Page 15 of Unforgotten
“I handled things badly … in the past,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “If I could have my time again, I’d do things differently.”
Gavin remembered that he’d planned to leave this conversation till they arrived at Scorrybreac—but now seemed like the right time.
Ella’s face went taut. “I don’t want to talk about the past.” Her voice turned brittle. “It is dead to me … I serve the Lord now.”
Gavin leaned forward, snaring her gaze with his. “But there are some subjects that should be aired. Our past is like a festering wound; it needs to be lanced or it will only poison yer time at Scorrybreac Castle.” When Ella didn’t reply, he continued. “I want ye to know that I have lived with regret, every day of my life since that afternoon in the clearing. I hurt ye greatly, and I’m sorry for it.”
“It’s too late for this, Gavin.” The coolness of her voice was a knife to his heart—and yet it was the first time she’d addressed him by his first name since they’d been reunited. “Like I said, the past is dead.”
Gavin swallowed. “Ye left Scorrybreac so quickly. I never had the chance to say goodbye.”
A nerve flickered in her cheek as she stared back at him. “Ye didn’t deserve it.”
“I did my duty,” he replied, his voice heavy, flat. “I never wanted to hurt ye, but I could see no way out of it. As the first-born son, I felt I had responsibilities … I couldn’t disappoint my family.”
“Aye, ye could have,” she whispered, looking away from him. “It would have cost ye, but ye could have gone against them.”
Gavin drew in a sharp breath. At last there was a crack in her façade; he’d started to wonder if memories of their shared past affected her at all.
“They would have disowned me,” he pointed out. “Would ye have wed a pauper?”
“Aye,” she replied, her voice barely audible. She still refused to meet his gaze. “It wasn’t yer title that interested me.”
“Ye say that now, but—”
“Enough.” Ella’s choked command splintered the night. “Ye made yer choice, MacNichol … and I made mine. It’s water under the bridge now; let us speak no more of it. My life now belongs to Christ.”
7
Scorrybreac
THE SIGHT OF Scorrybreac Castle, after so many years, made Ella catch her breath. Drawing up Monadh upon the rise of the last hill before the stronghold, she let her gaze drink the castle in.
So many memories.
And despite the suddenness of her departure, most of them had been pleasant.
When they’d come to live at Scorrybreac, Ella had loved it. The MacNichol clan-chief had been a jolly, red-faced man with a booming laugh, so different from Morgan Fraser, the chieftain of the Frasers of Skye. The inhabitants of Talasgair, the Fraser stronghold, had all minded their chief, for he could be harsh and had a mercurial temper.
She remembered how beautiful she’d thought this castle’s setting—perched out on a promontory, cliffs at its back and the Sound of Raasay before it. Scorrybreac’s bulk stretched in a long oval, hugging the shore.
It was still as lovely today, with the MacNichol pennant flying from the keep, the sun glittering on the water behind it. Another warm day had followed them north, and the last of the evening sun was setting behind the mountains that thrust up to the west. Soon dusk would settle.
“Is it as ye remember?” MacNichol pulled his grey mare up next to her.
“Aye.” Ella replied softly, deliberately not looking his way. She’d avoided eye-contact with Gavin all day, and had been grateful that he’d had the sense to avoid conversing with her.
Last night’s exchange had made them both wary.
Ella’s gaze slid over the high granite curtain wall that encircled the stronghold, before she took in the thatched roofs of the settlement before it. “The village looks bigger though.”
“It has grown in recent years.” She caught the edge of pride in his voice. “We’ve had a number of folk move here from other areas.”
They rode into Scorrybreac village, along a wide road that cut through a patchwork of tilled fields. Indeed, the area looked more prosperous than Ella remembered. It didn’t surprise her that Gavin ruled well. His father, although a gentle-hearted man, hadn’t been cut out for the role of clan-chief. And his shrewish wife had long pressured him to raise the taxes on the folk who farmed their lands.
There were still men and women out, cottars working the land. An elderly man, who’d been reaping barley, leaned on his scythe and raised a hand in greeting.
Gavin waved back.
