Page 40 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

Dougal said nothing, resetting his stance and swinging again.

“Ye ken,” Stephen said carefully, “I daenae have to ask what’s gotten ye in such a state. I can guess well enough.”

“Then daenae ask.”

“I wasnae planning to.” Stephen held up both hands in mock surrender. “I’ve learned better than most when to keep me mouth shut around ye, me Laird.”

“Have ye, now?”

“Mostly.” Stephen’s mouth twitched, though he wisely kept whatever jest he’d considered to himself, watching Dougal’s jaw tighten instead. “Ye’ve a look about ye this morning. It’s the same look ye had after the cèilidh when ye came home with a man’s tooth in yer pocket.”

“This isnae the same.”

“Nay?”

“Nay.” Dougal finally lowered his sword, breathing hard, sweat gathering on his brow despite the early chill. “It’s worse.”

Stephen straightened at that, his expression sobering. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.”

“That’s nae an answer, and we both ken it.”

Dougal said nothing, sheathing the sword with more force than necessary.

Wisely, Stephen let the silence stretch rather than pushing further. He’d learned long ago when Dougal’s temper was close enough to the surface that prodding would only earn him a fist rather than an answer.

“She’s regretting it,” Dougal finally muttered, almost to himself. “The betrothal. I could see it plain on her face last night. Even if I didnae, she told me as much.”

“Did ye ask her why?”

“I didnae need to ask.”

“Ye’re guessing, then.”

“I ken her well enough by now.”

Stephen considered that, tilting his head slightly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps ye’re seeing what ye fear rather than what’s actually there.”

Dougal shot him a look sharp enough to end most conversations, but Stephen only shrugged, unbothered, long since immune to that particular warning.

“I’m only saying,” he continued, “ye’ve a habit of deciding how a thing will end before it’s had the chance to prove ye wrong. Done it for seven years now, if I’m being honest.”

“That isnae yer business, Stephen.”

“Nay, it isnae.” Stephen pushed off the fence post and clapped a hand briefly on Dougal’s shoulder, before stepping back, sensingcorrectly that he’d pushed exactly as far as he safely could this morning. “But I’ll be in the stables, should ye decide that it is.”

He left without waiting for a response, whistling a random tune.

Dougal stood alone in the yard, staring after him, the sword still heavy in his grip, the ache in his chest no lighter after their exchange.

15

The morning came, and Skye protested, seizing the covers and pulling them over her head.

But with morning came the signs of life one couldn’t ignore: the animals, servants going about their tasks, and the familiar faint giggling of a girl who had had the time of her life yesterday.

She spent the night regretting ever coming here. It was a mistake to uproot her life and move into this castle for a month, and for what? To get the ending of her story? To understand why Dougal kept everyone at a distance, cutting off nearly all of the Highlands?