“I’m sorry, lassie.”
Something in his tone made her eyes sharpen on him. “You’re not surprised we didn’t succeed.”
An ostler opened the coach door and let down the steps. Diarmid descended and turned to help her out. In the soft gloaming, his expression was serious. “Nothing you’ve said indicates that Allan will give Christina up without a fight. Or the dowry he stole from ye. Or, in fact, you yourself. Allan strikes me as a canny laddie, who keeps a tight grip on what he decides belongs to him. That means all the clan’s assets, material and human.”
“That’s true.” Fresh despair washed over Fiona, leaving her feeling as heavy as lead. “You must know that William will write to him about our visit. My marriage to a Mactavish will have Allan seething.”
“Och, I count on it.” Diarmid tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and drew her toward the open doors.
Surprise made her misstep. “You do?”
“Aye. I want him thinking with his spleen, no’ his head. He’ll be easier to defeat.”
“Allan will want you dead so that he can marry me to Thomas.”
“Dinna fash yourself, lassie.” To her surprise, Diarmid’s voice was warm with affection and humor. “I’ve got nae intention of letting Allan kill me, and he’s no’ going to get ye back.”
“That’s all very well, but as long as Allan has Christina, I’ll never be free of him,” she said bleakly.
The innkeeper bustled up, asking about dinner and their plans for staying on. Through the turmoil in her mind, she heard Diarmid order a meal to be served in their sitting room.
Fiona wanted to tell him she wasn’t hungry. Fear, worry and disappointment made her queasy. But by the time she summoned the words, the landlord had gone.
“Come away upstairs, lassie.” Diarmid’s smile was gentle, even tender, as he took her arm. “I’ve ordered baths for both of us. We’ll have something to eat and decide our next step.”
“Is there a next step?”
“Och, there’s always something to be done. Dinna give up hope.”
They climbed the stairs to their spacious rooms overlooking the shallow sweep of the Ness River. “But after today…”
“We’ve had a setback. It doesnae mean we’ve lost the war.”
“I know you mean to be kind, but there’s no need to treat me like a child,” she responded with a hint of a snap.
He laughed, as he opened the door. “Braw to hear ye sounding less like a wet hen.”
“A wet hen?” she spluttered, turning on him. “You know what this means to me.”
To her surprise, he caught her up against him for a quick kiss. Despite her pique, she sank into him. During their rushed trip across Scotland, she hadn’t slept much, but when she had, she’d dreamed of kisses and the touch of those strong, competent hands.
She staggered as Diarmid stepped away. Then she blushed to realize a servant had come in. Her husband took everything in his stride, directing the man to set up the tray of wine on the sideboard and standing back as more servants arrived to prepare the bath.
The thought of soaking away the day’s troubles in hot water was ridiculously appealing. After years of straitened living at Bancavan, a bath still seemed a great extravagance.
By the time Fiona was settled behind a screen and lying back in steaming, scented water, she realized she didn’t feel nearly so crushed as she had when they’d left Trahair. Diarmid’s conviction that they would prevail lifted her spirits.
She ran the fine rose-scented soap over her breasts and couldn’t help remembering the way Diarmid’s hands had followed the same path. The memory tightened her nipples to hard, sensitive points.
Her voice was husky as she called out, “So what happens now?”
There was no answer.
“Diarmid?”
Fiona rose from the bath and wrapped a generous towel around her wet body. She stepped away from the screen. The large, opulent bedroom was empty.
***