He smiled at Marina with the genuine fondness he’d always felt for her and crossed to kiss her olive-skinned cheek. “Och, I hope you’ll still say that, once I’ve explained myself. I ken it’s an inconvenient time. But we had nowhere else to go.”
“That sounds desperate, laddie.” Fergus crossed the room to push a glass of whisky into his hand.
“I’m afraid it is,” Diarmid said somberly. He accepted Fergus’s offer of a chair and took a sip of his whisky, relishing the smoky flavor. “But first, how are ye, Marina? You’re looking blooming.”
Marina made an unmistakably Continental sound of contempt. “I’m looking like I’m about to explode. This baby must be the size of a horse. Porca miseria, I’m beginning to wish I’d married a skinny man who was five feet tall, instead of this brawny Highlander.”
“Ye dinna mean that, mo chridhe,” Fergus said gently.
With obvious difficulty, she shifted. She was a tall, naturally slender woman—or at least she had been. “Don’t I?”
But the glance she shot her husband from her bright black eyes was loving.
Diarmid felt a sharp pang of envy for his friend’s happiness, although this outspoken, independent woman was the precise opposite of the docile, biddable wife Fergus always said he wanted.
It was difficult to imagine that such a happy union awaited him. After his mother’s antics, he was too reluctant to trust, and it was clear that mutual trust formed the basis for the love between Fergus and Marina.
Och, stop feeling so blasted sorry for yourself, man. You’ve got more important things to worry about than your uninspiring love life.
“I want to explain what I’m doing here, and why I need your help. Then if ye wish, you can send me to the devil.”
Fergus crossed to stand behind his wife and rested one hand on her shoulder. “Diarmid, we’ve been friends most of our lives. If I can help ye, I will. Ye know that.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say. Although ye might end up being sorry you did.”
“Diarmid, you’ve never brought a woman here with you before.” Marina raised her hand to lay it upon Fergus’s. “Who is she?”
“She’s no’ my mistress,” he said quickly.
Marina shrugged. “Per pietà, I don’t care if she is. You vouch for her. That’s enough for me. She’s a married woman? Fergus called her Mrs. Grant.”
His hostess took a refreshingly broadminded attitude to life, he’d long ago discovered. Years on the road as a working artist in her father’s company, not to mention associating with people from all levels of society, had shown her more of the world than most gently bred Scottish girls ever saw.
“A widow.” He took another mouthful of the fiery spirit and launched into the tale of Fiona’s arrival at Invertavey, the Grants’ appearance, the chaotic rescue, and the wild chase across the hills. To give Marina and Fergus credit, they were bonny listeners, only interrupting when he told them what he’d recently discovered, the reasons behind Fiona’s reckless quest.
“Oh, la poverina,” Marina said. “What cruelty she’s endured.”
Diarmid hadn’t spoken at length of what he’d learned or guessed about life at Bancavan. That was Fiona’s business. But he’d clearly said enough for Marina and Fergus to reach their own conclusions about her sufferings.
Fergus now sat on the opposite side of the fire. His expression was austere. “She’ll be safe here.”
“The problem is that the Grants must ken Fiona plans to rescue her daughter. They dinna need to go to the trouble of tracking us all over Scotland. They just need to hold onto the girl and wait for us to turn up.”
“Like spiders in a web,” Marina said in a grim tone.
“Aye.”
A sound at the door made Diarmid look up. Fiona hovered at the entrance, and Fiona as he’d never seen her. She wore a pale blue evening gown that made her eyes look like the sky, and she’d arranged her moonlight hair in an elaborate style that made her seem an aristocratic stranger.
By God, she was bonny. He felt like someone hit him with a hammer. He’d always been painfully conscious of how exquisite she was. But when he saw her dressed in silks, her beauty thumped him in the belly like a punch. Before he even thought to stand, he found himself on his feet.
He moved to take her hand, then remembered he had no real right to touch her, even if she’d rested in his arms all day as they rode across the hills. Damn it, he felt awkward, as he rarely had until he met her. He turned the gesture into a sweep of his hand toward Fergus and Marina.
“Fiona, come away in and meet our hosts.”
After a hesitation, she stepped into the room, as graceful as a doe picking her way into a forest clearing. He couldn’t mistake the caution in her expression. Like him, she’d learned that trust must be earned. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
Marina came up to Diarmid’s side, her hands extended. Fiona in her borrowed finery had so dazzled him, that he hadn’t even noticed his hostess rising to her feet. “Of course not. Benvenuta a Achnasheen, Signora Grant. I’m Marina Mackinnon, and this is my husband, Fergus. We’re so pleased you came to us in your time of trouble.”