Day Twelve
With a frustrated groan, Garrick rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy of his bed, once again sleepless.
Once again thinking of Arabel.
Since he’d arrived at Highburn, he’d endlessly turned over in his mind the conversation—and argument—they’d had that night ten years ago. He’d sifted through each word, every look and emotion, trying to find answers to what they both could have done differently. And he’d discovered . . .
Nothing. He’d been adamant that they had to leave that night, and she’d felt compelled to stay with her family. And then the Rowlands made certain they’d never be together.
That was why he now insisted on keeping Highburn. Not because of the hell her family had cast him into, the months of struggling, stealing, and starving before he found his way into the army, followed by years of fighting just to survive. Not one bit of that mattered anymore. No, the reason he now burned with hatred for the Rowlands came down to one unforgivable act.
They had taken Arabel from him.
For that alone, they deserved to have their beloved Highburn razed to the ground, just as Arabel had accused him of wanting to do. But the way he’d kissed her in the cottage, how she’d responded so eagerly . . . Was it truly revenge that kept him here?
Revenge certainly hadn’t sent him into that momentary fit of insanity that had him kissing her in the cottage. And he’d wanted to do a lot more than just kiss. If she hadn’t stopped him—
Christ.
He punched his pillow and rolled over. Nineteen days left. At this rate, he’d be in Bedlam by September.
A loud squeaking screech shattered the silence and shot him straight out of bed. The strangled sound shivered down his spine with the same teeth-clenching pulse of metal grinding against metal. It came again, reverberating through the house and echoing off the stone walls and wooden paneling.
He yanked on his trousers as the noise grew louder and impossibly more pained. And painful. He winced at a high-pitched squeal. Good God.
He threw open the door, rushed into the hall—
And came face to face with Arabel.
Startled, she gave a soft gasp, her eyes widening to find him there. For a long moment, neither moved, their surprised stares locked on the other.
Then Garrick slowly lowered his gaze to trail it leisurely over her.
Standing there in her sleeveless night rail, so ethereal in the moonlight shadows, she resembled a ghost. But then, hadn’t she been haunting him for years? Even now, appearing all warm and bed-rumpled, her hair deliciously mussed in a riot of thick curls, he could barely believe she hadn’t stepped out of his dreams. At eighteen, she’d been beautiful, with a vivacity that swirled around her like a cloud and a youthful exuberance that captured everyone’s attention. But now, with her curves softened into full womanhood and a quiet confidence in her own allure, she was simply breathtaking.
When his gaze returned to her face, he saw her jerk her eyes up from his bare chest. But she couldn’t hide the dark heat in her expression, or the sudden hitch of her breath at being caught staring. Shamelessly, he wished she would lower her eyes again, to look her fill of him.
Instead, she looked away, and the moment broke.
“I thought I heard a noise,” she explained.
He fought back a grin at her understatement. “I thought I heard someone killing a cat.”
She nervously folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think it’s—”
“Nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. Yet the devil inside him couldn’t help adding, “But I’d be happy to tuck you back into bed, if you’d like.”
She heaved out a hard sigh of frustration. “Garrick, please—”
Another bone-jarring screech shot through the house with enough force to peel paint.
Panicked, Arabel ran downstairs toward the sound. Garrick followed. Whatever was going on, he was gentleman enough to protect her, although he wasn’t gentleman enough not to notice the way the moonlight turned her night rail translucent and revealed every tantalizing curve beneath.
They hurried into the drawing room and halted. Garrick blinked, surprised speechless at the sight that greeted them, while Arabel’s eyes opened nearly as wide as her mouth.
In her dressing robe and lace nightcap, Matilda Rowland stood with a set of bagpipes slung awkwardly over her shoulder and her arms wrapped around them, squeezing at the bag in great, fast pumps. Between each squeeze, she inhaled a deep breath and blew into the pipe, which let out a squeaking, screeching squawk loud enough to wake the dead. No melody, no attempt at a constant note. From what Garrick could surmise, her goal was simply to blare out the noise as loudly as possible. And succeeding.
Lady Rowland smiled. “So yer both awake, then, are ye? Lovely!”
When she sucked in a lungful of air to launch into another screech, Arabel rushed forward. “Auntie,” she said gently, putting her hand on the pipe and pushing it out of range of her aunt’s mouth. “It’s past midnight. Whatever are you doing?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she answered curtly.
“I see.” Arabel glanced over her shoulder at Garrick, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the exasperated expression on her face . . . And keeping the rest of us from sleeping as well. “Well, why don’t we all go back upstairs and try again?”
When the old woman slid a glance from Arabel to Garrick, he could have sworn he saw a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “You two go on, then, if you want.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the general direction of the stairs. “I’ll just stay here and keep playing—”
“No!” Garrick and Arabel shouted in unison.
“I mean,” Arabel softened her voice, “perhaps there’s something else you can do that would make you sleepy. Nice quiet needlepoint, perhaps. Or I can ring for Jamieson to bring you a pot of chocolate.”
She fussed with the pipes. “If you two return to yer rooms, I don’t see the point in—”
“Why don’t we stay down here and keep you company, then?” Garrick suggested, knowing fully well that was what the old woman wanted. The question was why.
“But we came so quickly at the noise—I mean, your playing—that we’re not properly attired,” Arabel argued. When he swung his attention to her and raked his gaze over her, at first only to taunt her but then because he couldn’t help staring, she crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed. A damned shame that. “Lord Townsend and I need to dress—”
“I’ll play while you’re gone.” Matilda drew a deep breath and darted her mouth toward the pipe.
Pinning Arabel with a warning glance not to go anywhere, Garrick took the pipes from Lady Rowland’s arms just as she began to blow. Then he set them down—high up on top the curio cabinet and far out of her reach.
The old woman cackled with amusement.
“I didn’t realize that you played the pipes, Auntie,” Arabel commented as she led Matilda to a high-backed chair by the fireplace.
Matilda snorted. “I don’t, lass!”
Garrick fought the twitching of his lips when Arabel rolled her eyes. If his presence at Highburn didn’t drive her away before the month was over, her Aunt Matilda surely would.
“Join me by the fire, Townsend,” Matilda ordered. “Sit down, sit down!”
He glanced around, only to realize that the room was filled with trunks and boxes ready for the move to the dower house. Every flat surface was heaped high with her things, including every chair and settee.
She pointed at the Turkish rug in front of the fire, then arched a brow when he hesitated. “Too good for the floor these days, are ye?”
Arabel blew out an impatient breath. “Auntie, please—”
“The floor will do just fine,” he assured them.
Wanting to keep the peace and quiet—literally—Garrick snatched up two large pillows and a tartan throw from the settee, then gently took Arabel by the elbow to lead her toward the fireplace. When she tried to pull her arm away, he held tight.
“Won’t this be nice?” he commented meaningfully to her as he dropped the pillows onto the rug. “All of us sitting here in front of the fire, chatting quietly, while Lady Rowland grows sleepy.”
Her eyes narrowed on him, and she shook her head. “We’re not dressed,” she bit out, daring to dart her gaze from his bare chest down to his bare feet.
He quirked a grin, then gave her the same head-to-toe look she’d given him . . . except much more deliberate and blatantly lascivious. He drawled in a masculine purr, “We are certainly not.”
Her hands clenched into tiny fists, even as her arms still clasped over her chest. Regrettably.
“Here.” He slipped the throw over her shoulders to placate her.
“Thank you,” she grudgingly replied, then wrapped it tightly around herself.
“You’re welcome,” he returned, helping her unroll it around her neck. Although, if truth be told, it vexed him to cover her up, when what he wanted to do was peel the night rail from her body and stare at her in the firelight.
But if he’d have suggested that, she would have most likely slapped him.
Again.
“Arabel, sit.” Matilda gestured at the rug and then waved her hand toward the fireplace. “Townsend, stoke the fire.”
He leaned in close to Arabel’s ear as he helped her to the floor. “Your aunt does know that I’m an earl, correct?”
“An English earl,” she returned as she tucked her legs beneath the throw. She flashed a saccharine smile and waved her hand toward the fire with the same imperial gesture as her aunt. “Go on—stoke, stoke!”
He slid a narrowed glance at her, then took up the poker and lowered onto his heels to stir up the coals.
“Isn’t this nice?” With a thin smile, Matilda rested her capped head against the chair back. “Just like old times.”
Garrick tossed in two chunks of coal from the hearthside bucket, then glanced at the old woman over his shoulder. “Old times? When did I make up a fire for you in the past?” He added in a mutter, low enough that she wouldn’t hear, “Shirtless.”
Arabel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Och! Not the fire, lad.” Matilda looked at him if he’d gone mad. His lips twitched at the irony of it. “All of us together.”
He stole a questioning glance at Arabel, who held his gaze for a beat before looking away. He jabbed the poker at the coals as he asked casually, feigning disinterest, “When was that?”
“That summer before you left the highlands.”
“That was a long time ago.” He returned the poker to the rack and dusted off his hands on his trousers. He sat back, resting his forearm across his bent knee, and avoided glancing at Arabel, not wanting to see the regret that surely played across her features. “I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten all about it.”
Matilda shook a bony finger at him. “And you, lad? Have ye forgotten all about yer life here in the highlands ’fore ye turned English?”
He grimaced at that not-so-subtle chastisement. “No, my lady. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Seems to me ye have, so long ye’ve been gone.”
“I didn’t leave the highlands,” he corrected, daring to glance at Arabel, but he couldn’t read the emotions on her face. “The highlands left me.”
Matilda cackled. “The highlands never leave a man’s soul! Dinna ye learn that growing up here? They stay with a man no matter where he goes, who he becomes.” She shook her head. “The boys in Kincardine are born with tartan in their blood.”
“With thistles pricking their toes,” Arabel put in, the soft jab more teasing than biting.
“And heather in their hearts,” he answered in a low drawl.
He heard her soft intake of air and knew she understood his double-meaning. Good. She needed to realize the effect she once had on his life. The effect she still had.
“Aye,” Matilda continued. “Your roots are here, lad.”
“On barren rocky soil?” he taunted, softening his blunt words with a faint smile. “You know how hard life is here, even for the best families. You would fault a man for seeking his fortune elsewhere?”
“You’re a highlander.” She leaned forward in her chair, her old eyes blazing. “Make yer fortune elsewhere, if’n you must, but don’t spurn the wealth God gave ye.”
The old woman was mad as a March hare. God had given him nothing here. “I have not, my lady.”
She let out a humph and turned to Arabel. “And you, lass? Do ye believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe about Lord Townsend,” Arabel offered with a bit of dissembling.
Garrick was certain she knew her own opinions in everything. Including him.
“You used to know a great deal ’bout him, that summer ’fore he left.”
Arabel stiffened, so slightly as to be unperceivable, but he felt her sudden tension, so aware was he of her. “Lord Townsend worked in the stables that summer when I stayed at Highburn. Of course, we often came into contact.”
“’Came into contact?’” Matilda shook with laughter. “Is that what the young ones these days call the way ye two were so infatuated with each other?”
Arabel turned scarlet in the firelight’s shadows. Garrick couldn’t help the grin that twisted his lips when she scolded, “Auntie, please! You are mistaken.”
She scoffed. “I’m old, lass, not senile!”
Garrick wasn’t so certain as he reclined against the pillow. Whatever Lady Rowland’s intentions for this conversation, the three of them were not going to bed anytime soon. And he didn’t trust her not to scale the curio cabinet to retrieve the pipes.
“I saw the way you looked at each other, speakin’ in whispers and smilin’ like a couple o’ cats who got into the cream. Do you think I dinna know when secrets were bein’ kept in my own household?” She shook a finger at both at them. “Young love’s too young to know it’s not being hid!”
“And old love’s too stubborn not to interfere,” he interjected pointedly.
“Somebody’s got to! Fine mess you’ve made of yer lives so far.”
He arched a brow. “I’m an earl. Some would say that’s quite a fine life.”
“Bah! An English earl.”
Beside him, Arabel choked back a laugh.
He muttered, “Better than a blacksmith’s son.”
The laughter died on Arabel’s lips.
“No, lad,” Lady Rowland assured, suddenly sympathetic. “Not better, just different. Isn’t that so, Arabel?”
“Yes,” she agreed quietly.
“Don’t tell me you believe that.” He pinned her with a disbelieving look. “Not with your family pedigree.”
Instead of raising her chin proudly, as he expected, she tucked it into the folds of the throw and lowered her gaze to the fire. “I’ve learned that the true measure of a man isn’t his name but his deeds.”
He didn’t know what to make of that answer.
“Aye,” Lady Rowland seconded. “An’ what good deeds have ye done, lad, since ye left the highlands?” She snorted. “If any.”
That pricked his masculine pride, and he bit out, “Far more than you realize, my lady.”
Her gray brow lifted silently in challenge to prove himself.
He obliged. “When I left Kincardine, I had no money, no prospects, no one to vouch for my character.” In other words . . . nothing. “But I survived.”
With Lady Rowland pretending to listen attentively—and Arabel listening attentively but pretending she wasn’t—he related the events of the last ten years, sparing few details. Lady Rowland wouldn’t want to be spared the more gruesome parts of that life, and Arabel didn’t deserve to be. He told them how he’d arrived in England and lived on the streets, stealing to survive and nearly starving before he stumbled across a proper job, then how he’d scrimped and saved to purchase an officer’s commission of the lowest rank.
Lady Rowland listened with her eyes closed, opening them only to take an occasional glance at Arabel, who listened raptly as he told how he’d volunteered for battle on the continent so he could put behind him all the memories of the highlands, purging by fire what time and distance hadn’t been able to. She didn’t shrink away from descriptions of the fighting and the horrors he’d witnessed.
When he finished, silence fell over them, interrupted only by the crackling of the flames and the soft howl of the wind through the eaves.
“You left out part of yer story, lad,” Lady Rowland admonished softly. “The part at the very beginning.”
Garrick tensed. How did the old woman know about that? Had MacTavish bragged about the way he’d sent him to England?
He darted a glance at Arabel. A soft expression of confusion pulled at her beautiful brow.
A cold realization sank over him, leaving a wash of pain and guilt in its wake. All these years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him over her family, raged against her for setting them against him—
She had no idea what MacTavish had done to him that night, on her family’s orders.
His gut clenched with sharp remorse. No wonder she thought he was waging war against her, right along with the rest of the Rowlands. But if he revealed what happened, would she believe him? Or would she assume that he was once more attempting to come between her and her family?
He shook his head, dismissing the old woman’s comment along with the past. “Not important.”
Matilda’s eyes shined, seeing right through him. Thankfully, though, she let the comment drop. “Now yer back in the highlands,” she said instead. “Where ye belong.”
“My estate tenants might think differently, my lady,” he corrected with a bit of cheek. “Along with parliament.”
She cackled a raspy laugh. “That remains to be seen!”
He smiled grimly. “And the end of my good deeds.”
“So does that,” Arabel whispered, so softly that Lady Rowland didn’t hear.
But Garrick did, and the unbidden tingle stirred by her voice twined down his spine. She’d sounded as if she were proud of the man he’d become. He didn’t know what to make of her subtle compliment, but he’d gladly take it.
“Back to the village where ye were born an’ raised, back to Highburn where yer heart lives,” her aunt mused. Then she sang in a gravelly voice, “Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North . . . Wherever I wander, wherever I rove . . .” Her aunt stared boldly at him as she sang the last line, ”My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”
Garrick said nothing, unprepared for the aching hollow in his chest. His mother used to sing that song when he was boy. But that was so long ago now that the memory felt as if it belonged to someone else.
“That’s beautiful, Auntie,” Arabel whispered, breaking the awkward stillness that had fallen over them.
Not moving her eyes away from Garrick, Lady Rowland leaned forward, her gnarled hands firmly clasping the chair arms. “But yer plannin’ to scurry south as soon as ye can, ain’t ye, Townsend?”
He clenched his jaw. Certainly, he’d had no intention of remaining in the highlands longer than necessary to secure the property, then put it up for sale . . . and to convince himself that his home was no longer here. To prove that his heart had healed enough that he was no longer affected by the sight of mountain crags and glens, that he no longer felt his belly tighten at the scent of heather.
He should have been immune by now. He was more Englishman than Scot, Lady Rowland was right about that. He’d even lost most of his brogue. Only from being back here did it creep into his voice. When it did, he’d expected to sound like a stranger, even to his own ears. But he didn’t. He sounded . . . familiar. Just as being back in Kincardine felt more like home than he wanted to admit. Cutting that connection to his youth had been more difficult than he’d ever imagined.
All because of Arabel.
“He’s back for revenge, actually,” Arabel put in, a world of hurt and anger in her soft voice. “Against the Rowlands.” She paused. “And me.”
“Not against you,” he corrected quietly.
“Then against my family.” She gave a dismissive sniff as she turned away to stare into the fire. “No difference.”
A world of difference. But how did he explain that to her? The Rowlands had exiled him from the highlands, while Arabel had stolen his heart. After ten years, he’d managed to claw his way back here, to finally hold the family accountable for what they’d done and to exact as much retribution as possible.
But would he ever retrieve his heart?
“Is that so?” Matilda asked.
Garrick tore his gaze from Arabel, then forced a grin for her aunt. “Surely you recognize me for the English devil I am, come to rain hellfire and destruction across the highlands.”
“Well, ye certainly have good cause,” Matilda mumbled with a small nod.
His heart stuttered. Good God. How much did the woman know about what happened that night when he was forced away from Highburn? How much did she know about him and Arabel?
Lady Rowland rose from her chair with a yawn. One just as fake as her bagpipe practice. “Good luck to ye then, lad.” She cackled with laughter as she left the room. “You’ll need it!”
When she disappeared into the hall, Garrick muttered, “Mad as a hatter.”
“I know,” Arabel answered with a deep sigh, her love for her aunt evident in her voice. “But she’s my mad hatter.”
He couldn’t help a chuckle at that. Propping himself up on his elbow, he stretched out on the floor in front of the fire and turned onto his side to watch the flames. Surprisingly, he wasn’t eager to return to his room.
Neither, apparently, was Arabel.
She remained on the floor next to him, the tartan throw wrapped securely around her and her hair falling loose down her back. Warm, soft, and comfortable, she looked as if she belonged nowhere else in the world but sitting with him in front of the fire. Surrounded by the dark shadows just beyond the firelight’s reach, Garrick could easily imagine spending every night with her. Just like this.
“What did she mean,” Arabel ventured quietly, “that you have good cause to seek revenge against my family?”
“I assume she meant you,” he dodged quietly. There was no need to bring the truth down upon their heads, not when they’d found the first quiet moment together since he walked into the solicitor’s office and saw her, like a figure from a dream. He paused, then steered the conversation to what was nagging him most tonight. “Your family wanted you to marry the duke’s son. Why didn’t you?”
She tensed, and he felt the change in her the way old sailors felt oncoming storms in their bones. For a moment, she said nothing, and he expected her to keep the story to herself. After all, tonight was the first time they’d spoken about anything of worth since the afternoon at the cottage. They’d gone out of their way to avoid each other since then, with Arabel busying herself with her wedding plans and Garrick throwing himself into repairs to the house. Except for when they’d been forced into polite dinner conversations, they’d not spoken a word to each other.
And most likely they would have continued exactly like that if not for Lady Rowland’s bagpipe recital.
But now, he was given the first chance he’d had to learn more about her life since they parted. Truly, it was only fair, given how he’d laid bare everything about his life to the two women tonight.
Almost. He wasn’t certain now that she ever needed to know about what else happened that night ten years ago. Nor should he care, as long as he received reparations for it.
Then her slender shoulders sagged, and she surprised him by admitting, “The Campbells refused.”
“Why?” he pressed gently.
“What else is a duke to do,” she answered with a small shrug of one shoulder, “when the family of his son’s fiancée is embroiled in scandal and ruin so horrific that it . . .” Her voice drifted away, but her lips remained parted, her gaze fixed on the fire.
“That it . . . what, Arabel?” he prompted, sitting up to bring himself closer to her.
“That is destroys lives,” she breathed out, barely a sound at all. “That it strips a family of its fortune, steals its legacy and pride . . . leaving nothing but ashes.”
A tear fell down her cheek, and his heart tore for her. Did she even realize that she was crying?
Cold dread swelled inside him, and he fought back the urge to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Good God . . . he’d never seen her look so forlorn before, never so vulnerable. So defeated.
“Arabel,” he whispered.
With a small shudder, she tore her gaze away from the fire and sent him a faint smile which looked all the more weak for her attempt at bravery. “Surely you’ve heard by now. If not in England, then from Mr. Davidson or one of the villagers . . .” She swiped a hand at her eyes. “I’m certain there are many people in Kincardine who thought the Rowlands got exactly what we deserved. Who wanted nothing more than to see us fall. Including you, Garrick.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ironically, in the end it was love that did us in.”
He hadn’t heard a word about it. Whether the village gossips had held their tongues because they knew of his connection to the Rowlands or because they no longer considered him part of their highland world, no one had shared this with him. And he was glad of that, because he wanted to hear it from Arabel.
She hesitated, then said softly, “That night, when we were supposed to elope, I told you only part of the truth about why I couldn’t go with you.”
He frowned. “You said Samuel had gambled himself into debt.”
“Yes. But what I didn’t tell you was that it was because he’d met an Englishwoman and fallen in love.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Garrick’s throat tightened at how small she looked, drawn up into a ball like that. “She was already married to a very jealous man. It made no difference that her husband didn’t love her, that he spent his nights with light skirts, or that he’d only married her for her money. She belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let some Scot have her. Samuel didn’t even know who the man was until it was too late. Until he’d lost twenty thousand pounds to him at cards and had his marker called.”
Twenty thousand pounds . . . Good God. Garrick wasn’t certain that his entire earldom was worth that much.
“When Samuel couldn’t pay it, the man had him tossed into debtor’s prison. My family paid the debt and got Samuel out of prison, but we stripped our fortune to save him, down to the last ha’penny. He’d put our family on the verge of bankruptcy, and he hadn’t even saved the woman he loved.” She pulled idly at the fringe on the end of the throw. “You see, when her husband discovered that Samuel was out of prison and that his wife planned to leave him, he was so enraged that he beat her to within an inch of her life.”
She fell silent, watching her fingers as they played with the fringe.
“And Samuel blamed himself,” Garrick said quietly. That would have been exactly what he’d have done if anyone had harmed the woman he loved.
“No,” she breathed, her hand stilling. “Samuel murdered her husband.”
She raised her gaze to meet his. The raw grief on her face took his breath away.
“I found out the night we were supposed to elope,” she whispered. “That’s why I couldn’t go with you. And why I couldn’t tell you the truth. If word had gotten out, when Samuel’s life still hung in the balance—I was too afraid I’d make everything worse for him.”
Garrick stared at her, frozen numb except for the fierce pounding of his heart. Dear God, the hell she must have gone through . . . and he hadn’t had a clue. For ten years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him over her family, when she’d been faced with this. Christ, how wrong he’d been!
He yearned to pull her into his arms and hold her close, until her anguish and heartache vanished. But if he reached for her then, he knew she’d only push him away.
“We called in every favor we could,” she explained. She spoke so softly that he could barely hear her, but every whisper cut into his heart at the pain she’d suffered. Was still suffering. “In the end, he was sent to an asylum instead of the gallows. He was there nearly six months when he . . .” When the words came, her sorrow chilled his blood. “He killed himself.”
“Dear God, Arabel,” he rasped out hoarsely. He hated her family for what he’d done to him, but he never would have wished this upon them.
She sucked in a deep breath to gather her composure, but the stilted inhalation only proved how upset she was. “So you can see why the Campbells no longer wanted to marry into the Rowland clan. Too much scandal and gossip, even for us Scots.” A grim smile tugged bleakly at her mouth for only a moment before fading.
He could no longer fight back the urge to touch her and placed his hand reassuringly over hers. “I’m so sorry, Arabel.”
She stiffened, then relaxed as her fingers entwined with his.
“Our misfortune wasn’t over even then, though,” she went on. “In his grief over Samuel and worry over money, Papa fell ill. He was dead by the following spring.” Her hand trembled in his. “David became head of the family. But our fortune had been too diminished by then, the properties all mortgaged to pay Samuel’s debt. A drought cost us the next harvest, and with no way to pay the bank . . .”
“The properties went into foreclosure,” he finished quietly.
She nodded, and her fingers tightened their hold on his. “We had no choice but to move to Edinburgh, to live with my mother’s sister. Mama never truly recovered from losing both her son and her husband, and Aunt Ethel had been housebound for years before. So I took care of them. I’ve been caring for them ever since.”
Garrick squeezed her hand to reassure her, although inside he was outraged that a vivacious young woman like Arabel had been ripped from her home and forced to be a nurse maid. All because of decisions she’d had no part in making. “Surely your brother David helped you.”
She shook her head. “There were no prospects of any kind for David in Edinburgh, or anywhere in Scotland for that matter. So he did the same as you and took a commission in the army. But he was sent to America. When the war ended, he stayed. A wise decision, too, as he had more opportunity there to earn his fortune.”
Anger pulsed through him. Coward. Leaving two old women and his unmarried sister to fend for themselves. But even now, Arabel chose to defend her brother. Was there no end to her loyalty to her family, even when they didn’t deserve it?
“And now you’re engaged to the banker,” he commented, doing his best to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Did your family arrange it?”
She paused, and in that hesitation, he had his answer. But she dissembled, “I want to marry Ewan.”
That was a damned lie if ever he’d heard one. But it proved exactly how much her family still controlled her life. Rather, how much she let them control it. Even now.
Slowly, she pulled her hand away from his, and he let her go.
“I wish we could live here after we marry,” she commented wistfully. “But Ewan isn’t a highlander, and he doesn’t realize how important this place is to me. When he looks at Highburn, all he sees is rock-strewn land good for nothing but a handful of sheep, tenants so poor they can barely pay their rent, a house that’s falling down . . .” A smile tugged at her lips. “He thinks heather is a weed.”
Garrick frowned. “You don’t see all that?”
“I do,” she answered honestly. “But I also see so much more . . . I see the history of this place and of the entire Rowland clan. I see claymores once used to fight for Scottish freedom that were confiscated by the English, now returned to us not as weapons but as reminders of our history. I see tartan, once forbidden but now proudly displayed, representing all that our clan symbolizes, its struggles and successes. And I see its legacy, the greatness we once had and all that we can become again.” Her gaze drifted around the room. Although her eyes could see nothing in the dark shadows beyond the firelight, he knew her mind’s eye saw so much more. “Castle Highburn is clan Rowland.”
Her chin lifted with a touch of pride, her eyes shining. He realized at that moment why her family meant so much to her.
Not simply being connected by blood. Oh, so much more than that! It was her sense of worth among the enormity of the highlands, where a person could feel inconsequential in comparison to the mountains and fields of heather so vast that they stretched to the horizon, where above extended a sky so depthless that on clear days a person’s head swam just by gazing into it. A place filled with a history that stretched back before the Romans and made one believe that his life lasted no longer than a blink of an eye—that time would march on without him unless he grabbed on to his ancestry and held tight.
The highlands and clan Rowland had created and shaped her. They were her identity. Without them, she would feel that she was . . . nothing.
His heart skipped when he realized what their plans to elope must have seemed like to her. Not only the start of a future together, but a complete break with her past.
“Now I hold the future in my hands,” she whispered.
More than you realize. His heart somersaulted with a dull ache born of a decade’s separation from the woman it loved.
As if able to hear his thoughts, she gave him such a smile that it pulsed all the way through him. With her sitting so close that he could smell the scent of heather on her skin, her body warmed by the fire and in dishabille beneath the tartan throw, he longed for her. And for far more than physical pleasure, although at that moment he desperately wanted to lay her down and make love to her right there in the firelight. He wanted back the ten years her family had stolen from them, every smile he’d missed, every lilting laugh on the highland breezes, every soft word of love . . .
He wanted Arabel. The Rowlands be damned.
“If I convince you to give me your half of Highburn,” she finished, completely unaware of the thoughts and emotions churning inside him.
He studied her closely. “What would you do with Highburn if it were all yours?”
She smiled with saccharine sweetness. “You mean, after I kick you off the property?”
“That’s a given.” He lifted a brow, then pressed, “What then?”
“I’d return it to its glory, to its rightful place as seat of clan Rowland.”
“I don’t think you can.” He shook his head. “The repairs will be too expensive, the profits from the land too small to afford them.”
“I didn’t mean the house. I meant our legacy.” She paused, barely a heartbeat, but he heard it. And he felt its impact like a bullet to his gut when she added, “Mama has already written to David to ask him to return to Scotland, to bring his American family to Highburn.”
He stiffened, sensing the unease inside her. “How to you feel about that, Arabel? About David living here as laird on your property?”
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her slender shoulders slumped as she admitted, “I think she should have waited until everything was settled here first.”
“Then write to him yourself and tell him so,” he urged, deeply wishing for her sake that she’d stand up to them. “And your mother.”
She shook her head, and he realized exactly how much influence her family still possessed over her. Enough to let them attempt to take Highburn from her. “She isn’t wrong, though. Aunt Matilda, Mama and Aunt Ethel, David and his family—they can all live right here, and Ewan and I can visit.” A world of determination sounded in her soft voice. “And we’ll be true Rowlands again.”
He stared at her in the flickering firelight, attempting to take in all of her. He’d been given a gift tonight, a chance to glimpse her heart and understand why Highburn was so important to her, why she wanted her family returned to its glory. He understood, and he admired her for it.
But he would never let that happen.
She turned to gaze curiously at him, a new thought striking her. “What did Auntie mean earlier, when she said that you’d left out the beginning of your story?”
His heart slammed painfully against his breastbone. This was his moment to tell her everything. To reveal her family’s actions that night and finally exonerate himself in her eyes. She would learn the truth, that he hadn’t left of his own will. That he’d loved her—in truth, still loved her. Always would.
And by doing so, to further damn her family in her eyes.
His gut knotted. What could be gained by telling her about events now best left to the past, except to cause her more pain?
“Nothing important,” he lied quietly, offering nothing more, not even when she frowned in disbelief.
With that, the evening was over. He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet.
She rose gracefully, and the tartan throw slipped away to the floor. Once on her feet, she didn’t release his hand. Instead, her fingers warmly held his as she looked into his eyes, searching his face for answers.
She whispered, “Do you remember those days we spent together, before you left?”
In his answering silence, she swallowed softly, nervously, and his eyes dropped to her throat, riveted by the soft movement. He longed to place his mouth right there and feel her pulse against his lips, to prove that she was truly with him and not merely some ghost of his fevered imagination.
She inhaled a deep breath and asked tentatively, “Do you ever think about those afternoons we spent making love in the heather?”
His heart stopped as every muscle in his body went taut. He could barely breathe through the constriction of his chest and the knotting in his throat. Yet her emerald green eyes watched and waited for an answer . . .
“No,” he lied gently, not yet ready to reveal the truth to her.
Something flickered deep in her eyes. Her lips parted, and he waited for her to challenge him, to argue—
Instead, she slowly slipped her hand from his. “Good night, then.”
She left, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
Once he was certain she was gone, he reached into the small front pocket of his trousers and withdrew the old watch case. He carefully opened it. The timepiece’s workings had been discarded long ago, and in their place . . . the sprig of heather she’d pressed for him all those years ago, still tied with the now faded green ribbon.
Do you ever think about those afternoons we spent making love in the heather?
“Every day,” he whispered.