Page 43 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava forced a light laugh. “I believe we made a competent team.”
“Aye,” Ferguson said smoothly, though his eyes flicked past her to where Gavan stood, speaking with Dougal near the hearth. There was a sharpness there, quickly masked by another grin. “But competent can be so… restrained. Ye deserve more than that.”
It should have pleased her. Once, it might have. But as Ferguson’s compliments rolled on, Ava found herself thinking of how Gavan hadn’t needed to flatter her in order to impress her.
Poppy’s voice rang out, calling for coats and carriages. The party had begun to wind down. Ava made her way toward the hall, but a familiar shadow fell beside her before she could reach the door.
“Lady Ava.”
Gavan.
She tilted her head, schooling her face into composure. “Lord Darkwood. Did ye enjoy your evening?”
“About as much as I expected,” he said dryly. But then, softer, “Ye seemed to enjoy yourself.”
Her heart gave a traitorous little leap at the weight behind the words. “Perhaps I did. Charades can be surprisingly diverting.”
“Or perhaps it was the company.”
Ava blinked, caught off guard. “Was that a compliment?”
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Perhaps.”
She should have left it at that. Instead, she stopped just short of the door, turning to face him fully. “Ye watch everything like it’s a problem to be solved, Gavan. Has it never occurred to ye that sometimes there’s nothing to solve?”
“On the contrary.” He kept his gaze steady. “I think there’s always something to solve. Especially when certain people are involved.”
And there came the clash. Inevitable as the pull between them. Did he refer to Lachlan? Or to her?
“Ye canna keep treating me like I’m one of your crofters,” she said, her voice lower now, meant for him alone. “I dinna need managing.”
He stepped closer, not enough to be improper, but enough that she felt the heat of him. “Then stop giving me reasons to think ye do.”
Her breath caught. She hated that he could do this, make her feel flustered and exposed with a single sentence.
Before she could answer, Moira appeared at her elbow, cheeks pink from a conversation Ava suspected had involved McRae and announced that their carriage was waiting.
Gavan offered his arm to both Moira and Ava. After the briefest hesitation, Ava took it, feeling the solid strength of him through his sleeve. The walk to her carriage was quiet but charged. Their steps fell into that old, familiar rhythm that made her think of summers spent racing across the heather.
At the door, she turned to thank him. But the words snagged in her throat when she caught his expression. Steady, searching, like he could see straight through every polished layer she’d so carefully built.
At last, in a voice that was low and rough, he said, “Goodnight, Lady Ava."
“Goodnight, Lord Darkwood.”
Moira looked between them with a curiosity and Ava pretended not to notice. “I’ll see you soon, Moira.”
Ava climbed into her carriage, smoothing her skirts, forcing her heartbeat to settle as the door closed behind her. But as the carriage jolted forward, Ava knew there would be no calming herself tonight.
Not when she could still feel the heat of his hand beneath hers.
Not when his sharp, impossibly honest words lingered in her mind like an unanswered question.
The carriage swayed gently as it rolled away from the MacLeods’ estate, lantern light flickering against the dark velvet interior. Ava sat alone, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Gavan’s words still echoed in her head, low and unyielding: Then stop giving me reasons to think ye do. He had looked at her as if he meant it, not as if it were a game, not as if he wanted to wound her, but as if he was simply stating an unshakable truth.
The nerve of him.
