Eva felt her chest swell with a strange mixture of joy and confusion.
“That’s… that’s wonderful for him,” she said, her voice trembling, “for Connor.”
Then her brow furrowed, hurt seeping back in. “But why did he nae tell me?” she asked, the question small and aching.
Margaret’s expression softened further, sympathy lining her face. “It all happened in a blink, lass,” she replied, “and Connor was swept up by it before he could think straight.”
Margaret shifted in her seat and added, “Truth be told, I learned of it meself only by chance.”
Eva looked at her in surprise.
“A guard spoke too freely near the stair,” Margaret said with a faint, wry smile, “and I overheard enough to ken what stirred Connor so.”
Eva exhaled shakily, some of the weight lifting from her chest as understanding settled in. “So he dinnae leave because of me,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.
“Nay,” Margaret said firmly, her voice brooking no argument, “that man is half undone with worry and hope both, but his heart is still firmly set on ye.”
Eva felt fresh tears well, though these were softer, warmer ones. “I wish he’d trusted me enough to say so,” Eva confessed, her hands twisting together. Margaret regarded her thoughtfully and said, “In time, he will learn that trust is nae a weakness.”
Margaret rose and moved closer, laying a comforting hand upon Eva’s shoulder.
“Ye must understand,” she continued, “Connor has carried grief like armor these many years.”
Eva nodded slowly, thinking of his silences, his moods, the shadows behind his eyes.
“This news struck at the heart of it,” Margaret said, “and he ran toward it without lookin’ back.”
Eva swallowed and whispered, “I ken that now.”
Margaret straightened and turned her head toward the door. “Tea would do us all some good,” she declared briskly as she stepped into the hall.
She called out to a maid, “Hilda, fetch a tray of tea, and be quick about it.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Eva let out a long breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “Thank ye, me lady,” Eva said quietly, gratitude filling her voice.
Margaret returned to her seat and studied Eva with a shrewd but kind eye.
“Daenae let idle thoughts poison yer heart, child,” she said. “The village gossip and the sour letters of proud Lairds mean naught compared to the truth of Connor’s choice.”
Eva nodded, wiping her cheeks again as she managed a small smile. “I want only to stand by him,” she said, “whatever comes.”
Annabeth, who had been silent, reached for Eva’s hand and squeezed it gently.
“Ye hear that, daughter,” she said softly, “there is hope yet.”
Eva leaned into her mother’s touch, feeling steadier now. Margaret smiled at the sight, her stern features easing.
“Indeed, there is,” she said, “and ye shall be Lady McLaren soon enough.”
The maid returned with the tea tray, setting it carefully upon the small table by the bed. Steam curled upward, carrying the familiar scent of herbs, and
Margaret poured the cups with practiced grace. “Drink,” she urged Eva, handing her one, “and let yer nerves settle.”
Eva accepted it with trembling hands and took a cautious sip, warmth spreading through her.
As they sat together, the room grew quieter, the earlier panic fading into a fragile calm.
Eva stared into her cup, her thoughts returning to Connor, riding hard with hope and fear tangled in his chest.
