Chapter Twelve
Teàrlach hadn’t come. For sennights he had come diligently on Friday morn, just as the sun was rising, sometimes before, as her pending nuptials approached, bringing her piles of supplies, fabrics, and not one, but two books, one borrowed from a hermitage, about the stars. Today he hadn’t come. She didn’t understand.
She stood in the yard, the gates open, watching, hoping. The sun was inching higher and higher, the summer heat making sweat collect on her brow. She ducked back inside the tower, alone, since Greta and Fingal had departed earlier, moving to the kitchen where another batch of tarts sat, now cold, waiting for the warrior to come and eat them. She ignored them, making an effort not to look, and moved onward toward the pantry. She pulled out a ladder, taking it back into the great hall, and propped it open beneath the chandelier. Collecting a wick and lighting it in the hearth, she climbed the ladder and lit the tapers within each hole, then came back down, looking for chores to keep her busy.
But zipping around the room, fluffing the cushions on the chairs at the board, wiping dust off the mantel over the hearth, she couldn’t resist going to the door again. Still, there was nothing, no one, and the countryside surrounding them was silent. She brought her knuckle up to her mouth and nipped at it, feeling unease turn over in her stomach. It was still a fortnight before she left for Edinburgh. Her dowry linens were embroidered and packed in a truck. She had hardly thought about the stitches as she made them and hardly put any effort into them either. They were plain, simple, and reflected the same amount of enthusiasm she harbored for marrying John. None.
Unable to go back inside and unable to stand in the yard, staring at the open, empty gate, she moved to the wall, climbing the ladder, and hoisted herself up to the wall walk. From her vantage, moving toward the gate, she could see much farther down the pathway leading through the valley meandering out of sight around the hills. And off in the distance, she could see horses, a small contingent, with the standard of the Moreville family upon it. They were riding around the hill, onto the pathway, small in the distance, but they were growing larger.
She stood frozen, the air in her lungs constricting. Henry de Moreville, his son, John, and a couple guardsmen wearing nasal helms were coming, without a doubt, to Dungarnock’s door. She hadn’t seen her warden since the king had placed her in Moreville’s guardianship.
She looked down, sensing Teàrlach’s absence had much to do with her betrothed and soon to be father-of-marriage coming to call. What an utter disappointment. She wouldn’t be traveling to Edinburgh for another fortnight, and she needed no reminders of her impending nuptials. Now she would be expected to greet and host them, no doubt to hear plans for the wedding and what would become of her afterward.
Would she live at Glengarnock? Would she travel to the Moreville estates in Carlisle? Would she and John remain in Edinburgh? The thought of it all made her sick. Ill. Her stomach flopped up and down, making her nervous. Scared. She wasn’t ready to part from Teàrlach. She had allowed herself to fall for him. She had allowed herself to imagine a future with him. She had curled against him more times than she could now count, had grown to love his curt nods and quiet chivalry. Knowing he had remained at Castle Ayr all those years, just to watch over her, had won her over forever. Watching the Moreville heir and his father ride down the road now only served to anger her. Why could she not decide her own future? Why must these men do it for her?
She realized her nails were biting into her palms, her fists were so tightly clenched. Her lungs were frozen as the party came into clear view. And she missed Teàrlach with even more longing than before. Friday was his only day to come, and it was now wasted.
She waited, watching them near the gate. Henry de Moreville looked up at her and pulled back on the reins, regal in his rich velvet surcoat demarcated in quadrants of blue and white. His hair was long, his beard trimmed so that it flowed uninterrupted from his hair around his face. John was beside him, sullen.
“My Lady Madeline,” Henry de Moreville greeted her, raising his hand in salutation.
She pulled her Crawford tartan around her more tightly. “My laird,” she replied with a nod, though realized after the fact that her voice barely squeaked, and she hadn’t even made herself smile.
“John wishes to discuss some marriage details.” John scoffed as his father spoke. “We’ve come today to ensure you have fulfilled your requirements and to also take you for a ride to visit your new home.”
“My new home?” she asked. “Do I move elsewhere today? No one told me.”
He looked at her quizzically. It was only later that she realized, normally she never would have questioned him but simply would have waited to see the outcome.
“No. But you will upon your marriage in Edinburgh. You should begin packing what you wish to take, so I may order my head guardsman,” he gestured behind him, “to see it delivered in time for your arrival. He’ll be in service to my son when he becomes your husband and will take orders from him.”
The way he gestured to one of his soldiers caused Madeline’s eyes to dart to the man in question. In his chain mail and helmet, she had failed to recognize Teàrlach. She had become so accustomed to him visiting in naught but a plain surcoat and tunic, she had forgotten what he looked like armed in heavy links of metal. Her stomach dropped.
What twist of fate was this that would put the man she loved in service to her husband, so she would have to see him all the day long but never feel his touch again? And should John ever learn of Teàrlach’s disloyalty, she could only imagine the hell he would put Teàrlach through, the tyrant he might become.
She knew her face was ashen when she noticed Henry de Moreville scrutinizing her, then Teàrlach, then her again. Teàrlach, to his credit, was stoic and quiet as a guardsman was expected to be. His amber eyes glanced at her through his helmet, and he gave her his signature nod.
“Milady.”
When he offered nothing else, she cleared her throat and looked at John who huffed, readjusted himself in the saddle, and glanced around Dungarnock with distaste. He shot a look up at her, his expression angry, and she knew instantly he had no desire to marry her, despite his eyes traveling up and down her body, as if he appraised a calf for market. She glanced back at Teàrlach. The helmet blocked much of her view, but she soon realized his eyes were trained on John as if ready to sling daggers into the back of the Moreville heir’s head.
She turned away and hastened back to the ladder as Moreville led his men through the gates. When no one arrived to take their mounts while Madeline descended the ladder, Moreville removed his gauntlets and finally seemed to notice the silence.
“Where is that…” he snapped his fingers, trying to place the name, “that old man who resides here with his wife? The peasants from my village?”
Madeline hurried across the yard, bowing her head to him as she stood several paces from the horses. “He and his wife depart each Friday for the sennight’s end, my laird, to take care of their crippled daughter who now lives in Kilbirnie. They’ve been gone since sun up.”
Moreville’s eyes furrowed. “Then who resides here with you during that time?”
She kept her head bowed. “No one notices Dungarnock Tower. I’m alone, but quite well.”
“What? No groom then?” John remarked.
Face burning with shame, she shook her head, still casting her eyes at her feet. “No stable, either, my laird.”
“Honestly, Father, to whom do you marry me? A pauper?” groused John, when a sharp look and a warning headshake from Henry subdued him.
Madeline stood frozen. It couldn’t be true that she would have to marry John. His dislike would fester until he hated her. She shot a glance to Teàrlach who remained quiet, his reins clenched, though this time he shot Madeline a look in return. She couldn’t read it with the helmet obstructing his expressions, but looking closely beneath all the layers of chain mail, gambesons, and surcoats, she saw his chest rising and falling in angry succession.
Was he angry at John? Henry? Perhaps angry at himself? After all, it was obvious now that he had to keep himself in check lest he give away his relationship to her.
“No matter,” Henry de Moreville smiled amiably at her, perching his gauntlets under his arm. “Sir MacGregor can act as groom and stable the beasts in that byre. Teàrlach?”
He snapped his finger at his guardsman. Teàrlach’s eyes darted from Madeline to the back of Moreville’s head. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought the corner of his mouth had lifted in a snarl. Moreville hadn’t tried in the least to hide his condescending tone. Was Moreville attempting to humiliate him?
Teàrlach dismounted as the others did, and pulled the horses’ reins over their heads while the other guardsman dismounted to take care of his own animal. A whistle and a point toward the byre was all he needed for King, who began plodding to the byre of his own accord, his black-brown coat shiny in the midmorning sun.
“Now what, my dear, is that wonderful smell? Will you invite us in and offer refreshments?” Henry continued.
Madeline nodded and led them into the tower. The smell he referenced was the tarts she had made for Teàrlach, and it was all she had to offer for refreshments. There would be no lounging on the hillsides together eating them, no rides in the country, no reading lines together out of the books he had brought her, and most certainly no licking of berries off each other’s chins. This day was starting horribly. She wished it would quickly end.
As the lord and his son breezed in behind her, she gestured to her board in the center of the hall. They sat. She scrambled to grab the ladder left out from lighting the candles above as Teàrlach ducked into the hall and moved to stand along the wall. Neither Henry nor John offered to carry it for her as she dragged it to the kitchen. Teàrlach would have done so. Her guardsman was much more of a gentleman than these two lairds clearly were, she thought, biting back her irritation at their aloofness.
The two men sat waiting, watching, when Madeline returned moments later with a pitcher and two goblets. She noted then that two goblets already sat upon the board, one at the head, and one to the right of the head. Moreville noticed, too.
“Why, there’s already service for two laid out, my dear. Were you expecting company?”
All she could do was shake her head as her face burned. And she didn’t dare look at Teàrlach either. But indeed she had planned to have him sitting at the head as Moreville did now. She set down the extra goblets and reached to the bowl of water upon the board, holding it to John first, then Henry, her shaking hands threatening to drop it, and allowing him to rinse his fingers. Then she began to fill a goblet with watered wine.
She placed it in front of John.
“I’ll take an ale instead,” he dismissed, glancing over the rim to inspect the wine.
She dipped into a curtsey, her eyes never leaving the floor at her feet. “I beg your forgiveness, my laird, but I have no ale.”
John rolled his eyes, slouching backward like a spoiled king. Madeline tried to steady her nerves. There was nothing she could do. Ale was a man’s drink and she lived alone. She hesitated, unsure how to proceed, and reached to the other goblet, fumbling with the stem as she started to pour, splattering wine on the table linen.
“Be damned,” growled John as a droplet landed upon the back of his hand and he shook it to fling it off.
She jumped back. Instincts from growing up under her father’s rule kicking in. Her chest rose and fell. She tried to dig deep inside herself for the demure, impassive resolve that had helped her survive to this point, but, she had grown relaxed around Teàrlach’s easy manner. Reverting to the old way was hard to do, harder still to stomach. She felt disgusted with herself and instead, lifted her head to gaze at John. Why was she cowering back in fear? He was a spoiled, entitled, bastard heir to the Moreville nobility, but she was a legitimately born noblewoman who, though cloistered and uneducated, had her dignity.
“’Twas an accident, sire. Your demeanor has been less than pleasant since your arrival, and it has put me on edge.” She nearly threw her own hand over her mouth. I didn’t just say that. Did I? The stunned look on John’s face told her she had. Heat ravaged her face. She was surely going to die of mortification and attempted to assuage her rudeness. “I didn’t intend to spill the wine. Allow me to clean it for you,” she added, her tone so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
He snagged the linen out of her hand with a scowl, rejecting her offer with his body language, wiping his own hand, never taking his eyes from hers as he tossed it upon the board. She dared a glance at Laird Moreville who leaned his elbow on the chair arm, smoothing his beard as he regarded her. His eyes gave nothing away. No anger, no humor, no concern. Nothing.
Since John wanted nothing with her touch, Madeline picked up the goblet and delivered it to the laird, chancing a look at Teàrlach against the wall. Her man had the barest hint of a satisfactory smile upon the corner of his lips. She knew him well enough by now to recognize the minute change in expression. In honesty, she had almost forgotten he was there with one hand resting both casually, yet attentively, upon the hilt of his sword at his waist.
She returned to the kitchen, embarrassment burning into her back as she retreated. She rummaged around the pantry, knowing everything she had to offer would require a couple hours of preparation. She then glanced to the tarts upon the table. Giving them away felt like a betrayal, but she had nothing else to give. On a sigh, she pulled back the cloth covering them and arranged several upon a platter, carrying them into the hall.
“My, and you bake as well? You are quite industrious, my lady, for most women of your position haven’t the skill and are discouraged from learning,” Moreville remarked. “Mmm. Such a treat. Tarts are an odd thing to make for only yourself, what with no company coming.”
An inkling of suspicion dug its nails into the back of her mind. Did Moreville know she lied about having a visitor? She laid the platter down between them and stepped back. “I need to pass the time. It grows lonely when no one is here. If I don’t keep myself busy, I do nothing but fret.”
Moreville looked at her with the first notion of sympathy she could recall. “Why don’t you offer our guards some refreshments, too, my lady. We have plenty here to share betwixt us.”
He took a couple onto his trencher, waiting with a glare on his brow for John to take one, too. She nodded her acquiescence to him and lifted the pitcher of wine and the two extra goblets. She pattered over to Teàrlach and the other man. Both had removed their helmets by now, and the contrast between them was stark. Where Teàrlach was all darkness—dark, curling hair, dark eyes, tanned skin—the other man had sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He was strikingly handsome, the type ladies would swoon over, should he flash them a smile. And he was assessing her, his eyes hot, even if his demeanor was respectable.
“Would you care for wine, sires?” she offered.
Teàrlach gave her a stiff shake of the head. “Nay. My thanks.”
He refused to make more than a moment’s eye contact with her, his jaw tight.
But the other man grinned as she looked to him in question, and not only that, winked. “I will. My thanks, my lady.”
She poured one goblet and handed it to him, his grin never leaving his face. As she turned to walk away, she caught him elbowing Teàrlach in her periphery, making eyes at her backside. She returned a moment later and held forth the tray of tarts. Her eyes didn’t meet Teàrlach’s this time. He had to know, it being Friday, that she had baked them for him. And now her betrothed was eating them.
“Tastes like sawdust,” John muttered.
She faltered, her confidence shaken. Had Teàrlach only said he loved them because he cared about her? Did they really taste terrible but he hadn’t the heart to tell her? Of all the ridiculous sentiments to rattle her now… Her hand shook and the platter threatened to fall. Both Teàrlach and the blue-eyed guardsman reached out to steady it. She could no longer look up at either man.
“If you would care for one, please take it,” she urged, and despite the agreeable tone to her words, she wished only to disappear into a shadow and wait until all the men left.
Teàrlach let go of the tray and straightened again, giving a shake of the head. “Nay. My thanks,” he ground out.
The other man shook his head, too, but this time seemingly at Teàrlach. “I’ll take both his and mine then, for my mouth waters just smelling them.”
He ate them both in quick succession, licking his thumb playfully in much the same way Teàrlach had. Madeline hastened back to the board to stand beside Moreville and his heir again.
“Quite delicious, my lady,” the laird remarked. “You may bake for me on any occasion I come to call at your new home. Speaking of such, we should depart. The ride to Kirkburn Castle might take an hour’s time or more.”
They retreated outdoors while Teàrlach and the other guard went to retrieve the animals.
“You can ride with Duncan, my head guardsman’s first in command. Duncan, will you do the honors?” Moreville asked, casting a glance at Teàrlach.
Duncan offered an agreeable bow of the head and turned to face Teàrlach, waggling his eyebrows as he situated his helmet over his head. Madeline froze at the glare deepening in Teàrlach’s eyes, emanating murder. Duncan furrowed his brow at the glare but turned back to Madeline who finished securing the door.
“My lady, allow me to assist,” he offered, holding out his arm to her.
…
Assist my arse. Teàrlach frowned. Duncan thought Madeline fetching and couldn’t wait to hold her upon his lap. And Teàrlach had no say in the matter. His nerves were drawn so tight that Duncan was one thread of Teàrlach’s patience away from getting his pretty teeth knocked out. Every instinct to protect what was his warred through his mind.
Madeline hesitated, looking from him to Duncan, before finally nodding to the guardsman. Teàrlach gave them both his back while he mounted up. He knew from the sounds that Duncan had taken her about the waist and had lifted her onto the saddle. He glanced back. Duncan was mounting behind her, lifting her around the waist so that he could slide down onto the saddle.
Teàrlach faced forward. He couldn’t look anymore. His knuckles were white within his gauntlets, he clenched his reins so hard. Duncan was enjoying it, enjoying her, but Teàrlach’s periphery told him Madeline was uncomfortable.
And dammit! There is nothing I can do!
He tempered his breathing so as not to give away his rage and was thankful the nasal helm blocked his nostrils flaring with each breath. It was obvious now that Moreville suspected a tryst between him and Madeline. How, Teàrlach couldn’t say. He had made sure he wasn’t followed on each visit to Dungarnock. When he had taken Madeline for rides to lounge in the countryside and practice her reading or enjoy her picnic foods, he’d made certain to travel farther west, away from Glengarnock, so as not to run into any soldiers or laborers from Moreville’s castle. But Moreville knew or he at least suspected. And the little demands for Teàrlach to act as groom instead of Duncan, asking Duncan to carry Madeline, instead of his head guardsmen, not to mention, putting his poor lass on the spot, inquiring about whether or not she planned for a visitor, made it clear that Moreville was trying to make them both uncomfortable. Blast the man, but it was working. Why couldn’t Moreville just terminate him or rail against him? At least that way Teàrlach would know where they stood.
Teàrlach rode side by side with his first in command, taking up the tail behind Moreville and his son. John already detested Madeline. That much he could see. All due to anger at his father for the union. It wasn’t fair to Madeline.
They traversed the countryside, swinging wide around the Spout of Garnock, where it had all begun. Teàrlach did his best to blot out the memories of Maddie lying on the rocks below, lifeless. Chancing a quick look at her in Duncan’s protective hold told him she, too, was remembering, especially when she felt his stare and glanced back. Her eyes held questions, questions he couldn’t answer.
He watched her glance at her warden’s back. Lord Moreville was oblivious to her. She existed for him to marry off. She wasn’t even worthy of the respect of an advance messenger announcing that they would visit today. And Moreville seemed to care little that she was left alone at each sennight’s end. He gritted his teeth. Someway, somehow, Moreville knew. He knew.
…
Sunshine beat down relentlessly, impervious to the wispy clouds that floated across the sky. Madeline knew she freckled. And she couldn’t remove her mind from the fact that the guardsman, Duncan, was holding her close, the palm of his gauntlet pressed against her stomach, the broad plane of his chest upon her back, and her rear nestled upon his lap. She had felt Teàrlach when he was pleased to be against her. She could recall the thickness that grew below his waist and was grateful that Duncan wore so much padding and chain mail that if he was enjoying her proximity—which she suspected he was—she couldn’t feel that part. Just thinking about it made a blush rush over her cheeks.
Lord, she hated her blushing. She did it so frequently. No wonder everyone thought her daft.
They approached a hill, rising to the top. A castle tower in the midst of renovations came into view. It wasn’t large, but it was stately, with three baileys delineated by a network of walls she could determine from their vantage. The barbican was massive, the gate made of sturdy cross beams that ended in spikes, and a moat encircled the structure. Though the castle sat low in the landscape, it was strategically fortified with a long promontory of a road leading across the water, the drawbridge currently laid flat.
“Kirkburn Castle, my lady,” Moreville finally spoke. “When John takes you to wife, this will be your home together. I’ve been financing the addition of a new wing, complete with refurbished kitchens and a more modern sitting room for you and your lady’s maids. And of course, a new office for John to conduct business.”
What lady’s maids? She had none. And unless he planned to provide her with them, she assumed she would live in relative isolation within Kirkburn’s moated walls. And what business? She hadn’t the faintest clue what John did besides live upon his father’s coin, the precious heir.
Goodness, she was growing cynical. Of course, John would have business. She was overwhelmed, tired, even though it was only midday. And she had no desire to go within the walls and examine the house that she and John would never make into a home together. He wanted to marry her about as much as he wanted a deadly plague. He would keep her at arm’s length and refuse her company. Not that she wanted to give it. She had already given her heart away to a Highlander with whisky-amber eyes, who held her sweetly, who kissed more sweetly, and who sat in the saddle beside her, fuming.
“I admit, sire, I’m feeling unwell,” Madeline finally confessed, feeling the air leave her lungs in a bout of panic. The likes of which she had never felt before. She could get no air and gulped desperately. “I do apologize, for you have so kindly brought me to see this grand estate. But I feel like… I feel like…”
Her eyes went black and she slumped sideways. Duncan caught her as she slipped.
Vaguely, she sensed Teàrlach’s arm snagging her shoulders and neck, supporting them as Duncan helped right her again. Her head lolled, and spots burst beneath her eyelids.
“Get her into some shade,” Teàrlach ordered Duncan, who obliged and trotted across the hillside to a tree.
She opened her eyes, seeing him jump from the saddle and rip free his helmet as they arrived beneath the branches. He reached up and drew her down from her perch upon Duncan’s lap, cradling her, and laying her in the grasses.
“Water, man. Have you any in your packs?” Teàrlach asked. She lolled her head to see Duncan nodding, standing, and withdrawing a water bladder. “Good. All I brought was whisky.”
Her head swirled, but still, that struck her as odd. Any man ought to know to pack water on a warm, summer day. Though now that she was looking at Teàrlach in the outdoors, she saw his haggard eyes and deep concern. Has he been drinking only whisky for all the day?
Teàrlach took the flask of water as Moreville and John rode up beside them and dribbled it on her brow to help revive her. He smiled down at her. For one split second, the warmth returned to his eyes.
“Drink, my lady,” he commanded, sliding a gauntlet underneath her head to lift it up while placing the spout of the flask to her lips. She hesitated, looking warily at the vessel. “’Tis only water, nay spirits,” he assured her.
She took the drink after that, nursing desperately upon the flask. She was sweating. She knew her skin had paled.
“What happened?” she finally murmured.
“You fainted, my lady,” he replied, laying her head back down upon the earth. “Rest a moment longer to ensure your good humors are again in command.”
He stood and went to collect his helmet. Laird Moreville was watching him while John sat in the saddle, indifferent, but Teàrlach didn’t seem to notice. Or care. It wasn’t until Moreville spoke to him that he gave him any attention.
“Mayhap, MacGregor, you ought to take John’s betrothed back to Dungarnock and meet up with us here again,” he suggested, a twinkle in his eye. “Since you know her so well, from your former employ, of course, I trust you to have the utmost honor. We have need of inspecting the progress of construction and unfortunately, cannot be delayed.”
…
Of course, Teàrlach bit back his retort to lay out more careful words. Not a scrap of your attention can be diverted because of her needs. You can nay be inconvenienced because the lass is unwell.
He opted to say nothing at all and gave his typical single nod. Madeline needed to get away from John, and Teàrlach cared not if his eagerness to fulfill his laird’s request painted him in a bad light. A moment’s respite from the Morevilles would do her a world of good. He turned back around to Madeline, kneeling beside her.
“Laird Moreville believes it would suit you well to return to Dungarnock. Allow me to escort you,” he said impassively.
She nodded and reached up to his offered hand, standing on wobbly legs. He guided her with a chaste hand to King who waited idly, as if perpetually bored, half submerged in the shade. He lifted her into the saddle, mounting behind her and maneuvering her onto his lap.
Without another word, he gave King a tap, urging him into a trot. Both he and Madeline rode in silence. It wasn’t until they dismounted in Dungarnock’s yard and they were well within the tower that he dragged her against his chain-mailed chest.
She fell against him. He could feel her legs shaking and held her up, his arms like a metal loop about her waist and back. She was trying to steady her breathing, and no doubt could feel that he, too, trembled.
“Maddie…” he crooned in her ear. “Sweet Maddie…”
“I’m sorry, Teàrlach,” she exhaled. “I meant nay to faint. I just…I could nay go inside Kirkburn, I just could—”
“Wheesht,” he whispered. “Ye needn’t explain.”
He simply held her. It was only a fortnight until she departed to Edinburgh. He needed to be strong for her, and holding her instead of shoving his tongue down her throat felt like the right thing to do. But his damned heart was, of all things, fragile. Friday next would be his last day to visit her, considering he had been robbed of the pleasure today. And he wasn’t sure he could do it. He wasn’t sure he could come, partake of her sweet lips, feel the pleasure he felt just passing the day with her, and generate that image in his mind again of the future life they would never lead together in the Highlands with their nonexistent bairns. In fact, as he held her up, he knew he couldn’t. He needed to make a clean break. Even though, “clean” was no longer an option. The break would be messy and painful, but it needed to be done.
“Let me get you a drink,” he said, sensing she was finally calming.
He led her to the hearth in the hall, knowing the path by memory in the dark. Seating her in a chair, he felt along the mantel for the flint and oil, loading the hearth with kindling, dousing it, and cracking the flint until a spark caught the oil. He added a log from the bin beside the hearth, glanced at her, noticing she sat dumbly in the chair with wet streaks down her cheeks.
He went into the kitchen, bringing back her watered wine and a goblet as well as a tart upon a wooden trencher. Setting them beside her, he knelt, took up her hands, and searched for words. Her touch was lifeless. Dull.
She glanced at the pastry, symbolic of such a wholesome love. Who had they been fooling? Madeline was going to marry that awful man, and he could do nothing. He had made her world bright for a short time, aye. Sparked her curiosities. Awakened her mind and body. She suddenly grabbed her chest, squeezing the fabric as if squeezing pain from her heart. Anguish twisted Teàrlach’s gut. He wouldn’t be surprised if blood leached through at any moment, for her ashen face was deathly and she clutched her chest as if barely holding it all in. Seeing the castle under construction had slapped him with reality. Reality had slapped her, too.
“You may eat it, if you like,” she said, giving the trencher a frail wave. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to make them again.”
He looked at it and knew he would never be able to eat another, either.
“That would be a shame,” he croaked. “I’m willing to bet good coin you have many talents to discover, baking only being one of them,” he added. His throat was thick. He was trying to be strong. What humor! He, a hulking warrior steeped in training men how to kill and fight. His heart was sinking. “Think of…” His voice threatened to crack, and he turned his gaze to the fire. “Think of your future bairns. How much they will love such sweets.”
He shot to his feet and paced to the door. He had to get air, get out, run his horse hard. Her bairns most certainly wouldn’t be his bairns, and the thought made him both pissed and dejected. But he had to return to Kirkburn Castle. He couldn’t tarry.
He heard, rather than saw, her breath hitch at his remark. And then, as he opened the door, then pushed it closed, he heard a wail that gouged him like a pike to the chest. Madeline, sweet, quiet, perfect Madeline who had weathered her father’s most violent outbursts had fallen to keening. He rested his forehead against the door, closing his eyes, absorbing her mournful tears, her breaking heart breaking him. He would never need to hear her utter that she loved him. Right now, he felt it deep in the center of his heart. God, how he wanted to rush back in and gather her in his arms, but if he did, he was going to commit a grievous sin.
Instead, he pushed away from the door, leaving her inside crying, and gathered King from the byre where he had stabled himself to drink from the trough. Swinging up, he was already turning the reins before his other boot was stirruped. Kicking King, the horse shot into a gallop through the open gates.