But she was brave, his Fiona. And she was stalwart. Tonight had made up for a lot of what she’d suffered.
It was a start. In fact, it was a damn good start.
They had another long day of travel ahead, and he was lethargic with the remnants of pleasure. Right now, he could wait to find solutions to their problems. He’d worry about the future when the future arrived.
So he didn’t say anything but good night when his wife settled with her back against his chest. He cuddled her close and buried his nose in the tangled silvery hair that smelled so evocatively of Fiona. When he crashed into a dreamless sleep, a contented smile curved his lips.
Chapter 29
“Have a look,” Diarmid said, passing Fiona the pocket spyglass.
They were hidden in a grove of trees on a rise overlooking a rundown house that showed failed ambitions of becoming a castle. The tower over the gatehouse was crumbling, matching the unmistakable signs of neglect he’d noted across the rest of the estate. The boundary walls were also in disrepair. It had been a simple matter to sneak onto the grounds of Trahair House unobserved.
That had worried him, still did. Even five minutes in Allan Grant’s company had persuaded him the man might be a stone-hearted bastard, but he was a clever, stone-hearted bastard. He wouldn’t make it easy for Fiona to get onto the property where he held Christina and spy out the situation. In fact, he’d be lying in wait to seize her back under his control.
But so far, Diarmid hadn’t seen Allan or Thomas—or a wee lassie of Christina’s age. He hadn’t seen much of anything, if truth be told. At this time of year, the estate should be bustling with preparations for the harvest, but the fields lay fallow, and the few people who appeared didn‘t seem too bothered with anything like work. Trahair was a poor place.
“You don’t think she’s here, do you?” Fiona said flatly, lowering the spyglass.
“There’s nae sign of her. There’s nae sign they’re preparing to fend off a rescue attempt. There’s nae sign of Allan or Thomas.” He caught bitter disappointment on her face. “I’m sorry, lassie.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. After three days of hard travel, she looked exhausted. Diarmid wasn’t feeling too sprightly himself. It was difficult to sleep when his wife lay chastely in his arms and he was hard and aching for her.
They’d arrived at each inn late, eaten a quick dinner, then tumbled into bed for a couple of hours before they hit the road again at sunrise. It was a punishing schedule, and he hadn’t had the heart to press his wife to make love to him when her tension increased with every mile they covered toward Inverness.
Now with a trust that made his heart skip a beat, she curled her fingers about his. “Perhaps it looks easy to break in because it’s a trap.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked across at him. “You still think we should approach them directly?”
“Aye. Your circumstances have changed. You’re now Lady Intertavey. The Grants nae longer have any claim on you. Nor are ye destitute and alone anymore.”
Her lips twisted with the ironic humor he now recognized as her defense against the onslaught of crippling pain. “What an unflattering description.”
He squeezed her fingers again. “Shall we say you’re still brave and determined?”
“Determined anyway.” She frowned. “If we turn up at the front door, we’ll show our hand.”
“It’s the only way to discover the lay of the land. If there was a village where we could ask for information, the way the Grants did at Invertavey, it would be different, but nobody here seems to set foot more than a stone’s throw from the house. Certainly nobody does a lick of work.”
Diarmid didn’t try to hide his disgust. He hated to see a property left to fall into ruin.
Fiona pulled free of his hold and squared her shoulders. “In that case, let’s proceed,” she said, passing back the spyglass.
***
As Fergus’s traveling coach rolled across the weedy gravel in front of Trahair House, no grooms ran out to hold the horses. No footmen opened the house’s main door and stood to attention to welcome visitors. Up close, the neglect was even more apparent than it had been when Fiona had looked through the small telescope.
Her heart shrank as she contemplated what lay ahead. She still wasn’t convinced confronting the Grants was wise. At Bancavan, she’d learned that subterfuge was the only way to outsmart her kinsmen. She reminded herself that she now had Diarmid on her side. His description of her former self as poor and friendless might chafe, but she couldn’t argue with its accuracy.
Beneath her misgivings lurked burgeoning anticipation at the prospect of seeing her daughter at last. She assumed Allan received regular news of Christina from his cousins, but he’d never shared a word of it with her.
He’d always enjoyed tormenting Fiona. They both knew that he’d never cowed her rebellious spirit, however docile she might pretend to be.
From where he sat opposite her, Diarmid took her hand. “Courage, lassie.”
She’d come to rely on her husband’s quiet, steady support. Since their wedding night, he hadn’t claimed her body. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Circumstances hadn’t encouraged further pleasurable interludes. The inns had been rough, and their halts had been short. Eating and sleeping were the focus.