Page 21 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Chapter Six
Later that evening…
Digby opened the door, his rheumy eyes flaring wide. “Mr. MacLeod, welcome back, sir.”
Rory hesitated. “I hope you will overlook my…brusqueness…from earlier this evening.”
The butler’s face was a brilliant example of forgiveness. “There’s nothing to overlook, sir. We all muddle through our days, some better than others.” Digby’s cotton-thick brows pressed gently. “You are family now, and that is all that matters.”
Guilt nabbed Rory.Poor sods.The household was all aflutter over the false engagement.
What would they do when it ended? Disappointing the elder servant niggled Rory. Deeply.
“Help me with this,” he said gruffly, setting evergreen branches into the butler’s arms. “I have some ideas I want to discuss with you. Ideas for Epiphany and such.”
Digby’s eyes brightened. “Epiphany? That is excellent news, sir.”
Holiday joy was a genuine gift Rory could share, though it didn’t lessen the murkiness pooling inside him.
“There’s no sap to ruin your livery,” he said, before he retrieved a larger bundle from the ground.
“Thank you for your concern, sir.”
Some fussing went on. Digby, of course, the older man was pleased, waxing nostalgic about past Twelfth Night celebrations while negotiating his bundle of evergreens.
Rory entered, kicked the door shut, and wiped his boots. He’d inserted himself in Sabrina’s home and shattered the woman’s peace. His presence assured it. Her home and fledgling brewery would become charred ruins, figuratively speaking.
The second he kissed her changed his course.
But the moment he claimed her on the castle grounds changed hers.
A whisper warned himAre you willing to let her suffer?
He should leave now. Go to the Hebrides or Spain—anywhere but here. He squeezed his eyes shut, barely hanging on.
Hours ago, the four people who served Sabrina had fluttered with happiness. Their day in Rockville done, they’d come home. A roast awaited them. An excellent dinner, but Rory couldn’t stomach it. The cheer jarred him. Sensing dark clouds, the servants’ faces showed a mix of emotions—crestfallen and confused. Their mistress was the same.
Crawford…
Rory carried the damage that officer had done. It was always with him. Because of it, he was acutely aware of being the hulking beast who’d ruined Eden House’s joyful night. He’d hied off, as a man does when confronted by his past.
Hours, he’d been gone.
He ran the black filly. Fast. Hard. Ripping through low lying mist. When she was spent and lathered, he’d leaped off her and charged a fallow field at breakneckspeed as if the devil chased him. He ran and ran, his feet beating and punching the ground, until his lungs swelled with pain and night’s dampness covered him.
Falling on his knees, he’d roared. His bellow did not cleanse him.
Nothing could.
So, there he sat, alone, the stars twinkling above him. Thousands of them. He stared at the heavens, angry, panting. Sweat trickling down his spine. Old wounds resurfaced, and he had no idea what to do with them.
Killing Crawford isn’t out of the question.
Head hanging low, fists grinding into his thighs, he’d entertained that thought more times than he could count. Drawing blood could not quench his loss. Nor would he endanger Sabrina.
Icy fear gripped him. He shut his eyes. He’d protect her—even from himself.
“Why am I here?” His raspy yell rang loudly.
