And that irked him.
It should not. Alana was not his.
But she could be.
His thoughts were dangerous.
Alana kept pace with him the whole day. “This journey is taking so long, I think ye are leading me astray to spend more time with me.”
His gaze snapped to hers. He wasn’t prolonging their journey. But had she read him so easily? He relaxed when he saw her eyes dancing with mirth. “Ye jest,” he accused.
“I do. ’Tis no’ so fun when ’tis ye that is the target, is it?”
“Ye have me on that one.”
“But, really, this obsession ye have with the Highlands really takes control over ye. Ye should find something else to occupy yer time.” She teased again and he found himself laughing. Laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so freely with a lass, but her humor had caught him off guard. And he found that he quite liked it.
He closed his eyes. He would groan if it wouldn’t catch her attention. None of this, whatever this was, could ever come to fruition.
“Can we stop for a brief respite?” She asked.
Rory nodded, finding happiness that she felt comfortable enough with him now to ask him. Afore she would just move forward stubbornly. The dynamic betwixt them was evolving and he didn’t ken how he could stop it. He didn’t feel like he could. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
They sat on a large rock, the high sun offering only a sliver of warmth. Alana was wrapped in her cloak and had it tied tight around her neck. He passed her the skin of water and watched her drink. Watched the column of her neck as she swallowed.
He sucked his teeth and dragged his gaze away. Shite. One kiss and he was like a lovesick dolt. His brother would rib him endlessly if he witnessed what was happening betwixt he and Alana right now.
Alana sat with her brow furrowed, a sad look on her bonny face.
“What has ye so down, Bluebell?”
She turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes. “I find myself thinking of whate’er ’tis that waits for me when I arrive at my destination.”
“At Caer Rannoch?”
“Is that where we go?”
It was Rory’s turn to frown. “Aye, of course. Did the MacDonell no’ tell ye the name of his home?”
“The MacDonell? That is to whom I am to be wed?”
Rory couldn’t help his confusion at the words Alana spoke. He turned to her. “Bluebell, did yer da no’ tell ye aught aboot who ye were being sent to marry?”
She shook her head.
“Have ye ever met the man?”
“Nay. Ne’er. I dinna ken who he is. Where he lives, other than north from my ancestral home. For reasons unkenned to me, my father kept all that information to himself.” She drew her legs up on the rock and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. “I have had nightmares aboot the man I am to marry. Seeing him as an old man. Old enough to be my grandfather. Or a cruel man. I could only hope and pray that he was somewhat pleasant on the eyes and would treat me with kindness. I dinnae require much. Just kindness.”
Anger simmered just under the surface of Rory’s skin. How could her father keep such important information from her? Especially when he must have kenned that she would fash about what her future held. “Bastard,” Rory murmured.
“Why do ye say such a thing?”
“How could yer da leave ye in the dark aboot such things?” He shook his head. “To send ye off to marry with no information is cruel.”
Beside him, Alana bristled. “My father isnae a cruel man.”
Rory grunted. “Indeed he is to have done such a disservice to ye. ’Tis no’ right. And he had to have weel-kenned it when he sent ye to meet yer husband-to-be.” He pulled on the back of his neck. “’Tis why ye ne’er say his name. Only referring to him as yer betrothed or yer husband-to-be. Because ye ken naught of the man, including his name.” Rory tried to keep his disgust in check.
