"Yer as cold as ice, mo leannan," Edward commented after a breath.

At that precise moment a shiver ran down her spine. Around them, a few tentative snowflakes had started to fall.

Forehead still resting against his, she blinked a few times to clear the last of the fogginess out of her eyes and smiled. "You're not much warmer," she sniffled.

He brushed his nose against hers. "Come on, then let's get ye inside."

She wasn't sure how long they had been outside, but when they stood up, she had to wonder if she had gotten frostbite from sitting on the frozen boulder for so long. Once she was up, she was hard-pressed not to dart towards the house and the warmth it promised.

Edward tucked her under his arm and rubbed at her arm, attempting to promote warmth. It did nothing, but she found herself leaning in regardless.

"The fire is probably dead," she lamented as they approached the house.

"It takes an awful lot for a fire to die," Edward replied with an intense certainty. "I know there's a spark in there."

As they entered the house, she frowned, wondering if he was only talking about the fire in the fireplace.

Edward went to work, quickly building the fire back up while she rubbed her cold, dry hands together in an attempt to create warmth. She danced from toe to toe behind him, her cold manifesting into agility. She wasn't sure if it was her body reinforcing the cold or if she was simply being dramatic but she was pretty sure her teeth were chattering.

Once he was satisfied with the roaring fire in front of him, Edward leaned back against the heavy coffee table and fanned his legs out into a V in front of him. "Come here, lass," he said, offering her a hand.

Isabella hesitated for a split second before taking his hand and letting him help her onto the rug in front of him. He helped her nestle in between his legs before he wrapped his long arms around her.

"Are those yer teeth chattering?" he asked incredulously, giving her a playful squeeze.

"Quiet, MacDonald."

Edward laughed and hugged her tighter, as if he was trying to make his instant warmth spillover into her. He took both of her hands in his and held them tightly in her lap, having warmed them when he was stoking the fire.

When she shivered again, he chuckled. "Are ye sure ye are going to make it?"

Isabella couldn't help but dryly reply, "We'll see."

"Should I get the whisky to warm ye up?" he offered.

"Don't you dare move."

She pressed into his warm chest to make her point.

"Perhaps in a wee bit then."

Isabella felt another shiver wrack through her.

Edward chuckled.

"Stop it," she complained with a laugh.

They lapsed into silence then. The crackling fire was the only noise in the quiet house.

As she warmed up from the fire and the warm highlander, her body uncoiled against the cold. She relaxed against his chest, his arms still loosely around her and holding onto her hands.

"Ye know," he said, resting his head against hers, "I dinnae think we finished that chess game."

An amused grin spread across her face. "I concede defeat."

"Verra graciously."

"Very."

Edward laughed.

"Who taught ye how to play chess?"

"That would be my grandad," she told him, lightly playing with his fingers.

"And it dinnae take?"

"Apparently not," she said with an eye roll that he couldn't see. "I preferred poker with my grannie."

"Yer a card shark then?" More laughter in his voice.

"Something like that."

Edward let his head rest on top of hers. She could feel when he opened his mouth but didn't hear any words that came out. She waited.

"If ye ever want to talk about it anymore…the wean, yer grandparents, yer first husband's death…I'm no a bad listener."

"I know you aren't," she replied quietly, lacing her fingers through his.

He hummed.

Isabella stared at the dancing flames for awhile, her thoughts moved as if they were trapped in quicksand. She felt her feelings slide in that scary place of nothingness that pulled at her when she considered her first husband.

"I didn't know about the baby until Dr. Williams told me," she finally said as she forcefully pushed herself from the place. "I feel like with Ja- with my first husband when he died. Nothing really. Nothing expect the curious notion that feeling nothing might make me a bad person."

After a moment she added, "And I could have done without personally experiencing the NHS."

Warms hands squeezed her own.

"Ye frightened the hell out of me," he admitted.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Edward made a dismissive Scottish noise at the back of his throat.

"Just dinnae faint or hit yer again, if ye please."

That made her smile and nuzzle further into his chest.

They remained like that for a while, just the two of them. The roaring fire slowed down but continued to provide plenty of heat. In fact, after a bit, Isabella was actually getting a bit too warm. She felt rosy circles appear on her cheeks from the heat, but she was not so inclined to move.

That was until there was a knock on the door.

Both of them tensed.

"To hell with this day," Edward muttered under his breath as he reluctantly untangled himself from her.

She hoped it was not the sheriff with Scottish arrest warrants.

She still hadn't figured out a plan to avert that, she needed a bit more time.

Fortunately, it seemed they had more time.

Carlisle and Esme were the latest people to cross the threshold, but at least with them, they came bearing food.

A few minutes later, the four of them were settled around the table, grabbing at slices of pizza from one of the local joints in Portree. Both whisky and wine were poured as the reason for their visit became clear.

"Did Miller pay ye a visit?" Carlisle asked, pouring himself a dram after handing his wife a glass of wine.

Isabella and Edward, both in the middle of hearty bites of the greasy delight, nodded.

"Did ye cooperate?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Isabella winced.

"Well, we let him into the house," Edward replied, exchanging a look with his wife.

Isabella swallowed the bite of pizza and chased with her own Sleat scotch. Edward glanced at her from the corner of his eye but didn't say anything as he drank his wine. They both knew she shouldn't be drinking much with the concussion.

"Did he come to Isles then?" Edward asked.

"He came to our home," Esme replied.

"What?" Isabella asked.

They both nodded grimly.

"And asked ye questions?"

Again, dual nods.

Isabella took another drink.

"Questions about the two of ye, how ye met, how ye liked each other, how much we knew about ye, Bella, and yer family."

"Separately?" Isabella wondered.

"No, he let us interview together," Esme replied, looking thoughtful as she bit a delicate bite of her pizza.

"I'm sorry that happened, I should have been more prepared," she apologized with no small amount of conviction.

Carlisle cracked a rueful grin, "It is no yer fault, lass."

Isabella let her silence indicate her disagreement.

"No, it's MacLeod," Carlisle said after exchanging a glance with his wife. "He's behind all of this."

"Aye, but we knew that," Edward said, holding his wine in his hand and leaving his pizza. He stretched his other arm to rest on the back of Isabella's chair. She found the gesture comforting.

Esme's bright eyes stared for only a moment.

Carlisle shook his head. "It goes a wee bit deeper than I ken ye've been led to believe, Edward."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "Aye?"

Carlisle enjoyed the last of his pizza in a large bite, which he chewed contemplatively before swallowing and speaking. He looked reluctant to do so, but after a swig of his dram, he nodded and spoke.

"Did yer da ever tell ye about MacLeod's ma?" Carlisle asked. "Joan's 'er name."

Edward shrugged. "I ken they knew each other before he met ma, but he never said much."

Carlisle blew out a breath. "Aye, well, they were engaged before he met yer ma."

Isabella blinked slowly. She felt the sudden tension through Edward's body from the arm brushed against her back.

"To be married?"

"Aye, they went to school together. She actually worked at the distillery one summer as a tour guide. They were rather…rather fond of each other."

A MacLeod had worked at Sleat?

"It was only a fortnight or so before their wedding when he met yer ma. She had an American flatmate in Glasgow who was visiting her. Yer ma was showing her all around the highlands. She came into Sleat and started asking all sorts of questions about the generational history, the distilling process, that sort of stuff. When one of the lads had no idea how to answer her questions, he sent her back to office to talk to a MacDonald. She barged into the office and my brother never stood a chance."

Carlisle gave Isabella a fond smile.

Edward had never told her that was how her parents had met.

"I didn't barge…" she muttered under her breath to Edward.

That broke him out of the intent stare he was giving his uncle. It was enough to make his lips quirk upward and his hands to gently cup her shoulder. "No, of course no," he agreed teasingly, though the smile did not quite meet his eyes.

"And what, he left Joan?" Edward asked, returning to his uncle.

Carlisle looked uncomfortable. "He showed yer ma and her friend all around Skye. I did not see him for three days before he came back and told Joan he could no marry her. In all my days, I have never seen someone so devastated. The lass was crushed."

"I only ken bits and pieces, stuff yer aunt and I have picked up in conversation over the years from folks -I didn't meet Esme until around the time ye were born- but Joan's home was no a happy one. She was a bonnie lass truth be told, but she always seemed sad. Her mother was a quiet woman and her father was an angry drunk. All of Skye knew about his drinking habits. People suspected that he hit his wife and barin, but no one ever did anything and yer father never said."

Carlisle sighed. "She went and married a man just like him after yer dad left, a spiteful man who drank himself to death and probably abused her all the same. He left her when MacLeod was a child and no one has heard from him since then."

Esme chimed in finally. "Your father did try and speak with her before he married her. Your mum was pregnant with you at the time, but he came back to Skye from Glasgow to make sure she was alright. She wouldn't speak to him."

The older couple lapsed into silence then. Isabella tossed the remainder of the Scotch back, headaches be damned.

"So that's why he hated you? Still hates you?" she asked, looking at Edward. "The sins of your father?

Edward rubbed at his neck slowly, a habit she noticed that he had when he didn't know what to make of a situation.

"So it seems."

"Truth be told, I dinnae ken what happened to Joan, only rumors. Folks say she is mad, depressed, or addicted to any number of things. She's been in a home for that sort of thing since MacLeod finished school and went to uni."

"That explains the vendetta, I suppose," Edward finally said. His expression was unreadable.

"There's another thing," Esme said softly.

Again, Isabella winced.

"Joan's maiden name was Miller. The sheriff is her cousin."

~O~

Now it was Edward who tossed back the contents of his glass, wishing he had opted for Scotch. Instead, he sat his empty glass down and stared at his palm.

He could feel all three sets of eyes on him.

To hell with this day, he thought to himself again.

For a moment, he wanted to curse his aunt and uncle. After being interrogated by the police for a crime he seemed to have committed, him and his wife had spent the better part of the afternoon drudging through her ghosts.

He had had to hear about her first husband, not even bloody cold in the grave. He had had to hear how the bastard raped her and then at least had the decency to drink himself to death after the fact, leaving her a widow before she turned 30. He had had to understand that it was the baby she unwillingly created that almost killed her not so many days ago. He had to hear about the death of her grandparents and her lonely life.

And after having to hear all of that -from his own wife- had managed to bring her back to him.

They made it through all of that and he had been able to kiss her, something he had been longing to do since their wedding. He had thought he at least would have the rest of the evening with her to stare at her lovely pink cheeks and pretty eyes.

Instead, he was forced to confront the fact that someone with the authority to recommend jail time for him had a vendetta against him, a vendetta stemming from the infidelity of his father, a father whose virtue he liked to think of as solid.

To hell with this day indeed.

"Well, that's shite," he finally said.

Isabella offered him the dram she had just poured herself.

He downed it in one go.

As he set the glass down, he felt a tentative hand settle on his knee under the table. It was a small gesture of comfort, one that almost made him smile.

"Oh! I nearly forgot," Carlisle said suddenly. "Rupert Fitzgibbons is retiring before Hogmanay."

Rupert was an old friend of the MacDonald's. He was Skye's registrar, the one who was responsible for fudging some paperwork so the Scottish government believed Edward and Isabella had declared their intent to marry 21 days prior to their actual wedding, as was Scottish law. He had been a friend of Edward's grandparents, the Fitzgibbons had known the MacDonalds as long as Sleat had stood.

"Do ye think Miller questioned him?" Edward wondered anxiously. "Christ I never meant for him to get involved."

Carlisle gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Ah dinnae ken. Dinnae ken what he would say if he did. Dinnae ken what the penalty for forgery is for a government official either."

Edward rubbed at his neck.

"If Mr. Fitzgibbons being fined is all that comes of this, that would be the best scenario," Isabella said, thinking aloud. "We would pay it and the matter would be settled."

Edward was very well aware that that money would come from her accounts, not his.

"It's possible it might not come to it," Esme said soothingly. "He may just drop the matter entirely."

No one at the table, not even Esme herself, really believed what she was saying.

"I think the only thing the two of you can do is show up to the Isles ceilidh looking besotted and hope that that good public opinion may work in your favor."

"Is it that time of year already?" Edward asked, mentally calculating. The ceilidh was held 12 days before Christmas every year. Or rather, the closest Saturday evening to the 12th day before Christmas.

"Aye, it's in just a few days," Carlisle told him.

Edward glanced over at his wife, the sweet blush on her cheeks having faded to white throughout the course of the conversation. Under the table, he laced his fingers with hers over his knee.

Speaking with honesty regarding himself, he said, "We can manage besotted."

hope your summer has been filled with adventure, activism, and allyship. as a daughter of minneapolis, mine certainly has been.

this sweet story will be reaching its end before we know it, just like the waning summer rays.

all the love.