Page 40 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Brows heavy and teeth bared, Will was feral. “I did wait.”
“Not long enough!”
“You knew I was supposed to bring weapons. Men were counting on me.”
She tried shaking him. “Iwas counting on you.”
“I left because I thought you had second thoughts.” Will huffed a noise worthy of a lion. “Why didna you write to me? An’ tell me you were with child?”
“I did. Three letters and none were answered.”
Will’s mouth was a grim line. “I didna get any of them. If I had, you know I would’ve answered you.”
Shehadtried. The need to reach Will had fueled her legs when she ran to Castle Tioram’sruins, and it had fueled her letters: the first full of longing, the second full of need, and the third full of desperation. By the time she wrote the last letter, her unborn child was gone, taking her heart with it.
“I needed you,” she said, letting go of his coat.
Will flinched. She’d thrust a dagger into the heart of the matter—Scotland or their young love. All the fiery speeches and impassioned arguments came down to that one simple thing. Her best laid plans had gone awry years ago. Trouble happened. A seasoned woman accepted this and learned. A strong woman fought back and forged her own path. Only fools and untried innocents believed life was an even field to tread.
Anger was a form of baptism. In it was the power to hone the mind. She had a duty to think of the stolen highland treasure. A duty to their kin who were hungry for what those gold livres would bring.
But she’d send this final bitter salvo. “The rebellion was first for you. Always.”
“The war was for Scotland. Our home.”
Will’s brogue was rich, the cadence of tranquil days tracking red deer and golden eagles, of tasting Western Isles sea spray, and walking through wide open glens. Clanranald MacDonald lands. Home to many. Heaven to her. She’d do whatever it took to save it. The irony—Will letting go of Scotland, and her, holding fast—was not lost on her.
“I’ve often wondered, what bothered you more?” she said, righting his coat. “The loss of Scotland? Or the loss of me?”
Will was frightening, his face pale and eyes burning, a touch of the half-crazed soul she’d found in chains at Marshalsea.
“The war divided us from the start.” His voice was a deep rumble.
“Perhaps it did, and we were too blind to see the truth.” She was sad, tired, and in need of a good night’s sleep. Cupping the taper, she walked around him and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You can come with me or find your way in the dark.”
Stubborn pride tensed his shoulders. Hers was not a carnal invitation. Will’s eyes pierced her all the same, reading her, wondering. Though near in body, Will may as well be miles and miles away. Out of reach. Forever.
How lonely.
She turned to hide what must’ve been her own blanched features and went stiffly up the stairs with Will behind her. No hint of the evening’s sensual flirtation remained. Whatever had been between them could never be resurrected. It was as dead as the dream of Scotland’s independence.
Will now knew why she was late to meet him at Castle Tioram that fateful August day when a war started, and an unborn babe was revealed. During that same war, she’d fallen in love with Clanranald MacDonald. Their tenderhearted chief, the hardy crofters, and gorgeous isles. Aunt Flora had healed her broken heart and her ailing body after she’d lost the babe. There’d been so much blood.
She eventually honored her father and married the man he had chosen, then she buried Angusthree months later when he died of a war camp fever. She’d learned, and she’d loved.
Duty burned brightest in her now. Loyalty to the end. Pure and direct, no messy emotions with those ideals. Love was a luxury she could ill afford. She’d had her chance and lost it.
Tarrying in the hall, she gave light for Will to find his way. His footfalls sounded an even tread. He would sleep alone, her part of their trade done. Tomorrow, Will would deliver the key, the first part of his promise to help the league.
The world was falling neatly back into place. As it should.
Will pushed open the door to his bedchamber and waited. Skin around his eyes softened. With his stockings and boots gone and hair half-loose, he could be a world-weary, barefoot philosopher.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “You’ve lost much and you’re itching for a fight.”
“Am I?”
Her words delivered more challenge than inquiry. Will appeared to consider them, the orange glow of a welcoming fire lighting his room and limning his silhouette. He filled the doorway as if he would impart wisdom yet hadn’t found a way.
