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He gave a tired half-smile. “Perhaps.”

But as he gathered his things, his thoughts lingered, not on Eara, nor Moyra, nor the morning’s chaos.

They lingered on Anne. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, the path ahead felt open rather than haunted.

Chapter Sixteen

The sun had climbed high in the sky, gleaming down on the earth. Anne had risen early enough to get all her chores done. The cottage gleamed. Floors swept. Table scrubbed. Shelves wiped. Even the stubborn corner where cobwebs clung were cleared.

The chickens were fed and strutting about with self-important clucks. The garden had been watered until the earth released that rich, damp scent she loved, and her arms ached pleasantly from hauling bucket after bucket from the creek.

Her mind, traitorous thing that it was, returned again and again to Camden. To the warmth of his presence. To the way his voice dipped low when he spoke to her. To the moments by the water and what happened after. Actions that she firmly refused to examine too closely.

He had concerns far weightier now. The return of the woman who’d broken his heart, and whatever complicated dance he seemed trapped in with Moyra. Anne snorted softly to herself as she carried another bucket. A dance indeed. One she had no intention of joining again.

Their shared moments had been nothing more than instinct. A foolish yielding between a man and woman caught in a vulnerable moment. Nothing more. Though it had felt like far more. She refused to acknowledge that.

If she was sensible, and she very much wished to believe she was sensible, she would turn her attention elsewhere. Marriage was practical. Necessary. And Camden was as available as a loaf of bread locked in someone else’s pantry. Which brought her thoughts to Raudhri.

The stable master’s son was handsome in a quiet, solid way. Broad shoulders, kind eyes, and a manner so reserved one might forget he was even in the room until he moved. His terrible stutter kept him silent more often than not, though he seemed comfortable enough with Gowan, answering in grunts or short phrases when speech failed him.

Anne had always liked him. And he liked horses, which meant patience, and patience was a virtue she admired greatly. Perhaps she would ask Gowan to inquire. Discreetly. Brotherly intermediaries were useful shields against embarrassment.

Would it seem forward? Likely. Would she feel a bit foolish? Also likely.

Lost in thought, she lifted one of Gowan’s tunics from her sewing basket, inspecting the damage. The garment looked as though it had fought a small war—and lost. Tears at the sleeve, loose stitching, and a stain she refused to even speculate about.

Three sharp knocks struck the door. Anne jumped, dropping the tunic into her lap.

She frowned toward the sound. Not Gowan. He never knocked. Effie burst in announcing herself to the rafters. Curious, Anne crossed the room and opened the door.

Her breath caught. Camden stood there.

His hair was damp, red strands darkened and brushed back from his face, sunlight catching on droplets still clinging near his temples. He smelled faintly of clean water and fresh air, as though he’d stepped straight from the creek itself. He looked… unsettled.

“Camden,” she managed, unsure whether to greet him or close the door and hide behind it.

He drew in a breath, attempted a smile, then abandoned the effort entirely. His gaze was serious. Searching.

“There is something I must speak to ye about.”

A warning bell rang somewhere in her chest.

“Allow me to get my shawl,” Anne said quickly. Being alone in the cottage with him felt unwise, particularly if Gowan decided to return and discover her entertaining a man in private. Her temperamental brother was not what she wished to deal with that day.

They walked together toward the creek path, the air warm and humming with insects and distant birdsong. Anne’s heart thumped far too loudly in her ears.

“Why do ye continue to seek me?” she asked at last. Better to ask than wonder. Better to brace for disappointment than be struck unawares.

When his fingers closed around her upper arm, she stopped. The warmth of his touch sent an unwelcome flutter through her.

“Please hear me,” he said. “I am certain of how I feel about ye. There are nae double meanings. Only truth.”

She arched a brow. “Ye wish to clarify how ye feel?” Irritation flared. “And how many times must ye clarify things, Camden? Ye come and go, leaving confusion in yer wake each time.”

He nodded. “Will ye allow me to explain?”

She exhaled. Curiosity won out. “Aye. Speak.”