Page 33 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Gavan, gritted his teeth, forcing the recollections away, hoping doing so would help him remain in control of this conversation. “We were children,” he stated simply.
Her brows lifted in amusement, as if she knew the game he played. “And now we’re dull, my lord?”
Dinna take the bait, he told himself. “Nay. Now, we know better than to be so reckless,” he said.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Ye sound older than my father.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “And ye sound exactly as ye did then, determined to ride headlong into trouble.”
Her hand tightened on the reins. “If ye’ve come to lecture me again about Mr. Ferguson, ye may as well dismount and hand me your sermon in writing. It would save us both the trouble.”
His jaw worked. This was the moment. He could pull the letter from his coat, show her Malcolm’s words, force her to see that he wasn’t just brooding or jealous or whatever other name she wanted to give it.
But the way she looked at him, bright, unguarded, flushed from the wind, made him pause. It was the same look she’d given him years ago, on these same hills, before everything between them had grown sharp and complicated.
“No’ today,” he said finally, his voice rougher than intended.
Her eyes narrowed. “No’ today? So ye are here to lecture me, but ye’ve decided to spare me until tomorrow? How generous.”
He met her gaze with steady and unflinching eyes. “No, Ava. I’m here because—” He stopped himself. Because what? Because he couldn’t stay away? Because every time he thought of Ferguson’s hand brushing hers, he wanted to burn the world down?
“Because ye need to be careful,” he finished, the words clipped.
Her chin lifted, the teasing gone from her expression now. “Ye make it sound like I’m the one in danger.”
“Perhaps ye are.”
The words hung between them, thick with warning. He wanted to shove the letter burning a hole in his pocket into her hands. To let the proof of ink speak for itself. But still, he didn’t move.
She stared at him for a long beat, something flickering in her expression. Curiosity? Confusion? Something softer? Then she laughed lightly, though it rang a touch too hollow. “Ye’ve grown far too dramatic for morning conversation.”
“Or perhaps,” he said quietly, “ye’ve forgotten how to hear someone who is no’ telling ye exactly what ye want.”
That silenced her.
The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant call of a skylark.
And in that quiet, his gaze dropped, against his will, to her mouth.
It would be so easy. To close the distance between their horses, to lean forward, to claim the thing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for years.
Gavan swallowed and forced his eyes up, breaking the spell with an incredible amount of effort. “Enjoy your ride, Ava.”
And before he could betray himself further, he turned his horse toward the hills, leaving her staring after him, refusing to look back.
The hooves of his stallion struck a steady rhythm against the packed earth as he guided the horse toward the hills, away from Heatherfield Castle, away from her. But no matter how far he rode, the letter in his pocket felt heavier than iron.
“Gavan!”
Her voice carried after him, sharp and clear on the wind. He told himself he’d imagined the rest, but it came anyway, faint but cutting. “Running away, like always!”
The words hit with a familiarity that hollowed him out. He was fifteen again, astride a younger, wilder horse, watching her at the edge of the orchard after one of their endless arguments. She’d shouted those very words at his retreating back then, too, her cheeks flushed, her fists balled in outrage when he’d chosen silence over saying the thing they’d both been teetering toward.
He hadn’t turned back that day either. And now, years later, she still knew exactly where to aim to wound him.
Malcolm’s letter burned against his chest like a brand, demanding to be shared, demanding action. Yet he couldn’t give it to her. Not yet.
The wind caught at his coat, and he spied the fields stretching endlessly before him. All he could feel was the weight of what he carried. The truth, unspoken and waiting.
