Page 5 of The Highlander's Captured Bride
“Ethan, please,” he murmured, and she nodded.
“Ethan then,” she amended, “and please, call me Violet. How close were ye and yer brother?”
“Very.” His eyes were on the flickering fire, and he remembered a specific day. Finley was handing him his first steel sword at fourteen, after he had excelled in the wooden one. “He was me best friend and worst tormentor. He made sure to swim with me every mornin’ when we were bairns, but made sure to flip porridge in me face when we ate. As we grew, he helped me ride me first horse but prided himself in trouncing me at sword fighting.”
“Sounds like he loved ye,” Violet mused. “A little violent but I suppose that is what brothers do.”
A servant came forward and laid the food on the table. Violet looked down. “Arenae ye going to eat too?”
“Nay,” he sighed. “I have nae appetite. Please, eat yer fill.”
She reached for the warm milk and sipped it before looking at the cup clasped in her hands. “I ken what if feels like…” her sad tone had his eyes flicking to her and then down to her bottom lip that she was worrying. “When me mother died, I felt like a part of me had been ripped away, a corner of me heart shattered and would never be mended.”
“When was that?” Ethan gently prodded. He did not want to rake up any bad memories, but he had a feeling that she had come to some peace with her mother’s death.
“Sixteen years ago, when I was four,” she said with a wry smile. “Me Faither was devastated.”
A quick adding up, he realized Violet was twenty, six years younger than he was. He watched her avoid eye contact with him and how she trailed her eyes down at her untasted food. Violet was a grown woman, but he could bet she was pure, and untouched.
He tried to ignore the flash of warmth he had felt for her and began to fight his attraction for her, as it felt wrong.
This is nay the time or place for this… me brother was just killed.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His mind ran onto his mother who was very faint-hearted and prone to nervous hysterics at time. When they had found Finley dead, his father had made the mistake of telling her directly instead of spoon-feeding it to her. She had flown into hysteria and the healers had rushed to give her some sleeping tea and she was probably still asleep to this late hour.
“I took on a lot of responsibilities then…” Violet’s tone was far away as if mired in her memories. “I learned to cook and clean while following him on his cases…” she laughed softly. “The things I’ve seen over the years…”
His curiosity was prodded, “Like what?”
The call came for supper and she postponed getting into the details. “We can speak after.”
He stood to hold out her chair and she gifted him with a beautiful smile. He took her into the main hall, one that usually had a constant air of cheer inside and was now sober and saddened. As they neared the dais, he made sure to look at Miss Violet, whose face showed wonder, curiosity, and sympathy.
The high table was spread with a blue cloth, and two thick tallow candles spaced at points where all who were eating could see. The fireplaces were bright and flickering and so were the candles, but the food was not coming out yet. He met inquisitive gazes as they sat but no one came forward. He took his place and trained his eyes on the doorway where his father was bound to come out from.
“Who is that?” Violet murmured, and his eyes flicked to the direction she was looking in and saw a slender form winding slender form through the tables and people in the great hall.
“‘Tis me uncle,” he said standing to greet him. Callum MacFerson stepped up and Ethan embraced him. “Welcome. ‘Tis sad to have ye come on such a sad situation.”
Callum—thirteen years younger than his father of three-and-fifty years—was a traveler and a scholar. His dark blue eyes were similar to Balgair’s and his hair was lighter. His uncle was the voice of reason in his family, always calm and controlled, unlike his father, who was brusque and impulsive. They were the antithesis of each other but balanced enough that they could make the lairdship prosperous.
When his brother’s wife had shown hysteria, Callum had voluntarily traveled to England—in the middle of a harsh winter—to source a revolutionary brew of sherry wine and Indian opium to calm her. The man had a heart of gold, and Ethan felt very fortunate to have him in their lives.
“Uncle, I’m so happy to see ye,” he said. “Was the journey arduous?”
“Nae at all.” Callum’s voice sounded like a more cultured English tone, but the rumbling highland brogue was still heard. “But the reason for it was distressing. Who is the lovely young lady? Nephew, are ye courting again?”
Pulling away, Ethan laughed at the light tease. “Nay, Uncle, she is the daughter of Mister O’Cain, the investigator Faither brought in to help with this troubling situation. Miss Violet, this is me uncle, Callum MacFerson, Uncle, Miss Violet O’Cain.”
As the man sat, his father and Mister O’Cain came into the room. From the distressing look on his father’s face, he knew that they had not found much. Both men came to the table and sat, with his father sending for some wine.
“Dae ye ken this is the right time to be drinking, Balgair?” Callum asked, calmly.
“When ye lose a son like I did this morning, onlythencan ye lecture me on what to do,” his father snapped as a woman came with the wine. “I’ll have as much wine as I want.”
Other servants came with troughs of food, stew, platters of bread, and jugs of water and wine. Ethan looked between his father and uncle, breathing a soft sigh of relief when no more barbs were traded over the table.
“Faither?” Violet asked. “Did ye find anything in the room?”
