She'd been in her great-uncle Humphrey's care since her mother died. It'd been just the two of them for some time, and she knew that, after supper, her uncle would be found in one place, and one place only. Marjorie walked in and headed straight for the library, Cormac stalking silently at her heels.

Though the room had high ceilings, its dark paneled wood and rows of leather-bound tomes made it feel smaller than it actually was. There were only a few candles and a fireplace, and warm light danced and flickered, cutting swaths of orange through the thick black shadows. “Uncle!” she cried as she entered.

Humphrey bent over a book, his reading glass in hand, mouthing silently to himself. His hair was a fine, fuzzy halo of white atop his head. Her uncle was getting on in years, and the sight of him gave her a pang.

“Uncle?” she said again, walking to him with outstretched hands.

Humphrey looked up, a finger marking his place in his book. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus, but after a moment's perplexed goggling, the man smiled broadly. A splotch of ink stained his cheek with an indigo-black oval. “Marjorie, dearest.”

A clock chimed the late hour, and her brow furrowed, part of her aware of Cormac looming uneasily in the shadows. “Shouldn't you be abed? It's so late, and you know sitting for too long in your chair is no good for your gout.”

“Aye, I'm going, I'm going. But I'm afraid I've misplaced my Botanicals again.” He rifled through his cluttered desktop, moving piles on top of piles. “Do you know where volume four is?” Shaking her head, she shot Cormac a wry smile and walked to the far corner of the library. She stepped on a small stool, reaching for a thin sheaf of papers bound by a leather cord. “It's between volumes three and five, as it always is.”

“Oh Marjorie, dear, what would I do without you?” Humphrey beamed, taking the manuscript from her. He gently untied the cord, his face softening with relief. “But whatever brings you here at this hour? You can't simply have sensed that I needed your assistance.”

“You know how I cannot stay away from you, sir,” she jested. She plopped on the edge of his desk and began to straighten his piles. “I've just now returned. And I wanted you to know I'd arrived back safely.”

“But… back from where?” The old man bore a look of good-natured bewilderment. “You were away?” Cormac saw Marjorie's shoulders slump just the slightest bit, and anger washed over him. Could her uncle truly not even have noticed that she'd been absent from the house?

“Yes, Uncle. I've been away. Visiting the MacAlpins. But Gregor told me he sent word. Did you not get his message?” Marjorie unearthed a small envelope from one of his stacks.

“Och, girl,” — Humphrey took the letter from her hand — “you know I can't find a thing without you. But where did you say you were?” He glanced at Cormac, seeming to see him for the first time. “You visited a gentleman?”

“No. Well… yes. I suppose. But not like that.” She stopped fiddling with his papers to look her uncle in the eye. “Not a gentleman. Just Cormac.”

Not a gentleman. Cormac frowned. He didn't know whether to view it as a compliment or an insult.

“Cormac MacAlpin?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Truly?” Cormac gave a brusque but respectful nod. “Lord Keith.”

“Come here, lad. Step into the light.” Humphrey cleared his throat roughly and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cough into.

Stepping closer to the firelight, Cormac could see that the years hadn't been entirely kind to the old man. He was thicker at the waist than was healthy, and Cormac wondered how often he left his desk.

He supposed he should make polite chatter, asking about Humphrey's never-ending scholarly investigations, but the sight of him so aged stuck in Cormac's craw. What would Marjorie do after her uncle's death? The man hadn't even known she'd been gone. Was there anyone who looked out for her?

“But it is you.” Humphrey adjusted his glasses. “A man grown now! And with the look of your father, I daresay.

And yet nothing like the man, I'm sure,” he added quickly.

Cormac didn't care to think what he'd meant by that last statement. “Aye, and as a man grown, I couldn't allow Marjorie to make the long ride home by herself.”

What he wanted to add was, “Unlike you, who let her embark on a day's journey, alone.” But then Cormac gritted his teeth, ashamed that, were it not for his family, he'd have allowed that very thing.

“Hm.” Humphrey absentmindedly rubbed the crown of his head, his joviality momentarily faded. There was a slight tremor in the man's gestures, in the pursing of his lips and the wavering of his hand, making him seem frail, despite his weight. “Well, I insist you stay.”

“I'm afraid I cannot—”

“Of course he'll stay.” Marjorie was at his side, her hand on his arm. Her touch scorched him, and Cormac forced himself not to flinch away.

“Angus will show you a room,” Humphrey said, nodding at a wizened footman hovering just outside the door.

“Oh, good evening, Angus,” Marjorie said warmly.

Cormac also nodded a greeting. Angus had been in her uncle's employ for as long as he could remember.

But he was losing focus. He'd seen Marjorie safely home, and it was time for him to find a room elsewhere.

“Really, Humphrey, I canna—”

“Cormac MacAlpin.” Marjorie's grip cut into his arm, startling him to silence. “You have ridden all day, and now you will rest.”

He glanced down, taking in her profile. Her jaw was set, and her vivid blue eyes glittered in the ambient light.

She was thinking of his comfort. And yet there was no one in the world who seemed to be doing the same for her.

He didn't know why he was fighting the invitation. He'd be just as happy to be spared the hassle of finding a room at this late hour. There was nothing improper about taking Humphrey up on his hospitality.

Cormac decided to let himself get swept along in Marjorie's undertow. Just this once.

He kept his mouth shut, and amid bids for good nights, let her tug him from the room.

It wasn't until later, by the fire, that he regretted his decision. Regretted it deeply. His eyes burned from staring at the flames, and yet naught could dispel the memories that played over and over in his mind.

Him and Ree racing through the house at a game of lummelen. Challenging her at draughts, at chess. She'd clap and squeal when she won, and Cormac never begrudged her — he'd loved the triumphant flush of her cheeks too much.

How many hours had he, Marjorie, and Aidan spent playing rounds of hid? They'd each try to top the other, finding increasingly obscure hiding places. Places like the buttery, her mother's wardrobe, the privy.

The chimney.

He stared at the hearth, remembering a pile of cold ashes. An upturned grate. The screams of his brother.

Clenching his eyes shut, Cormac dropped his head against the chair back. He'd lost so much that day. His brother. His innocence. His joy.

His Ree.

“Cormac?” Marjorie's voice was muted, but he'd become so attuned to her, she could probably whisper from far away, and he'd still hear.

He braced himself for the sight of her. Attuned indeed. He was painfully aware of her, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. “Aye?” he asked, raising his head slowly.

It was late, and the fire had burned low. Marjorie stood in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. Her hair was long and loose, and she'd dressed for bed. Though she had a tartan shawl wrapped tightly around her, a white night rail billowed about her legs. The fabric was fine, and it clung to the slope of her thighs.

He could pull her to stand before the fire. He could push the shawl from her shoulders. She'd stare up at him with those mysterious eyes. The gown would be sheer.

Cormac clenched his hand hard around his glass of brandy. Damned brandy. Whiskey was what a man really needed.

What he wouldn't do for a bottle of whiskey and a good clout over the head.

“I wanted to make certain… “ She hesitated, and then stepped into the room. Her bare feet were pale and delicate.

“Of?” The word came out sounding gruff. He slugged back the rest of his drink, welcoming the burn in his throat.

“Do you have all you need, then? Are you hungry?” she added in what struck him as a hopeful voice.

Damn her hope. Damn him and her both. He cut his eyes back to the fire, away from the sight of her. “Not hungry, no.”

“Can you not sleep?” Her voice was gentle. She stepped closer, and he smelled the fresh, floral scent of her bath.

Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head back against the chair once more. He'd never be able to sleep now.

“Please, Marjorie. Go back to your room and do not fash yourself on my account.” She didn't leave, though. He could feel her. Her presence charged the air, like a coming storm.

“Not once have I sat in this room and not thought of him,” she said.

The rustle of her nightclothes told him she was sitting in the chair opposite him. The firelight would

illuminate her. Would he be able to see the color of her skin beneath the white gown?

Cormac couldn't help but open his eyes. She was watching him. Good Christ, but she was beautiful. Orange light warmed her skin. He dreamed of touching it, just a quick stroke with the backs of his fingers. She'd be soft, like the petal of a flower.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Cormac? Sit here like this?”

“Nursing my demons.” He raised his emptied glass in a mock toast. He wanted to get up and refill his brandy, but his body betrayed him. He'd stiffened the moment she walked in the room.

“Go rest now.” She gently took the glass from his hand. “You said yourself, it's up at dawn to explore the docks.”

He studied her, staring at him so unabashedly. Marjorie knew him well. Speaking of the task at hand was probably the only thing that could tear him from his reverie. “Aye, I'll be off to the quays at dawn.” Her eyes narrowed. “We'll be off at dawn.”