Page 53 of The Scot's Perfect Match
She had wanted him to fight for her for so long, but not like that.
Ava rolled to her side, curling beneath the blankets like a child. Even Freya and Poppy, with their insistent knocks and bright chatter, couldn’t coax her out of this bedchamber.
She, who had spent years scoffing at the idea of letting a man ruin her peace, was now wasting away over one.
Pathetic.
Her father had come to her door that morning, his deep voice softened with concern. “Ava, dearest, ye must at least eat something. People are beginning to ask questions.”
She’d promised him she would eat. Promised him she’d get up. But then she’d heard the faint echo of voices from the front hall. Another friend waiting for her to emerge, and she’d stayed exactly where she was.
Safely hidden from rumors and inuendo.
Her gaze drifted to the covered window; thankful she couldn't see the rolling moors she and Gavan used to ride together over. She could almost picture the two of them racing, his laughter in the wind, hers following close behind before she overtook him for the win. For one breathless instant, she let herself imagine what might have been if they hadn’t drifted apart.
If he’d kissed her years ago. If she’d let herself love him then. Her chest tightened painfully at the thoughts.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room, though her voice shook. “Never again.”
She had been a fool once and she would not be a fool twice.
No one could make her leave her bedchamber. Let the world go on without her, whispering and mocking. Ava would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her face, nor their desire of seeing her break.
And as for love?
She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound that scraped her throat. “Never again,” she whispered to the darkened room.
She was done with love. Done with Gavan Douglas. Why did declaring that make her heart ache worse?
A knock at the door broke through the heavy silence. Her maid always knocked twice before entering, but this one lingered, hesitant.
Ava pulled the coverlet higher over her head to block out the noise, the scent of lavender sachets mingling with the stale air of the room.
“Leave the tray by the door, Eleanor.” Her voice came out hoarse, more like a croak. “I’ll fetch it later.”
But the knock came again, softer this time.
She sighed. “Eleanor, leave it, please.”
The door creaked open, and it wasn’t Eleanor standing there with the breakfast tray, but Moira.
Ava sat bolt upright, her hair a wild tangle, her nightdress creased from days of neglect. “Moira. What are ye…? Ye can’t just…”
“Ye’ve ignored my notes,” Moira said gently, closing the door behind her. She wore a soft muslin morning gown, her fair hair tucked neatly under a ribboned cap, as if she’d dressed not just for the day but for courage. “Freya and Poppy said ye would no’ see them either. Ye’ve claimed the megrim, but somehow I doubt a megrim lets one write in such perfectly tidy handwriting.” She set the still steaming tray on the table and crossed to the bed. “So here I am.”
Ava pulled the quilt higher, her cheeks burning. “Ye should no’ have come. It’s, this is hardly?—”
“Hardly what?” Moira perched delicately on the edge of the mattress, studying her with a quiet steadiness that was impossible to shake off. “Hardly proper? Ava, please.” Her voice softened. “Ye’ve been locked away in here for days. I’m worried.”
“I told ye. The megrim.”
“A megrim does no’ make a woman look like she’s been crying herself to sleep.” Moira’s gaze flicked to the crumpled handkerchief on the nightstand, its lace edges still stiff with salt. “Nor does it keep her from opening the curtains.”
Ava turned her face toward the wall, wishing she could melt into it. “Go home, Moira.”
“No.”
The word was simple, but it struck like a bell.
