Page 48 of The Scot's Perfect Match
Ava shoved a bite of toast in her mouth to keep from having to answer.
The festival grounds buzzed with energy by midday. The green had been transformed into a riot of color and sound. Stalls lined the edges, some draped in tartan cloth selling spiced nuts or ribbons bright enough to make any debutante swoon, others offered flower crowns woven with fresh meadow blooms. Children darted between them, sticky-fingered and laughing as a fiddler’s tune curled lazily from a small stage where older girls prepared for a Highland sword dance. Ava paused near a booth selling honey cakes, lifting her skirts delicately as she stepped around a pair of jugglers who had gathered an eager crowd. This was Scotland at its finest, lively, indulgent, brimming with possibility, and she moved through it with the effortless grace of a woman accustomed to being watched.
She spotted them Gavan and Moira almost at once as they stepped down from his carriage with her maid in tow. Moira’s bright bonnet bobbed cheerfully as she took in the festival, but Gavan… Gavan was exactly as he’d been the last time she’d seen him. Steady. Watchful.
Memory flickered unbidden, the weight of his gaze during charades, his hand hovering near hers as though they’d both felt the pull and neither dared name it. Ava blinked hard, forcing herself to turn toward Poppy’s tent instead. She didn’t have the time, or the fortitude, to deal with Gavan today.
Ava had attended the solstice festival every year she could remember. Usually, she enjoyed it, the easy gaiety, the sense of community, the thrill of being at the center of it all. Today, however, her enjoyment was strained; her smile was a little too forced.
Moira as radiant in a soft yellow gown. She stood with her arm looped through Ava's and surveyed the stalls. “This is wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Ye’ll love the dancing,” Ava promised. “And the flower-crown contest is such fun.”
Moira laughed softly. And for a brief moment, Ava felt reassured. Moira had been glowing since the garden party. Basking in the fact that her attention was caught in the gentle pull between Lachlan Ferguson’s charm and Asher McRae’s steady kindness. It had all seemed so manageable. Ava nudging pieces into place, the board hers to command.
Lachlan Ferguson was, of course, in his element, leaning against a tent pole, surrounded by two laughing ladies and an admiring squire, spinning some story that drew them all closer. It was effortless for him, being the center of attention, and Ava felt a pang of satisfaction knowing she’d placed Moira in his orbit. The pang was followed, almost immediately, by a prickle of unease she couldn’t name.
Asher McRae, by contrast, stood off to the side near the ribbon stall, head bent in quiet conversation with an older woman from the village, carrying her purchases for her as though it were nothing. It was endearing. Safe. And Ava wondered, for the briefest moment, if she’d been too quick to dismiss the quieter man in favor of the charming one.
Ava had nearly convinced herself that everything was as it should be: Moira, radiant at her side; Poppy, a vision in pink playing hostess to a cluster of admirers; Lady Drummond already making grand pronouncements about the theme of refreshments for the assembly. Even Freya had found her way to a shady bench, watching the chaos like a cat tracking prey. Ava allowed herself a small, quiet breath of pride. Every piece was in its place.
Until the unexpected happened near the refreshment tent.
Ava had gone ahead to greet Poppy, leaving Moira just out of earshot near a stand selling sugared nuts. As Ava turned back, she saw Lachlan Ferguson leaning casually against the tent post, laughing with two other gentlemen.
“Miss Douglas,” one of them said. “Ye’ve been keeping her busy.”
Lachlan’s grin was effortless. “Oh, Moira Douglas? She’s harmless enough. Sweet. I’ve been humoring her because she has no’ yet realized she’s out of her depth.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the group, and Ava’s stomach dropped.
Ava froze, her gaze just behind the men where Moira stood watching, listening, her face reddening as the words reached her.
The sugared almonds held aloft, frozen in Moira’s hand, forgotten as color drained from her face. Her fingers clenched, and for a moment, Ava thought Moira might cry. Instead, she turned on her heel, her skirts swishing sharply as she strode away, head bowed so no one would see her expression.
Ava felt the blood rush to her face, hot and furious. She wanted to claw the smile off Lachlan Ferguson’s perfectly composed mouth. How dare he be so rude and careless about Moira’s feelings, and within earshot of anyone who cared to hear? Gavan’s warnings came back sharp and unrelenting then.
The delight that had carried her through the morning cracked.
“Moira!” Ava called, shoving past Lachlan before he could even register her glare.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ava spotted Gavan standing near the edge of the crowd, his dark coat making him look like the only stationary thing in a sea of motion. His gaze was fixed on Moira, then on her, and for a fleeting second, Ava thought he might cross the green and demand to know what had happened. She turned away before their eyes could meet. She couldn’t take his scrutiny now, not when her own shame was burning so hot it could set her alight.
By the time she caught up, Moira had ducked behind a booth piled with baskets, her breaths shallow, her eyes too bright.
“Dearest—”
“Dinna.” Moira’s voice trembled, though she tried for composure. “Please, Ava. Dinna make excuses for him. I heard what he said.” She shook her head, frantic.
Ava reached for her friend, but Moira flinched back with a shake of her head. Ava's hands dropped at her sides, and she felt helpless.
“He made a fool of me, Ava. And I...” Moira's voice broke. “I believed him.”
The admission was a knife cutting into Ava's heart, because she had been the one to encourage Moira in pursuing a match with Lachlan Ferguson.
This was all her fault.
All around them, the festival carried on, the world oblivious to Moira's pain. The humiliation she'd suffered at Ferguson's cutting remarks. Moira kept her gaze fixed on the grass, her arms wrapped tight around herself, as if holding the pieces of her composure together.
