Page 13 of Rescued By the Highland Warrior
Moira traced one hand over a nearby desk, and as expected, her fingers were covered with dust.
“I stopped anyone from cleanin’ the place,” Roderick said by way of explanation. “I didnae want people in here, messin’ wi’ me faither’s things.”
“Ye did well,” Moira said, her eyes adjusting to the low lighting of the room. “It is much easier fer me tae tell if somethin’ is amiss without the place being tampered wi’.”
“Aye,” Roderick agreed, “although I just didnae want anyone touching his things.”
Moira nodded, moving behind the dusty desk.
“Bring that lantern here, Roderick,” her words short and to the point as something caught her eye.
Roderick moved to her, the lantern casting a warm glow onto the small wooden desk. There were scattered papers that covered its surface, and Moira edged closer, her eyes examining with careful precision.
“What is it, Moira? What have ye found?”
“Did yer faither enjoy writing?” She asked.
Roderick shifted his weight, his expression skeptical. “Not beyond his normal correspondence. Me faither wasnae kent tae be a man o’ words. He preferred action over talk. Always did.”
Moira raised her brow and gestured her hand toward something at the far-right corner of the desk. “Aye,” she said, “yet there’s a pen still dipped in ink right here on his desk.”
Roderick’s eyes darted to where she had pointed, and he brought the lantern closer to it. “That’s strange, what dae ye think it means?”
“It looks as though he intended tae write somethin’ but never got the chance tae. As though perhaps he stopped himsel’, fer whatever reason. I dinnae ken.”
The wind howled and rattled against the window at the far-side of the room, breaking the silence, but Moira’s thoughts continued to race, her mind working like the turning gears inside a clock.
“An’ during the time of his death, where were ye?” She asked.
“I was away,” he sighed, his voice filled with regret. “I was visitin’ one o’ the local towns on business.”
“What type o’ business?”
“We were explorin’ ways tae increase grain production ahead o’ the approachin’ winter,” Roderick explained, his tone thoughtful. “The last few years have brought severe food shortages, due tae harsh winters, an’ we were determined nae tae see the clan suffer again.”
Moira nodded. There was no denying that he cared for his clan, and she knew that not all laird’s did. It was a good quality, she thought, one that she respected.
Aside from the pen in the ink, there wasn’t much that pointed to any other potential clues inside the late laird’s chambers. But she continued to look around, hoping to present Roderick with something more.
For when she looked back at him, she noticed that he was also scanning the room, his gaze looking over the worn, forgotten space. But the emotions behind his eyes were different from hers, she couldn’t help but be touched by the underlying rawness he was working so hard to disguise.
Moira knew how to read people, and she saw the pain behind his stoic expression. A lot of pain, mixed with confusion and sorrow.
She didn’t want to feel for him, but she did. He looked tired, and she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t anticipated: empathy, perhaps, or something more.
“Lost in yer thoughts are ye?” She asked, her tone a contrast to the quiet darkness of the space.
“Nae more than usual,” he admitted. “Have ye noticed anything else of value, any idea o’ something amiss?”
Moira waited for a beat, before responding. “The conditions are far from ideal. ‘Tis rather dark, but I assure ye, Roderick, I’m collectin’ all the information I can.”
He nodded.
Moira almost expected Roderick to demand that she remain focused but he stayed silent, and they both stood, with their backs against the table, staring out the window at trees waving in the wind. Suddenly, the room felt unusually still.
“It is very windy,” she said, hoping to coax a reaction from him.
“Aye,” he said, his voice low, staring at the same view Moira was, although she was certain that his mind was somewhere else.
