“I cannae imagine why ye would want to do this so early in the morning.”
It was obvious that she had intended anonymity, and he had thwarted her plan by being there.
She pulled her hands away, and he fisted the fabric in his own. It was woolen, knitted too.Hand-knitted.
The gesture weakened his resolve and cracked the walls he had built over the years. His heart was touched.
Fortunately, he still knew how to mask his feelings.
He schooled his features into indifference, but when he unfolded the fabric, his resolve shattered.
It was an image of his father’s pendant.
His heart thudded in his chest. There was no pendant like it beyond the high walls of the castle. He could not mistake it, having its replica pressed to his chest. He did not need to touch it to know of its presence; it was always there with him wherever he went, whatever he did.
Emily could not have stitched this. But the very proof was in his hands. How could she have known of it?
He presumed she knew his father. She had to.
In that case, had she come to the clan deliberately? Was this a sign?
His father had been lost, gone with the pendant that had never left his chest. She must have met him at some point. When? Adair did not know. But he was sure that it had happened.
He wanted to question her. There was so much he needed to know. His heart swelled, pressing against his ribcage.
Is me faither alive? Did ye meet him? When did ye meet him? Where is he?
He looked at her. Her eyes did not betray anything except genuine curiosity. All his surmises were proven false by just a look.
She must have seen his pendant. It was a possibility. It would explain why she had stitched it on a gift intended for him.
He gave a strained smile.
“Ye daenae like it?” she asked.
How astute of her to be able to see the turmoil beneath his mask.
“Ye didnae need to give me a thing in return.” He rolled up the fabric with trembling hands.
He found it humiliating how weak he was, especially because of her presence. He set the fabric aside so he did not offend her, butkept it out of sight to soothe his nerves. It worked to an extent, but again, only because of her presence.
“I wanted to.” Her eyes were round and wide, full of innocence, full of curiosity, full of desperation. The lass who had come in wanting to avoid him was now seeking his validation. “Tell me ye like it?”
What was that that made her voice crack?
“I do.” Why did he sound so breathless? “I do like it.” Because he was looking at her.
He rose and immediately regretted it. Her head lifted, and he could not bear the sight of her staring at him from beneath her lashes.
The urge to pull her in his arms was overwhelming. He wanted to rest her cheek on his chest and nuzzle her hair. He wanted to lose himself in her.
He settled for touching her hair, wrapping the soft strands around his fingers. His breath hitched. Her hair was soft like downy feathers, falling around her shoulders.
“Ye’re wearing the comb.”
He hadn’t noticed it until he stood. The comb held her hair back from the left side of her face.
He couldn’t help but wonder whether she had truly just dragged herself out of bed. She shouldn’t have had the mind to style her hair, especially as half-heartedly as she had. Had she grabbed it thinking of him?
