stillborn."

"No, I heard her cry. Mama said she didn't, but I remember."

"She had no service, sweet." Gabe wiped her cheeks with the corner of a blanket. "We'll ask the gravedigger, and if there was nothing graveside, I'll do a service."

"Who'd come?"

"You, me, Bridget, Mackenzie ... and Nick."

"You'd do that for me? With Nick?"

He settled her head on his chest. "Aye, love, I'd do anything for you. Even give you to Nick, though I'd rather keep you for myself."

Twenty.

He'd always wanted her. Now he wanted everything. And for the first time, he admitted it, and she fell asleep.

She stirred in his arms, snuggled her face deeper into his neck, moved and moaned. Parts of her must be tender. He'd kiss her better.

First he'd settle the matter of their marriage, then perhaps he'd let her out of bed.

He guessed he had no choice. She should be dressed if anyone spotted the wagon.

Jacey shifted and rubbed her nose back and forth, hard, against the hair on his chest.

He chuckled. "Itchy nose means you're coming into money."

She smiled lazily and stretched in that rod-hardening feline way, her limbs sliding sinuously along his own. "Don't need money. I have you."

"Not yet, but you will."

She regarded him soberly. "I will what?"

"Have me."

"In the biblical sense?"

"Well, aye. You'll have me that way, often."

Jace took her luscious bottom lip between her teeth, making him want to bite it, but her silence made him nervous. "You ken that after last night, we must marry."

"Must we?" She rose quickly, placing his favourite parts in perilous danger. "We'll speak no more about it."

Distracted by her pert breasts and fine bottom, he let the subject drop, for now. She rummaged and blushed, until a nearly see-through shirt covered her to her thighs.

He raised his knee to hide his reaction, or she'd find something else to wear. She was acting that contrary.

"Jace, listen. Bridget needs a mother, and if you marry me, you can save me from a mother-in-law who carries a pitchfork."

That brought thunderclouds to her brow.

"I know," he said, looking for food, "I might lose my Kirk over this, but-" He caught her ludicrous expression. "What?" he asked.

She pointed to his raging manhood with annoyed amazement.

"Sorry. I forgot."

"You can forget something that big? It's in your way for pity's sake."

"I'm hungry."

"For food, even?"

"That too, aye." He looked into a tin. "Sodabread." He bit into it and offered her the tin. "Needs jam."

Jacey took a jar off the floor. "I saw it rolling around before, before ..."

Gabriel raised a brow. "Before we hit the tree? Stripped? Laid hands on each other? Burned each other alive?"

She about strangled him, her cheeks strawberry-bright. "Before any of it, blast you. Will you put on some clothes?"

"They're wet."

"Suttie must have something you can wear." Jace rummaged. "Here put this on." She handed him another old shirt.

It didn't meet in the front to button or cover ... anything.

He chuckled at the sight, her: half dressed, half appalled.

"At least it keeps my back warm. Come closer and warm my ... front."

That set her spine. "I will not marry you, Gabriel Macgregor. Not to save you from the Prouts. Damn you for suggesting it."

He hung her clothes over the branch, to hide his disappointment.

"Hello the wagon? Anybody inside?"

"Hello," Jacey shouted. "The door's jammed. Can you get us out?" Her voice wobbled, as if she might cry as she stepped into her wet crinolines.

Twenty-one.

More than a day after they left, they returned to Kirk Cottage.

From the hall, they saw Bridget, on her stomach, on the settee, chin in hands, speaking to Hedgehog, peeking over the arm of the settee.

Hedgehog stroked her hair. "Tell me what you remember about your mother."

"She used to sing, but not as often as Myjacey. Once, Papa looked sad, and Mama said she knew he missed Myjacey when she sang."

"Hedgehog, this makes me sad to remember."

"You'll feel better, if you tell me what's bothering you."

Bridget sighed. "Mama said she wouldn't rest in heaven if Papa didn't go get Myjacey. He held her and said he was sorry. He and Mama cried. Me too." Bridget swallowed. "They didn't know I saw."

She wiped her eyes. "I know Papa likes me, but I wish he liked Mama enough to keep her and not send her to heaven."

Jacey took Gabriel's arm, in support and comfort, and it was a measure of his shock that he let her.

"Yesterday Papa took Myjacey, and they didn't come home, and I'm afraid he sent her to heaven."

"Your Mama was very sick," Hedgehog said.

"God would have let Papa keep Mama, if he asked. Mama said God listens to Papa, 'cause he talks Sundays and everybody hardly falls asleep. Why didn't Papa like Mama enough to keep her?"

"Cricket, Mama stopped hurting when God took her home."

"After Mama went away for hours, Papa said God took her to heaven. Now Myjacey's been gone that long, and I'm afraid she's with God. If she is, I'll never forgive Papa, Hedgehog!"

"Cricket," Jacey said.

Bridget launched herself into Jacey's arms.

Gabriel looked rooted in horror, because in his daughter's eyes, he'd failed at the single most important task of his life. He'd failed to rescue her mother from the clutches of death.

"You're wrong, sweetheart," Jacey said. "Papa prayed hard to keep her. Your Mama wrote and told me so."

Like Gabriel, Bridget looked at her. "She did?"

Jacey nodded. "That's why Papa cried holding Mama, because he knew God said no, and your mama was going to heaven. That's why he was sorry."

"Did you, Papa, pray hard to keep Mama?" Bridget asked.

"So hard," Gabriel said, hugging Bridget.

A few hours after the reunion, and after she and Gabe had bathed and eaten, they all met the gravedigger at her daughter's grave. "Angus," Jacey said. "When you buried my baby, were graveside prayers said over her wee casket?"

"I din bury no baby, m'Lady. I put the stone here, like your Ma said, which she paid me not to say." He shrugged. "I don't s'pose it matters now she's dead."

Jacey covered her mouth with a hand. Mac wept into her apron. Bridget traced the numbers on the gravestone.

"Dig her up," Jace said, and Mac wailed. "Don't, thank you, Angus." She turned towards the house. "Bridget, get your Mama's book. Mac, I'll have that trunk of baby clothes, please."

Mac shook her head.

"Mackenzie," Gabriel said.

Clara's bible noted Baby Lockhart's date of birth and death. A week later, Bridget Lockhart Spencer's birth was recorded.

Jace stared until the words blurred. She opened the trunk. "This is probably a waste of time. When I heard there was no funeral, I thought ..."

She found the yellow embroidered sacque to match the bonnet and held it up, her heart racing. "Clara in Scotland, me here, and we make the same gown?" She trembled with hope as she snipped the stitches at the back hem.

When she opened it, she sobbed.

"Jace, you're upsetting Bridget. Mackenzie," Gabriel added. "Take Bridget to the kitchen."

Twenty-two.

Gabe carried Jace to the settee. She laughed while she cried.