by Aileen Adams
“’Tis a good thing Alan is no longer here to hear ye say it, lass. He would have quite a bit to say in argument, and none of it ought to fall upon the ears of a nice lass such as yourself.”
She merely chuckled this time, looking once again at her hands. “I am not such a nice lass.” Not when compared to those of the clan, the women she was slowly stepping into friendship with. It was so new, untested, untried. She did not wish to misstep. She could simply not see herself as being like them, and so was certain they would not want her as part of themselves.
Not if they knew her. Not truly.
“Who are ye, then?” he found himself asking. When she cast a sharp, startled look his way, it was clear from his crestfallen expression that he regretted being so bold. “Forgive me, but I have already shared too much of myself with ye, and ye have shared so little of yourself.”
“I know. Which is the way it needs to be.”
“So ye believe.”
“So I know.” She brought the mare about and began riding away from him at a brisk, determined pace. If the women would not want her as part of their close, loving group, he would certainly never want her if he knew anything close to the truth of her nature. The past which became more despicable to her with each passing day she spent outside of Mother Cressida’s grasp.
“Why? Ye do realize that as the man who took ye into my household, who gives ye food and shelter and a few coins to take the village and spend on frivolous things that I deserve to know more about ye than simply the country of your birth and the fact that ye know how to fight.”
He thought he could get through to her with threats. Foolish man. “If you cannot trust me, you cannot trust me. I will not allow you to hold my safety over my head, for I would rather live on my own in the woods than be beholden to you.”
“Beholden to me?”
“You cannot force me,” she spat over her shoulder before bringing the mare to a full run, leaving him behind.
He might very well order her out of the keep, off the land. That was the chance she took. But it was still preferable to creating even more lies, to the struggle of keeping her lies straight.
To the longing she barely fought back whenever the impulse to tell him the full truth overwhelmed her. That was worst of all.
17
Padraig always seemed to make the wrong decision when it came to her.
If only she were easier to get on with. It seemed no matter how he tried to get along, she found a way to turn on him.
All he wished to do was know her better. He did not mean to challenge her or test her, as he’d tested her with the sword. Now, he merely longed to know her.
He’d been so certain she would share something of herself then, while they were riding and behaving so pleasantly toward one another. There’d been a warmth between them, had there not? Something real, or so he’d wished to believe.
Yet the moment he turned the questions around on her, she rode away in anger.
What was it about her that she could not share? Had he indeed made a mistake in allowing her to grow closer to him? Had he placed himself, his clan, in danger?
He could not believe it. He would not. Yet Fergus’s warning echoed in the back of his mind; Moira’s observations as to Margaret’s reticence.
His heart was heavy as he rode to the house, aware of the sense that he was being torn in two. The pull she had on him, like nothing he’d ever known. His duty to the clan, as the laird, the only duty which had ever mattered or would ever.
She was nothing. She could never be anything. They could never be anything.
The sight of Rodric and Caitlin coming out of the keep and into the courtyard did little to improve his mood, especially since they were hand-in-hand and deep in conversation. Caitlin blushed and giggled; even after years of marriage and two children, they behaved like a pair of lovestruck fools.
“Ah, we’d wondered what had become of ye during supper,” Caitlin called out with a wave of her free hand. “I believe my aunt was about to gather a group of men to search for ye.”
He would have expected nothing less from Sorcha. “Aye, all is well.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Did ye happen to see Margaret while riding? She was missing from supper as well.”
“I would not know where she is.” He dismounted, turning away from her to lead his horse to the stables. He told himself she was not laughing behind her hand. That the rest of the household was not aware of his growing fondness for the lass.
No, more than fondness. If it were merely fondness, she would not infuriate him so.
And it would not cut him to the quick to know he had offended her.
Yet he asked himself why she ought to be offended. It was he who should, truly. He was the one who took her in, while knowing nothing about her. He had taken a chance, and she had given him nothing in return but a few stories and a lot of resistance.
He was in a foul temper upon entering the keep, ignoring the nods and smiles of those around him as he strode across the entry hall and down the corridor, to his study. The door was open, causing him to hurry his step as he approached.
The sight of Margaret lowering a tray loaded with stew, bread, cheese and fruit to his work table caused his heart to clench. “Ye dinna need to serve me,” he muttered, lingering in the doorway.
“You need to eat. I bring your morning meal, do I not?” She turned toward him but kept her eyes lowered, avoiding his. “Supper had already been cleared away by the time I returned. I knew you would be hungry.”
“Thank ye. I…”
“I ought to go. Find something for myself.” She attempted to hurry past him, eyes still downcast, but he would not step aside. She may have been able to get away from him while on horseback, but he would not allow her to get away again.
She stopped, breathing fast, fists at her sides. “Allow me to pass.”
“I dinna wish for us to quarrel,” he murmured.
“Allow me to pass.”
“Margaret, I beg of ye—”
“I beg of you.” Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Do not force me to move you aside.”
The coldness of her words and the force behind them stunned him. She meant it. If she could not move him—and she could not see how she’d be capable of doing such a thing—the lass would certainly try. She had every intention of getting by him.
“Why are ye so angry? Why, when I’ve done nothing to ye but…” He sighed, shrugging in sheer hopelessness. “I dinna mean to start these quarrels. I only wished to thank ye and to tell ye how I enjoy your presence and your company. How I hate this anger ye show, when I merely wish to know ye. What is it about that which makes ye so angry? Did another man harm ye worse than you’ve already told me? I’ll kill him, so help me.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t that.”
“What, then? Margaret, please. I dinna wish to frighten ye or force ye into speaking with me, but I will not allow ye to push me aside when all I wish to do is be kind to ye.”
Her shoulders fell a bit at a time. He took this as a small victory.
When she lifted her head, her eyes finally meeting his, another victory.
Perhaps it was this victorious attitude, then, which inspired him to continue speaking. He did not think much about it prior to the moment the words came from him, and by the time he thought, it was too late.
“I am fond of ye.” It came out in a rush, in a single breath. There was no taking it back. No pretending as though it had not been said. “I dinna tell ye this to make ye uncomfortable or to force ye in any way. I am the laird, aye, but ye need not fear what I will do or say if ye tell me to go to the devil for having told ye the truth of it.”
She burst out laughing but covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head. “I do not laugh at you,” she promised, her face flushing.
At least she was laughing rather than trying to thrash him. It was a start.
“There is no future in this for us,” she whispered once her l
aughter died away and her color returned to normal. “You need the daughter of a laird, someone from a fine clan.”
“Aye. This is so.”
“And I am neither of those things,” she reminded him, as though he needed to be reminded.
“Aye. I know this.”
She searched his face with wide, questioning eyes, chewing on her full lower lip. “Why, then? Why tell me of this fondness when you know there can be nothing?”
He could not find the words to say it—instead, he closed the distance between them and took her face in his hands. She did not pull away as he’d expected her to do.
Nor did she when he leaned in, when he breathed deep of her sweet scent before brushing his lips across hers. They were sweet, too, just as he’d imagined.
What he had not imagined was her sigh, deep in her throat, an invitation to possess her. Blood surged in his veins as he took her in his arms as he’d wished to do for far too long. How he had dreamed of this moment, the two of them locked in embrace.
She returned his kiss with an intensity that surprised him, but he met her ardor with his own as his arms tightened. She sighed again, her fingers digging into his shoulders until it nearly hurt. But he would not have stopped her for anything.
He knew, finally, that she desired this as much as he had.
He would let her claw him to ribbons if she wished.
Once the mad, breathless, dizzying moment passed and they pulled back to look into the other’s eyes, Padraig knew they had just crossed a line they could never re-cross. Even if he never kissed her sweet, warm lips again, he would never be able to look upon her without remembering the joy of having done so.
She was still in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, mouth open slightly that she might breathe in quick gasps. “Forgive me if ye didna wish for me to do it,” he whispered, a bit breathless still.
Her throaty chuckle relieved him. “Did it seem to you as though I did not wish for it?”
“That is true.”
“After all,” she added, eyes twinkling, “you know it would be a simple matter for me to fend you off.”
“You could try if ye wished, though I cannot promise ye would be victorious,” he snickered. “For when my blood is up, and I want something—someone—as much as I wanted ye…”
He had said too much. The light drained from her eyes. Her body stiffened against his.
For a man who’d often prided himself on his ability to relate to others, he could not escape making a fool of himself with her. “I ought not to have said it,” he admitted.
“No, no! Do not mistake me, please. Every woman wishes to know she’s wanted.” Even so, she slid from his embrace and placed a bit more distance between them.
“Ye dinna seem like that sort of woman right now.”
She looked away, toward the fire which blazed across the room and cast her in amber light. “Perhaps… because it is one thing to want a person, but another to know anything can ever come of it. Which I believe we both know cannot be if you are to wed the sort of girl you described to me. Do you remember?”
How could he forget? “Aye. ‘Tis true. Ye are a stronger person than I, Margaret.”
She snorted. “Not so very strong.”
“Do ye wish it were not so, then?”
Her head turned, the look in her eyes all but stopping his heart. It brought to mind the sight of storm clouds building on the horizon, spreading across the sky. “Do you?”
“I wish many things were not as they are,” he admitted. “I wish for a great deal.”
“As do I,” she whispered in reply, eyes still stormy. “I will not stand in your way. I know how important it is for you to have the wife you imagine, the family you need.”
How could he take another woman as his wife when it was she he wanted? Damn his pride for tying his tongue, for without it he would have opened his heart to her then and there. He would have confessed to always having wanted her, to the way she stirred something in him no lass had ever stirred before. She had opened his eyes to a side of himself he hadn’t known existed.
She made him more of a man than he’d ever been before. He would kill anyone who thought they could touch her, for she was his.
And yet she was not.
He could only reach for her hand, hanging by her side. “I would never accuse ye of standing in my way.” He lifted her hand, touching his lips to her knuckles. Strange, that at that moment, he recalled the blood Fergus had seen on them.
There was no making sense of the two sides to her—any more than he could make sense of himself. His wanting her, his wanting something greater for the clan. The war she inspired in him.
Yet he would never regret her coming to him, not for an instant.
“I cannot vow that I will never try to kiss ye again,” he murmured, still holding her hand.
She sighed as she withdrew, backing away one slow step at a time. “I cannot vow that I will not allow you to do so.” A smile played about the corners of her mouth, shy and sly at once.
Again, she tore him in two.
Would that she would stop him.
Would that she would beg him not to stop.
Indeed, there was no making sense of himself.
18
It was as though she lived in a happy dream. There was no other way to explain the lightness in her heart, the sense that something wonderful was happening to her for the first time. Something she’d never imagined for herself.
No, never for someone such as her.
Nothing could come of it, but perhaps that was for the best. Padraig deserved a good wife, one with a name and a family and who could bring great things to him and the clan. They deserved that as well.
Everyone deserved everything. She’d simply never been so happy, not once in her life. She wished everyone could feel the sort of happiness she knew that morning as she all but danced through the corridors and nearly sang out her gladness over simply being alive.
Perhaps the knowledge that it could not last made it that much more precious. Rather than disappointing her or lessening her gladness, it presented the desire to hold her happiness close, to protect whatever it was she and Padraig had fallen into while it still existed.
Caitlin paid her the respect of only smirking when they crossed paths in the corridor. “Good morning to ye,” she murmured, one side of her mouth quirking up. She did what she might to conceal her mirth, but it was of no use.
Margaret paid no mind. Caitlin understood. They all understood, for they had all likely felt the delicious ache she currently carried in her chest. The sense that if she did not see him immediately, she would simply burst into flame.
She did not burst into flame when she entered Padraig’s study, though he was indeed missing from it. Her face fell, her shoulders sank.
“Oh,” she breathed, knowing then just how she’d looked forward to kissing him again this morning. And again, and again, until there was no choice but to pry themselves apart.
Who had she become? She snickered at herself as she placed the tray on his table and poured her tea. He’d turned her into someone who the assassin she once was would never recognize.
That entire part of her life was a memory which grew fainter with each passing day. The woman who sipped fragrant tea while looking out the window over the lands comprising Anderson territory was nothing like the one who’d waited for Earl Remington in the woods of Caistor.
And that woman, that assassin, would have scoffed at the notion of falling in love with a Highland laird.
Her hands trembled slightly at the thought, which came unbidden and made itself quite clear. She was in love with him. She, Margaret with no family name, with nothing in her life but the skills she’d spent years honing, was in love with a man.
She was even willing to give him up if need be, so long as it meant his happiness. The memory of that scroll came to mind, the one which he intended to send to the other Highland lairds in search of a bride. Though the notion of Padrai
g taking a wife turned her stomach and set her teeth on edge, she knew it was for the best.
Even if she already wished to kill the woman, whoever she might be.
The sound of rolling wheels stirred her to attention, and Sorcha waved from behind the team pulling the cart from the village. She’d driven them to Andershire yesterday in search of numerous supplies—the woman trusted no one but herself with such tasks.
Margaret supposed she would feel the same way.
Women gathered in the courtyard to help unload the bags and casks.
“What news from the village?” Alana called out as Sorcha brought the cart to a halt.
“Och, always something,” Sorcha replied, shaking her head. “It seems there shall be a second tavern soon, as there are more men moving into the village all the time. I suppose ‘tis a sign of good things to come, though I could never view the building of a new tavern as anything but a sign of the devil himself.”
“Every man needs a way to entertain himself after a hard day’s work,” Ysmaine pointed out as they walked into the keep as a group, all of them carrying supplies except for Alana. Her arms were already full of a squirming babe.
“Och, my Gavin never took to such entertaining,” Sorcha scoffed.
Caitlin giggled. “Oh? What did he do after the day’s work was done, then?”
“Never ye mind, ye cheeky thing,” Sorcha muttered with a sharp look in her niece’s direction while the rest of them chuckled.
“What else?” Moira asked when they reached the kitchen, where more pairs of hands put to use the milled grain, the flagons of wine and ale.
“Let me see…” Sorcha sighed as she tied an apron’s strings about her waist. “How could I forget? ‘Twas the talk of the village everywhere I turned. I suppose I wished to forget about it, as I grew tired of hearing of them.”
“Hearing of whom?”
“There is a pair of women in the village. Strangers, ye ken. Beautiful. No one has ever seen them before. There are tales of them being of royal blood, if ye can believe it.”