Day Twenty-Seven
Garrick ignored the first pale pinks of dawn falling through the new entrance hall windows as he stared up at the Rowland coat of arms. In the past month, Arabel had repaired it, and now it hung proudly, surrounded by the claymores that she’d carefully replaced in their intricate designs. For God’s sake, she’d even draped a sash of Rowland tartan across the corner of the shield.
If he needed proof of her devotion to her family’s legacy, this was it. The stubborn woman was determined to bring respect back to the Rowlands at all costs.
Including their future.
He bit back a curse. To ask him to give her Highburn like that, knowing all that her family had done to him, the hell they’d put him through—Did she really expect that he would simply had it over, to let her bring glory back to clan Rowland? While she was once again engaged to another man, no less. Did she think he’d learned nothing from the past?
He gritted his teeth. Those damnable accusations she’d leveled against him were ludicrous. Plotting to raze Highburn to the ground, to seduce her as part of his revenge—
Christ.
He raked his fingers through his hair. He had said those things to Reeves, but that was all before they were given a second chance. Before he realized that he still loved her and always would. He would give anything he possessed to have her for his wife, including his earldom and every penny to his name.
But not Highburn.
Let me bring good from the ashes of my family . . . He would grant her anything but that. The wounds her family had inflicted were still too raw to ignore, the scars running too deep to heal.
He’d be a liar if he said a part of him hadn’t enjoyed tearing down the east wing. But he’d enjoyed more the possibility of rebuilding it, of seeing Arabel’s face when the new construction was done. He’d come to appreciate Highburn during the past month, but only because Arabel loved the place and he loved Arabel.
Good from the ashes . . . Was that even possible?
“So I’m not the only one unable t’ sleep.” Lady Rowland entered from the hallway, wearing her dressing robe and nightcap. She added knowingly, “I ken yers has to do with the lass.”
He grimaced and dodged, “Arabel is tucked safely into her bed.”
“Aye, when she should be in yours.”
Garrick stiffened, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. What he’d come to learn of Matilda Rowland during the past month was that the tough old woman spoke her mind and thought propriety was a quaint notion—and that her eight decades gave her liberty to unleash her tongue on matters that didn’t concern her. Especially now, when tomorrow morning Arabel would walk down the aisle with a man who wasn’t him.
“A fine job ye two are doing of messin’ things up.” She snorted with disapproval. “Again.”
Clenching his jaw, he folded his arms across his chest and faced her. Her head barely came to the middle of his chest, yet he knew the woman was a force of nature. One he couldn’t easily dismiss. Nor could he tell her to mind her own business, because Arabel and Highburn were her concern. Just as they’d become his.
“So determined are ye to avenge yerself against the Rowlands for what they did t’ ye,” Matilda muttered, “that you kinna see the truth ’fore yer own eyes. An’ the truth is that Arabel never stopped lovin’ ye. Most likely, the lass is upstairs crying ’cause she still loves ye, even now.” Her old eyes swept contemptuously over him, clearly finding him lacking. “While yer down here, too full o’ pride an’ arrogance to do what ye ken has to be done.”
“And what is that?” he drawled, feeling the sting of her accusation. “Surrender Castle Highburn?”
“To marry her, no matter the cost. Even to yer own damnable pride.”
He shook his head. “How do I marry a woman who’s engaged to another?”
“An’ what proof have you given that ye’ll marry her once she breaks off with the banker?” she answered with a shrewd gleam in her eye. “After all, you left her once before.”
“I didn’t leave,” he half-growled. “Your family sent me away.”
“Makes no difference t’ Arabel. All her heart kens is that she dinna have ye with her when she needed to be loved. She needs you again now. An’ this time she thinks yer drivin’ her ’way. Just for petty revenge.”
His chest burned. Petty. The hell her family put him through was far from that! He’d barely survived it. Yet part of him felt duly chastised by Lady Rowland’s words, because he’d not only survived but emerged stronger.
“Dinna ye wonder why my husband left half the estate to ye, rather than giving it all to Arabel, as was her due?”
“The incident with the carriage,” he answered. “He was grateful I’d saved his life.”
She cackled a laugh. “Yer a highlander! Ye ken any Scot who’d value his life o’er his clan?”
“Then why?” he demanded bluntly. He’d had the feeling since he and Arabel arrived that Lady Rowland was prodding them in the direction she wanted them to go, but he had no idea where. Or why.
A shamefaced expression darkened her wrinkled visage. “’Cause my husband an’ me were the reason you two were torn apart all them years past.”
His heart stuttered, and in that beat all of him turned to ice. “How?”
“There’s nothin’ that went on in this house that we didn’t know about, includin’ that ye planned to marry Arabel. When we’d heard what her brother had done, we thought it our duty to keep any more scandal from the family an’ tasked MacTavish wi’ it. Including stopping the elopement.” Guilt passed over her face. “We had no idea how much she truly loved you—still does. We watched as her grief over losin’ you nearly ate her up. The light went out o’ her then.” She fixed a hard gaze on him. “Only came back a month ago. When ye returned.”
“That wasn’t the light of love you saw,” he countered, turning back to the coat of arms, too furious at what she and her husband had done to look at her. “That was hatred.”
“Not so thick a wall dividin’ ’em, by all counts.”
He blew out a harsh breath. “Lady Rowland—”
“So we saw this opportunity to set to right the wrongs we did, to force the two o’ ye together for a second chance.” Her mouth twisted with bitter disappointment. “An’ now ye’ve gone an’ ruined it.”
The harsh accusation stopped him cold. “I am not ruin—”
“You’re a damned fool!” She poked him in the chest with a bony finger, and he pressed his lips together grimly, making no move to stop her. “I’m old, an’ I’ve watched more people than I can count go to their graves. The one thing I’ve learned is that when a body dies whate’er wrongs they did need to die, too. So let them go. It’s time.”
Arabel had said nearly the same thing. To let the past go. But how could he? Hadn’t he been trying to do exactly that for the last decade, only to end up right back here where all the pain started? “Some wrongs can never be forgiven.”
“I never said forgive! I said let go. Bury the dead, lad, an’ bury yer vengeance.” Her cap slid lower on her wrinkled forehead as she shook her head. “All dead the men are who wronged ye, or in America an’ good as dead.” She laid her hand affectionately against his cheek for a brief moment. “All that hatred in yer heart takes up too much room t’ let other things in. Like yer love for that lass.”
He wanted to believe her, but too much had happened. How could he let go of the past when it kept rearing its head? Arabel was right. Nothing had changed for them.
“Ye can’t have both Arabel an’ yer revenge.”
He nearly laughed. As if he didn’t know that! Wasn’t that why he was here in the entrance hall in the first place, staring up at a symbol of all that he hated most in the world and all that she held most dear?
Lady Rowland was wrong. It wasn’t a matter of giving up one or the other. It was a matter of surviving once he had, of figuring out how to go on when half of who he was had been abandoned to the past.
“Now ye can finally destroy the Rowlands once an’ fer all, or ye can claim the woman ye love.” Her eyes flashed as bright as brimstone as they pinned his, shining like the devil’s own over a wager to take his soul. “So which do ye choose?”