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No, that couldn’t be true. He didn’t even want to think that his own advisor, the man who had been like a brother to him, would betray him like that.
“Auntie, are ye sure?”
He took his aunt gently by the arms. She was so heartbroken, so distraught, but clearly struggling to find the words.
“Catherine never said anything but that one time.”
“What did she say?”
“I asked her why she hadnae been to her cabin in so long. Ye remember it?”
Alisdair nodded. Catherine had been a gentle, quiet soul, content with her books and embroidering, sheltered and soft in ways Isla never had the luxury to be. Castle life had worn on her sometimes, so Alisdair had given her a simple hunting cabin, which she had turned into her own private haven.
“She loved that cabin so much. So when I noticed that she hadnae visited it for a while, she said something that stayed with me…”
Alisdair held his breath.
“She said that she went there to be alone, but she could always feel eyes watching her. That it didnae feel private anymore.”
He had never noticed. Damn him, he had never noticed. Granted, there had been no love between them—they had mostly stayed out of each other’s way—but she had still been his wife, still his to protect. She had been his friend, and still he hadn’t noticed that she had stopped enjoying her retreat, that she had felt Gavin’s eyes on her the whole time.
“If I had said something…” his aunt trailed off. “She never said his name, but there was no one else in the castle who seemed so obsessed with her. And to think I pitied him and his unrequited love.”
Alisdair’s mind raced, pulling threads together that had lain separate and harmless for years: Gavin’s insistence on guarding the western wing where Catherine’s rooms had been; the way he’d always volunteered to escort her on visits to the villages; the quiet, steady presence Alisdair had never once questioned because Gavin had earned that trust a hundred times over.
Then one simple thought brought him back to reality—Catherine was gone, Isla was still alive, and he needed to find her.
“The cabin,” he muttered to himself. “The cabin… It was… over at the northeast pass.”
Every other feeling drained out of him at once. What remained was cold, purposeful—the cold Laird he needed to be, one last time. For Isla.
He moved before anyone had any chance to react. His boots hit the stone as he marched out to the courtyard. He shouted for Treun, and the warhorse cantered toward him. He grabbed the reins, mounted, and made for the gates.
“Ye daenae ken what ye are riding into!” Duncan yelled after him.
But Alisdair didn’t slow down, didn’t hesitate. His eyes were fixed on the turn to the northeast pass, his heart pounding in his chest. He prayed that he was not late.
“Hold on, Isla,” he murmured, his resolve cracking only for a moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TALK IN THE DARK
Night had fallen around the cabin, and Isla sat close to the fire. Gavin had dragged his chair nearer and settled across from her, saying nothing for a long while, only staring into the flames.
If it were any other occasion, it would be such an idyllic scene. A nice cabin, a warm fire, fine pottery, elegant furniture. But now it felt more like a mausoleum, and Isla needed to be sure she wouldn’t be encased in it.
She threw weary glances at him and then at the door. There was no way she could dart toward it before he would be upon her. She needed to think of something.
So she forced herself to sit still, to think rather than panic. She could do that very well. It was her uncle who had taught her to hide her feelings, buy time, make herself small.
“I see ye have taken good care of the cabin,” she said.
Gavin glanced at her sideways, and she had to suppress a shudder. He sat mere feet away, fingering the robe that had been draped over the armchair.
She was sure it was a garment of Catherine’s.
His thumb traced small circles over it, and the gesture made bile rise in her throat.
