How strange to realize that when she ran away from Invertavey House, she’d be sorry to leave. She’d come to like blunt, good-hearted Mags and chatty, giggly Peggy and the other maids. Dr. Higgins had looked after her with stalwart dedication.
She wouldn’t miss Invertavey’s master, despite him being a man any woman would admire. Why wouldn’t a woman admire him? He was clever, strong, good-hearted, generous, kind, and protective.
But poor Fiona could commend none of those qualities. Because if he turned that intelligence and strength against her, he’d ruin her every scheme.
Those perceptive dark eyes rested on her now, and black brows drew together over that arrogant blade of a nose. How she wished he wasn’t so handsome. It was so difficult to remember that while he might look like a prince from a legend, he was just another man. And men were the enemy.
“I wish ye wouldn’t do that.” He started to reach for her, then curtailed the gesture and curled his long fingers over the side of the open carriage.
“Do what?” she asked, startled.
He shook his head, as if the question was asinine. “Close yourself away like that.”
“I don’t…”
His lips tightened in impatience. “Ye look so frightened. I loathe it.”
To her dismay, he caught the hand that curled in the fur rug. He’d touched her plenty of times. When he’d found her. On that first night when she’d realized he wanted her. Since, to help her to stand, or move about when her strength failed.
But something about this deliberate clasp of his hand on hers made her shiver. For once, not with fear of a dominant, bullying masculinity. Instead more warmth stole through her veins. Not lazy this time, but urgent and beckoning and alluring.
“I wish you’d trust me, Nita. I wish you’d share what makes ye so afraid and troubled. I wish you’d let me help ye.”
For a moment, she stared into his intent dark eyes and wondered if he might be someone she could rely on, someone who would hear her story and understand why she must act. Someone who would place his strength and his resources at her service, like a knight in an old story who dedicated himself to a fair damsel.
More stories again! Just the thought reminded her that outside books, perfect, chivalrous knights didn’t exist.
Disentangling her hand from his required more effort than it should. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said in a shaky voice.
Disappointment dulled his eyes, and his lips turned down. “As ye wish.”
The problem was that nothing was as she wished. Nothing had been as she wished since she was fifteen and her father died, consigning her to a living hell. But she’d long ago learned the futility of feeling sorry for herself.
When Fiona put her glove on again, her hands were shaking, and she knew the laird noticed that she was far from composed. She stared straight ahead over the horses’ backs to where the drive curved down to the road. That was the route she must follow—and soon. Before the sanctuary she’d found here in this lovely house sapped the last of her will from her.
To think, she’d spent years longing for some touch of kindness. Now she’d found it, and it turned out to be more dangerous to her purpose than years of brutality had ever been.
The carriage lurched as Mr. Mactavish stepped up and sat opposite her, his back to the horses. The coachman took his place, and the vehicle rolled away under the line of elms, carrying her to the funeral of her only friend in Bancavan.
Chapter 6
Fiona was surprised to see how crowded the church was. After all, she was the only person here who knew Colin, and even she couldn’t give him a name, not without betraying herself.
“Tears?” Mr. Mactavish asked softly, as six brawny Highlanders stepped forward to lift the plain wooden coffin and carry it from the church after the short, moving service. The congregation stood as a mark of respect. “Does that mean ye remember who he was?”
With one shaking hand, she fished a handkerchief out of her pocket. “No, of course not.”
She grew to hate the way every second word out of her mouth was false, especially when the people at Invertavey had been so kind. Kind and curious. She hadn’t missed the lingering glances and the whispering, when she tottered into the small stone church on the laird’s arm.
She swallowed to shift the knot of sorrow that blocked her throat and silently promised Colin that one day she’d see right done by him. One day when she was safe, when Christina was safe.
But that day wasn’t today, so she straightened her shoulders and set a steadying hand on the edge of the pew. Her legs felt rubbery, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of her vision. She was appalled at how little stamina she had, when right now she needed her strength more than ever.
“Is it wrong to weep for a man lost to the sea?” she asked.
When Mr. Mactavish shook his head, a ray of color from the stained glass window above him glanced across the glossy raven-black hair. Gothic letters under a mealy-mouthed Jesus spelled out “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
Fiona didn’t ask God to watch over her child. Over the last years, she’d lost any faith in the power of prayer.