Page 62 of The Scot's Perfect Match
The words hung between them like the toll of a church bell.
Heatherfield’s brows rose slightly, but enough to make Gavan’s pulse pound harder. “At last,” he said after a pause, leaning back with a sigh.
Internally, Gavan jolted, by some miracle remaining still on the outside. “At… last?”
Heatherfield let out a snort. “My lad, I’ve known for years. I saw it when ye two were children, how she looked at ye, and ye at her. I wondered when one of ye would gather the courage to do something about it.”
The entire Highlands had been pondering the same question, it would seem. “I should have come sooner,” Gavan admitted, his voice low.
“Perhaps,” Heatherfield said, steepling his fingers. “But I’m a patient man when it comes to my daughter’s happiness. Tell me, what has changed?”
Gavan hesitated, contemplating just how to explain. It wasn’t so much that anything had changed, but rather his eyes had been opened. That he’d spent years burying what he felt for Ava under duty, under fear, under the weight of what-ifs, and that one impulsive kiss had set it all aflame?
“I’ve stopped lying to myself,” he said finally. “About how I feel for her. About how long I’ve felt it. When my father died, there was so much to do… Still is. I didna think I had time for… courting. But I canna wait forever.” Not when someone else might swoop in and steal her away.
Heatherfield studied him for a long, musing moment. At last, he nodded. “About time.”
The words hit with unexpected force, easing something tight in Gavan’s chest.
Heatherfield rose, groaning as he did so and rubbing a sore spot on his lower back. “Stay here. I’ll fetch Ava.”
Gavan nodded, left alone with the crackle of the fire, his own hammering pulse, and the thoughts racing in his mind.
He stood, unable to keep still, adjusting his cuffs for the third time, tugging at his cravat, and cracking his neck. He glanced at the flowers where he’d placed them on a table. My god, what had he been thinking to bring so many? There were at least three dozen in the bunch, of various colors, because he didn’t know which she’d love more. Foolish, dolt. She loved pink roses. He considered leaving them, then thought better of it. He had so little to offer her, at least this might bring her a moment of pleasure.
He was still rehearsing the words in his head when the door opened again, to reveal Ava standing beneath the frame. Her father had not returned with her, but the door was left wide, and no doubt the man stood just out of view.
Ava stepped into the drawing room like a vision, dressed in a mint gown that made her skin glow and her dark hair shine. Her expression, however, was not so soft, guarded, poised, that familiar mask she wore when she refused to let the world see her pain.
“Lord Darkwood,” she said, her voice careful, as she glanced at her maid who settled with some knitting by the window.
He bowed slightly, then, remembering the ridiculous bouquet, snatched it up for her. “Lady Ava. These are for ye.”
She took them without a word, her gloved fingers brushing his for the briefest moment, a touch that burned straight through him.
“And this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. “I believe ‘tis yours.”
Her lips parted in an O of surprise as her gaze flicked to the lace, then back to him. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and a wash of various emotions flitted over her lovely features.
“Thank ye,” she said at last, softly enough that it sounded almost like surrender.
For a moment, they simply stood there, two people caught between past and future, the firelight gilding the edges of everything they couldn’t yet say.
Gavan had faced down men with titles, an outlaw once or twice, angry crofters, and gentlemen with grudges older than both of them. But standing there, waiting for Ava to speak, he’d never felt more in danger of losing his life.
The drawing room fell into a tension-filled quiet. Ava listened to the faint tick of the clock on the mantel, beating in time with her heart. She was too nervous to sit down. And Gavan still stood before her, clutching the enormous bouquet and her handkerchief.
She gestured toward the settee, her hostess instincts leaping to the rescue despite her nerves' attempt to thwart her. “Shall I ring for tea?”
He shook his head, lips hitching into a slight smile. “No. I thought… perhaps we could try something more your style.”
Ava lifted her brow in question. “My style?”
“Archery.” His playful gaze held hers, steady and sure. “A bow and arrow, in the yard. Unless ye’d rather sit in here and let me fumble through small talk over porcelain cups.”
Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that hadn’t come close to being on the list. “Ye want me to shoot with ye?”
“Aye, my lady, I do.”
