Page 67 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“That would be lovely. I thank thee.”

She withdrew her leather portfolio of documents from her saddle as a young boy, with bright blue eyes and midnight hair, came forth and took the reins, guiding Sunshine away with a curious smile.

“Have ye an oblation, friar?”

The friar shook his head, smiling at her. “Nay, we have no children as tribute at this time. His sire pays for his safekeeping here. What brings ye here? Are ye passing through?”

“I actually came here in hopes of using yer library.”

“Indeed. Looks ye for something in particular? A book of hours, perchance?”

He led her through the gardens, into the central ward, where other friars tilled, weeded, and watered their plants.

“I’ve come from Laird Rose’s Lughnasadh faire in hopes of finding something quite particular about my family history.”

“We have many volumes of clan histories. I shall deliver ye to the bibliothecary, who can help further.” He led her into a darkened corridor, the chanting intensifying as they passed plastered walls wavering in light from candles mounted in sconces. Past niches in which stood weeping saints to an office where a tall friar, aging but hale, worked. He stood and smiled.

“We’ve amassed literature in several languages and family histories dating back centuries. Annals of peerage bestowments from more than one hundred years,” the bibliothecary said, as he led her into the boc-hord.

Eyes widening, this was no mere hoard of leather crammed into a dim chamber. The walls climbed with shelves packed with bindings, reachable only by ladders amid intervals of devotional art. Incense oils burning in niches blended with the inspiring scent of parchment and possibilities…

An intricate game sat upon a table tucked beneath a window adorned with clover tracery that cast light upon it. Dust motes floated like specks of pollen. Her pulse charged. Brow pleated with concern.

“Many books are for sale, too, my lady, for a nominal contribution to our alms charity.”

“Pardon, Friar John. But where did ye get this Tafl set?”

She diverted course and swished to the table, picking up the ornately carved stone king from the central cross, the painted scrolls upon the fabric board clearer than they’d been that night in the moonlight upon the North Sea. She rolled the cool stone between her fingers, inspecting the colors. The shimmery yellow she now realized in daylight was gold leafing. Painted with such a steady hand. Norse knots. French lapins frolicking over knolls.

“Ah, an outland nobleman visited just recently and traded us for a book. It’s superb, is it nay?”

“Aye,” she breathed, tracing a finger around the scrolling knots as heartache once more tightened in her chest. “Exquisite.”

“His brother made it, I believe,” the friar continued. “An artist from France.”

Owen had made this? An artist from France, nay a warlord from the Hebrides. It was how Tormund wished the world remembered his beloved brother.

He’d traded his brother’s game for a book. For her. Because she’d said she wanted to read it.

Blast it, Tormund!

Despite his secrets and now his absence, he did care. He’d… Her expression dropped, and she felt her face pale. He’d done everything she’d said she wanted to do: danced with her, sailed her away, swam with her, read in the afternoon light, indulged in berries and cheeses and wines, ensured she went fruiting. A man wouldn’t trade one of his most prized possessions for a lass purely on a whim, unless he felt deeply for her. And he’d made her fall desperately in love with a generous man whose entire life had become a service to his kin. Beneath his armor and scars, Tormund was no warlord. He was a romantic.

And he’d torn away from her, not because he didn’t want her, but after his anguished confession seemed to have taken too great a turn, it was clear that the warlord who didn’t fear, had feared something greatly: his feelings for her. His ability to trust her. Feared he’d curse her with a horrible fate just as his brother’s love had cursed Marjorie. Because he loves me.

Why had he come here? What were his secrets? It hadn’t been merely for her. What was he holding back? He was so gentle a soul beneath the armor life had grown upon him, and she ached for the lad who’d endured what he’d described, thrust into that stormy sea to sink or swim.

The friar talked, but she barely heard a word as she purposefully gazed at other things to clear the redness misting her eyes, so as not to alarm the holy man. She followed him to a niche up a narrow set of stairs, where a chair bedecked in pillows invited her to relax in its clutches.

“This shelf houses all the clan histories. May I help ye find something specific?”

She cleared away the dregs of emotion from her throat. “I’m trying to find details on the Earldom of Stornoway.”

The friar froze. “Have ye a particular interest in that title?”

She gauged the man’s reaction. Hesitated. The question seemed benign enough. On a deep breath, she opened her portfolio upon a nearby table. “I do. I have these documents. About my late sister. And I’m trying to understand them.”

“Yer surname again, milady?”