She looked at him cautiously, putting more space between them. “You’re not?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I am…sometimes. I’m related to Strathwick…and we’re friends.”
“Oh,” Rose breathed, nodding. “I knew there was something more there. You don’t have the…presenceof a servant. So you’re not in terrible trouble.” She looked up at him. “I’m glad.”
He looked away, his mouth a stern, hard line. Did this man ever smile? She studied him as they walked. He kept the pace sedate, unlike when he’d led her through the castle. She inhaled the scent of rain and earth, strong after the storm. They walked for several minutes in silence but for the muted sound of their footsteps and a distant dripping. His presence calmed and comforted her. Was he a bastard son? She saw the resemblance to the MacKay chief in the black hair, the eyes, the fine, strong bones of his face, but the resemblance endedthere. Dumhnull was clearly older, but it was more than silvered hair. It was something about him, world-weary and wise. Something that drew her dangerously.
“Why do you keep trying to help me, Dumhnull?”
He shook his head, seemingly perplexed by his own actions. “I know not.”
Rose thought she knew but didn’t offer up her opinions. Though she’d only met the groom the night before, she’d liked him immediately, and a bit more than was wise for a woman betrothed. Not only that, but he was a groom, and a bastard if she read his meaning correctly, and she thought she did. A hopeless attraction, nevertheless strong and undeniable. She’d indulged in such a doomed affair once before, and had learned her lesson; there would be no repeat of that folly here.
He stopped at the bridge, staring out at the gray, misty morning and the villagers emerging from their cottages.
“I can take you no further.” He did not hand over her bundle.
She looked up at him expectantly. It seemed as if he couldn’t look at her. He stared hard at the village with penetrating blue eyes that seemed to pierce the stone cottage walls and see the inhabitants within.
“I’m sorry you came all this way for naught,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”
He exhaled impatiently, looking skyward for a moment. “I feel as if I should have been able to do more.”
Rose placed her hand on his arm, drawing his gaze to her. “I always feel that way. That’s why I’m here. All for naught it seems. Wasted time away from my father when his time is so short.” She sighed. “But I don’t suppose Iwould have done anything different had Lord Strathwick written back and said no. For some reason I felt that if I could just speak to him he would say aye. But he’s not the man I thought he’d be—or hoped he’d be. But I had to know, and now I do.”
He stared down at her, his beautiful gaze moving over her upturned face. “You’re so much bonnier than I expected.”
Rose started to smile, but it quickly turned to a frown. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head and looked away, thrusting her bundle at her. “From the letters. He read them to me sometimes. You were different in most of them.”
Rose clasped the bundle to her chest, her mouth falling open. “Hereadthem to you? So he could mock me?” Her face flushed as she turned an evil glare on the castle. “I cannot believe he mocked my letters!”
His brows flew upward in bewilderment. “Did I say he mocked you?”
“Why else would he read them aloud? I met him—I know what he’s like!” She closed her eyes, mortified, trying to remember all the things she’d written, but her mind fixated on one letter, the one she’d poured her heart into and still had not managed to move him. “How many others did he entertain with my folly?” she muttered, face aflame. She didn’t wait for his answer. “I must go!” She whirled away, running across the bridge, not stopping until she reached the blacksmith’s cottage.
At the door she looked back. He still stood at the bridge, staring after her.
That had not gone at all as he’d planned. Not that he’d had any sort of plan in regards to Rose MacDonell. She’d just barged her way into his life and wouldn’t seem to go away. Even when shewasaway. He stared at the cottage she’d disappeared into, his irritation increasing. Irritation because in his own lands he could not risk crossing the damn bridge to go after her. Why he had an itch to do that was simply beyond logic.
He was already eliciting curious stares from villagers going about their business. He spotted a tall man with a thick blond beard. Allister. He exhaled grimly and returned to the castle. His people watched him hesitantly, clearly uncertain at this point how to address him. He did not spend time enlightening them. Once in his own chambers, he still found no peace. His brother sat behind the desk, letter in hand. The wooden box sat open.
Drake smiled guiltily. “The mulled wine was very good, thank you. I’d never guess you’d never made it before.”
“I didn’t make it then, either.”
William crossed the room and snatched the letter from Drake’s hand. He folded it carefully, glowering at his brother.
Drake gazed up at him, amused and entirely unabashed. This only further irritated William. He was inordinately vexed, but in truth, he did not know what he was vexed about, could not pinpoint any one thing. The way that woman had violated his home was enough to enrage anyone. But that was not it. Not at all. He was not angry about what she’d done. Indeed, he understood it. He understood her. Perhaps that was it—a sense of helplessness at his inability to help her. That was closer towhat vexed him but not it exactly, either. He wanted to help her, but damnit, hecouldn’t. Could he?
Drake leaned back in William’s chair, regarding his brother thoughtfully. “She’s bonny, I’ll give you that. But a damn shrew.”
“She’s not a shrew. She’s desperate. I was her last hope.”
Drake scratched beneath his chin, still regarding William thoughtfully. “I suppose. She’s a wildcat, though, aye? Too bad she thinks I’m you.”
