“You need a haircut,” she whispered.
He slept on, his conscience free of burden, dreaming of a place for his family where they were free to be who they were. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to be a part of that dream—and Ian had known it.
Now she understood why he’d refused to kiss her, why he’d not taken advantage of her…and she grew all the sadder.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Ian lifted his head and studied the woman close to him who had finally fallen asleep. Something was bothering her. He’d been aware of the tension…and he would have given his right arm to know the cause.
Lyssa was headstrong and her silence was not a common occurrence.
Tonight, he’d opened his soul and she’d not said a word. No, instead, her redheaded brain had been busy working and he sensed it did not bode well for him.
He was glad he’d not been stupid enough to make some sort of romantic declaration.
Or to have kissed her.
Ian rose, uncertainties making him unable to sleep. Perhaps in a different place and a different time, he could have declared himself to Lyssa. But in this place and time, he had nothing to offer.
The fact did not set well. Not well at all.
Lyssa woke the next morning to the smell of cooking meat. Ian had poached a rabbit and was roasting it on a spit for their breakfast.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said jovially, an emotion that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He was so handsome, she couldn’t help but smile—until she remembered the decision she’d made the night before. It took all her courage to keep her smile pasted on her face.
And Ian seemed to react to her inner thoughts as if he knew she was forcing herself.
“We reach Amleth Hall today,” he reminded her.
Lyssa nodded dumbly.
“Is something the matter? I thought you would be happier.”
“I’m still not awake,” she murmured, and excused herself for a few moments alone. When she returned to their small camp, she had herself firmly in hand.
Watching him put out the fire and scatter the ashes, she told herself it was for the best. They were from different worlds. Her father would agree.
She recalled the start she’d had at finding the crucifix amongst his things, and it helped give her distance.
Not that Ian’s demeanor to her was overly friendly. There was a detached air about him, a distance bordering on coldness. She was happy when they started traveling.
They hadn’t walked far when their path crossed that of a Vicar George, from Appin. He was a pleasant companion and relieved some of the tension between her and Ian. Although the vicar did not know the Davidsons nor had he visited Amleth Hall, he knew something of its whereabouts.
“On the coast,” he said. “The north shore about a mile from Port Appin. I’ve seen it by boat. It has a westerly aspect with a magnificent view over Loch Linnhe. I imagine you can see Lismore and Moren, too.”
“Do the Davidsons so rarely come to town?” Lyssa wondered.
“I never see them,” was the reply. Then, as if feeling sorry for her, the vicar added, “I have laid eyes on the Davidson Stallion. He’s a beauty and he bears out his breeding. He’s going to be a fast one.”
Ian spoke up. “The Davidson Stallion?”
“Aye, he’s just turned three. They say Ramsey Davidson, the young laird, refused to let him run as a two-year-old. Knows his horses, he does. He doesn’t like to push them, and I agree.” The vicar nodded before adding, “When I saw him, he was the most docile I’ve ever seen. A temperament only a king could afford—and perhaps that is what Davidson has in mind. They boast he’s the finest in Scotland. Mayhap in England or anywhere else.”
“I didn’t know the Davidsons bred horses,” Ian said.
“For generations,” Vicar George assured him. “This stallion is out of—”
