When she had heard about Sawny’s swim in the loch, Adaira had lost what remained of her senses. Fearing he might have drowned had driven her to rush outside in naught but her chemise, as if she had intended to run to the water’s edge and search for him herself. Fortunately, her more rationally-minded mother had grabbed her before she left the yard in her indecent state of dress.
Her father had been so angry that the veins in his temple pulsed like dark blue snakes under his skin as he screamed at her.
What do ye think ye are doing? Do ye intend to run all the way to Keppoch House in your bare feet and shift?
Fortunately, Adaira’s mother had been much kinder and less angry. At least she did not display her fury or irritation the way Adaira’s father and brothers did. Sorcha’s manner of dealing with her anger was to keep it contained until the moment she was ready, and then like a fire-fed vitriol in a closed container, she would explode her wrath upon the person who deserved it most.
Adaira actually feared for Sawny's well-being when Sorcha found him, more than she feared her father or brothers finding the man.
Maddock, Arran, and her visiting cousin Evander had not hesitated. Upon learning this news of his disappearance, they had mounted their horses in a flash and ridden hard for the loch to help search for Sawny’s body.
His body.
Her blood ran cold at the mere thought of it.
When Maddock returned, sopping wet and grim, he had told her that the loch was not very large nor deep. Rather it was more of a pond with a small stream of water pouring in on one side. The depth of the water never reached above Maddock’s chest, and the whole group of them search the entirety of the small pond.
In addition to not finding Sawny's drowned body, which had sent a surge of hope flaring through Adaira, Maddock had also said they had not found any of his clothing, tracks, nothing. It was as though Sawny had walked to the pond and simply disappeared. While she had been relieved to learn Sawny had not drowned, that news had not placated her much because that eternal, lingering question continued to rear its ugly head.
In her bed, Adaira punched her coverlet again.
Where was he?
Adaira’s dreams were both a blessing and a curse.
The blessing was she could see Sawny clearly in her dreams — his devilishly dark hair falling over his forehead as his eyes, deep pools of sunset water, sparkled. The sharp line of his jaw softened when he smiled, and she took his outstretched hand.
In her dreams, that hand was smooth and warm, no calluses as he had in real life, but that touch was more real to her than anything else she could conjure in her wakened days.
She slept as often as she could, chasing that dream of Sawny so she might still be with him, even as he was gone.
In her dreams, he was here with her.
Her nightmares, on the other hand . . .
She shuddered every time she thought of those nightmares.
The first time she’d had one, that glowing image of Sawny and his sly smile froze, his face contorting into a mask of horror. His dream hand released hers as he fell backward onto a sword (sometimes it was a spear, and once he had no injury but fell back off the edge of a mountain). Each time his image dispersed into the creeping mist that tangled around his body and trapped her where she stood, forcing her to watch his ghastly demise.
With those nightmares, she woke from her slumber with a scream behind her lips and sweat on her brow. She panted, clasping her coverlet, and stared into her chamber’s darkness, as if she might see Sawny’s spectral figure near her bed.
Yet every time she saw nothing but darkness.
Sleep became a hopeful endeavor.
She had taken to focusing on all the good in Sawny before she closed her eyes, as if she might force her mind to have only the blessed dreams, the ones where Sawny smiled and held her hand without end.
Adaira thought of his teasing smile, his loving words — so many loving words! How he described her body, worshiping her breasts, her hips, her legs, her lips. She thought of how he felt between her thighs and the first time he had placed his tongue on her woman’s petals and drew a singing ecstasy from her depths. How his gaze followed her around the hall when they were entertaining kin and clan, riveted on her as if she were the only person in the room. His kindness with the MacDonald children and the stable lads. His patience in teaching wee Flint how to tame his horse, Barclay, with a piece of apple.
Once she had all those thoughts in order, she would close her eyes and pray that those loving thoughts brought her good dreams of Sawny.
It worked often enough that she had taken to making it a routine, a mantra of sorts, to be done before she closed her eyes each night or before a nap.
Crying was exhausting work, and she tired easily from her sobbing jags.
And so she slept and dreamed.
And woke each morning with hope in her heart and sorrow in her mind.
