Page 8 of My Noble Disgrace

“Thank you,” I said, squeezing his hand in gratitude. “When you said you promised my father to keep him there, I was sure you’d meant it.”

He shook his head. “I’m the older brother, Mar. ‘Sides, I’ve learned to take anythin’ Orrin says with a grain of salt—or maybe a whole salt lick.” He broke into momentary laughter before his eyes grew serious again. “Maybe you should learn to do the same.”

My stomach tightened. “I have.”

Oliver finished his fish and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Elin told me how Orrin convinced you we’d attack if you didn’t bring Brennin. Not his finest moment, eh?”

I looked away, staring into the fire. “Nope.”

“You know why he did it, though, don’t you?”

I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want to talk about this. It only stoked my heartbroken fury.

“He’s never gotten over the guilt of losing Isla,” said Oliver simply.

My eyes shot to his. “Guilt? Why would he feel guilty that she got sick?”

“Because he couldn’t save her. Or he wasn’t a perfect husband. Or, or, or . . .” He shrugged. “There’s always somethin’ to feel guilty about when someone you love dies. It’s as natural as grief. So, knowing Orrin, he likely thought putting her House, her name, and her daughter on the throne would make it up to her. He thought he was giving you a better life.”

I intertwined my fingers, conflicted thoughts consuming me. Etna had said something like that too—that he was trying to honor my mother’s memory. But if he thought this would honor her, he understood her less than I did, even though I was only twelve when she died.

“Yeah, he lied,” said Oliver. “But maybe you shouldn’t judge him till you understand why.”

My fingers tightened into fists. “Yes, I should. He did something terrible. He lied and manipulated his own daughter! I don’t know how you can even defend him.”

“I ain’t defendin’ what he did. Onlywhyhe did it.” Oliver rested a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I brushed it off. “Well, don’t. It’s indefensible.”

“You’re tellin’ me you’ll never forgive him?” asked Oliver with a raise of his eyebrow.

I shook my head. “How could I?”

Oliver scratched his beard, then headed back to the fish basket for seconds—or fifths, more likely.

I directed my scowl back at the fire.

It took me a moment too long to realize a figure stood on the opposite side of the flames.

I glanced up, my eyes widening at the sight of Graham. I fought the urge to bolt, then took a breath and made my expression as indifferent as possible.

Graham greeted the others as if they were friends before picking up a skewer. He glanced at me for only a split second, then took a seat on the far side of the fire.

Cait’s hearty laughter emanated from my right.

I perked up, turning in her direction, searching for something—anything—to distract me from Graham and his hostile words that relentlessly repeated in my head.

Cait looked back at me, her expression sobering. She left her seat on the log and moved beside me, lifting her chin to peerover the fire at Graham. “I have to say, he doesn’t seem to be in as much danger as you’d described. Wasn’t he supposed to be trapped?”

“That’s what I expected,” I said, “but it seems my expectations don’t match reality.”

“Well,” said Cait, “that’s good . . . or not.” Her voice lowered as the implication of my words kicked in. “First talk didn’t go well, then?”

I gave her a silencing look. “Not here,” I hissed.

Lachlan moved over to the other side of Cait, reaching his arm around her.

“I’m sorry, Mara,” she said.

---