Page 65 of The Wrong Bride
And she thought of what she’d overheard, that Dermot was unhappy she’d notified Hugh about the raid without consulting him. She realized she’d made that decision without dwelling on it, letting her instincts take over. More and more she was trusting herself, taking for granted that her decisions would be accepted. She couldn’t control much about her situation, but she was learning to appreciate what control she had. And when her decisions were met with acceptance and respect? It was a heady feeling.
But the decision to bypass Dermot might havecost her her chance to have him listen to her story objectively. Why would he want to go to Hugh at her side, privately, when he could embarrass both of them by revealing the truth to the entire clan?
When the door opened and Hugh walked in, freshly washed and shaved after days in the mountains with his men, even seeing the scar on his chin gave her a soft feeling of tenderness. God, keeping herself distant was going badly.
And then he smiled at her, crooked and endearing, and her reaction was a deep pleasure that was also a pain, right in her heart. Talking, she had to keep talking, or she would run to him to be swept up into his arms. She would forget the future and the risks. How could she have fallen for the man who’d kidnapped her? The man who could never be her husband?
He cocked his head. “Ye’re giving me a strange look.”
“Am I?” she asked, forcing a lightness to her voice as she went to pour him a goblet of wine. But of course that meant approaching him, but she did so, full of trepidation and yearning. When he took the wine and saluted her with it before taking a sip, she asked, “I know the hunt was successful as far as the meat was concerned, but did it go well in . . . other ways?”
“Other ways?”
“You and your clansmen, you and Alasdair . . .”
“Are ye asking if we were good little laddies and started no fights?” he asked with faint sarcasm.
She sighed. Whywasshe asking about this? Or was she simply delaying? “I’m being silly, I know. We women think more about everyone having no conflict.”
“Ye’re not silly,” he said softly.
He cupped her face with one palm, and a shiver moved through her. It had been a long time since it was a shiver of fear. She stepped away, forcing a smile, and poured herself some of the wine.
Hugh stared for a moment into the fire as he sipped his wine, before saying, “Alasdair and I will return to our old ways someday. He is still having difficulty with me ‘usurping his role,’ or whatever he believes I’ve done. As if I shouldn’t lead our men in their search for justice. But he’s been here all these years and knows the men—as he points out to me. And I agree. I’ve promised to take that into consideration more.”
“It’s a start.”
“Now tell me how things went while I was gone. Did I hear you speaking Gaelic?”
He sat down in the cushioned chair before the fire, which eased her trepidation. She took the chair opposite him.
“‘Speaking’ is not how I’d term my use of Gaelic,” she answered wryly. “Maggie is helping me learn a few words.”
“We’ll have ye feeling more like a Highlander in no time.”
She nodded, knowing it would be far too easy. “My parents denied me a part of my heritage, and it does feel good to learn what it’s like to be Scottish. I like the stories the old men tell at night, and the superstitions Mrs. Wallace swears by. I was a little put off by how distant all the shops I take for granted are now—it seemed like my way of life was gone. But it was very thoughtful of you to send a tailor.” She spread her skirts wide. “My new gowns are lovely.” The only way she’d been able to tolerate their making was knowing someone else would have use of them someday.
His eyes shone as they studied her. “Ye look bonny. That deep green matches your eyes. I’d told him to look for that.”
“You did not.”
“I did,” he said, hand over his heart.
“I appreciate you thinking about my comfort. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a poet.”
Good Lord, she was teasing and flirting now. It was so easy with him. The pain of it was sharp, bringing on a grief she hadn’t anticipated. She could fall truly in love with him, and was sliding down the slope toward it.
He smiled. “I’m not a poet. I simply appreciate fine eyes.”
She could get lost in his. To stop herself, sheasked, “What do you know about Maggie and Owen?”
He frowned. “My sister and the heir to Aberfoyle? Why do ye even link their names together?”
“Because she asked me about him, if he’d married.”
His frown intensified. “I ken little except that my mother and Maggie used to attempt an acquaintanceship with your family. It was awkward and eventually abandoned.”
“What about when you were at university? Maggie was maturing into a young woman then. I get the feeling that something else happened.”
