Chapter Three
What in the world just happened? Madeline stared at the door for minutes after Teàrlach left. He had been nervous, obviously, and embarrassed. Of course, she knew how that felt. Nothing more embarrassing had ever happened to her. Too stunned to understand, she sat, dumb as a rock. Who would have thought her father’s head man could be so kind?
Yet, it had been clear he wanted to get away. No doubt she wasn’t the sort of woman he found pleasing to the eye. He had indeed been her father’s head guardsman, but a guardsman none the less. And from the gossip she had overheard from guardsmen, they preferred trollops and tavern wenches, serving girls, or widows. The occasional boast about a lady was less usual. Madeline had been high ranking and a virgin kept naive, not to mention, she was far from buxom, a quality she had often seen favored in the great hall back at Castle Ayr.
Finally coming to her senses, she got up. So the man might have seen her bare arms. Greta and Fingal needn’t know a whit about what had happened. It had only been the two of them, her and Teàrlach, and she could most certainly play it off in the morn.
Her pain was unreal and she had thirst. She stood and took one dizzying step, then another, toward her pitcher across the room. Blast it, but she should have asked him to bring it closer. Still, she managed, and hobbled forward until she reached her table and lifted the pitcher, drinking straight from the spout. After draining much of it, her spirit improved, and she limped to the door and exited.
She needed fresh air. A man of no relation to her had practically seen her naked. He had been as decent as he could be, keeping his eyes averted, and had seemed to solve her problem swiftly. That he knew what to do with a woman’s garments was not lost on her. But he’d wanted nothing more than to quit the room. That much was clear.
Hoisting herself up the final set of stairs, she pushed open the hatch in the roof and climbed out into the night. Slowly. Pulling her poorly leg up with each step. But ah, the stars…
This was why she loved her freedom.
Her pain melted away as she gazed at the expanse. When the wind decided to clear the sky of clouds, the view was magnificent. The stars were bright, lighting up the world below with their brilliance. There were more than she could fathom to count, only knowing her numbers so high. But they were lovely. Fingal had once said ancient people on the continent had seen animals and creatures drawn by the stars and had likened them to gods and goddesses.
The stars fascinated her. Life fascinated her. What a shame she had spent so much of it ignorant. If there was one thing she would never forgive her beast of a father for, it wasn’t his punishing hand. It was keeping her ignorant. Not allowing her to be tutored like her older sister. She wanted to know so much, but now she realized why people had once whispered she was daft. She must have seemed daft. And that would never have happened had she been taught to read, write, and learn about the world.
Now it was likely too late. She knew not the first place to start with reading. She knew words were made of letters but knew not the letters or what they looked like. There were no books at Dungarnock and obviously, no tutors, for Greta and Fingal couldn’t read a whit. But the stars. She could read the stars, and like the ancients, she had started noting her own patterns in the sky, calling them horses and wolves and pigs and kings and castles. Of course, it was silly, but she would probably be alone forever, so why did it matter if she was silly or not?
She took a deep breath, inhaled, exhaled, relaxing and gazing at the expanse above her, hoping to imagine away the pain in her leg. A swallow of whisky might be warranted, if they even had any, which they didn’t. And then a faint grinding noise met her ears and distracted her.
She moved to the crenulated wall surrounding the roof, the one defensive element to her home, and looked down into the yard. The lathe was going, candlelight illuminating the tool shed. All that was visible was a foot pumping the machine as it spun, twisting a long piece of wood. Was Fingal working on a late project? The man was withered and most certainly too old to not be abed by now, especially when he had to travel to see his daughter in the village in the morn. And then the lathe stopped along with the grinding. And she saw Teàrlach’s broad arm reach into view, unclamping the wood and removing it, only to replace it with another.
The man’s arm was corded with muscle, tanned, from what she could see in the inadequate light. And bare. And then he maneuvered around the lathe, a sanding knife in hand, and began chipping out a knot in the wood with a pick.
The man hadn’t just pushed up his sleeve. He was shirtless.
Heaven help her for her curiosity, but she was about to secure her place in hell, for his back was fine and broad, wide-set shoulders tight with pure muscle, yoking his neck to his arms like that of a dray beast, and she found a warmth tingle through her limbs and spread through her abdomen. What on earth was the feeling? It was new, pleasurable, and was most likely the feeling she had heard serving wenches gossip about at Castle Ayr. And those women were gossiping about ripe stags of men who they had lain abed with…having had intercourse with…
Lord, the thought made her blush. She had little knowledge of what happened in the bedchamber, only knowing snippets from what the servants had gossiped about. Ladies were supposed to be too pure to be corrupted by such indecent thoughts. But as she stared at him with shameless interest, watching his muscles ripple as he picked out the knot, she held her hand across her stomach. What would it feel like to have a man take that sort of interest in her?
A silly notion. She had always been thin and was most certainly too flat of breast to pique a man’s curiosity. And while she knew that breasts served the purpose of milk for a bairn, she had it on account that men enjoyed them as well.
He moved back around the lathe, giving her a view of his chest. Her heartbeat rattled faster through her body. His stomach was a washboard, with a dusting of hair that descended beneath the slouching waist of his trousers. She could scrub garments upon it, it was so ridged. And his hair hanging into his face as he wiped away sweat gave him an unprincipled look, which should make her wary, but only intrigued her more. She tried to imagine him wrapped within the proud red-and-blue great kilt worn by the MacGregors. Just the thought of it sent a shiver over her skin, and despite the chill of a spring night, she felt warm all over.
As if sensing someone, he paused in the doorway, wiped his sweat, peered outside, and stepped into the yard. His gaze swept up the tower, as if searching for something amiss, and landed on her. For a moment he seemed to study her, then slowly turned to give her his full front bathed in the light of the stars.
His chest rose and fell, and Madeline’s breath hitched. His posture straightened. His hands migrated to his hips, where they rested upon his trousers, inadvertently or perhaps intentionally, pushing them down farther so that the plane of his stomach reached dangerously close to his nether hair. It was almost as if he was inviting her to look. And shockingly, she continued looking…
Finally, her senses returned. What was she, a harlot? She ducked her head, brushing her hair behind her ears, and turned away, blushing, hustling back down the stairs as quickly as she could hobble, and flipping closed the hatch. But she was wide awake, the tingling never leaving her stomach. There would be no sleep for hours to come.
…
Teàrlach watched her leave. His chest continued to rise and fall. He continued to stare at the space the fae woman had occupied moments before. He could still envision her flow of hair, more like silver in the moonlight, still imagined her gazing at him. He realized his skin felt hot. And lo was his cock already responding to her perusal of his form by growing long and heavy within the leg of his undergarments. They had been separated by a tower’s height and yet that may still have been the single most intimate experience of his life.
He hadn’t seen her expressions in the dark as she was, but he knew she looked, and he felt compelled to give her as much to look at as she wanted. It most likely was the first full view of an almost nude man she had ever seen. And something about being her first excited him. And then she was gone, and he was left standing there like a lovesick suitor begging favors below his maiden’s window, only to be rejected.
He turned and went back inside the shed. He still had hours of work to do. Throwing one more glance up to the tower roof, she was still gone, and he returned to his task, wiping his forehead and picking up the sanding knife as he pumped the lathe once more.
…
The sun was growing high and the morning meal had been completed long ago. Madeline’s leg still hurt, but it was better than the night before. She paced before the board, throwing glances at the stairs. Teàrlach should have risen by now. She had broken her fast at least three hours before and had already finished the final stitches on the nicest piece of linen the tower had to offer. There was little fabric, but she had stayed up working with what material Dungarnock had. After Teàrlach’s display in the moonlight, she had been too restless to sleep.
She unfolded the garment she’d made, examined it for the hundredth time, then folded it again and set it upon the board.
“Mayhap he’s unwell?” suggested Greta, hauling a basket to Fingal at the door for their journey home, ready to be on their way.
“Mayhap,” replied Madeline in agreement. She walked to the door, too, peered outside and noted the sun reaching toward its zenith. “I suppose I should go check on him and make sure.”
Greta nodded and scuttled away to the kitchen, and Madeline looked at the daunting stairs, looked down at her leg in its crude brace, and sighed. She had to climb them again. Greta was overly busy packing, and Fingal was taking care of last-minute chores.
She hobbled to the stairs and lifted her good leg, set her foot on the step, and hauled up her braced leg beside it. Then repeated, and repeated. At long last, she reached the first floor. Leaning against the wall to catch her breath, she pushed herself upright again and arrived in front of his door.
She tapped. No answer. She tapped again. No answer.
Finally, she tried the latch. It opened. She pushed the door wide and looked in. His shutters were open, sunlight flooding in, and his leather packs were neatly stacked against a wall. He lay sprawled across the bed, his chest nude, the blanket twisted around his hips, and one arm thrown wide while the other lay wedged beneath his pillow, causing his bicep to bulge. Lord, he is even more attractive when he sleeps. She inched into the room.
Coming closer, she walked around the bed to the side he lay closest to and finally stood over him. His chest rose and fell in long, slow inhales and exhales, the hint of a snore detectable. He looked peaceful. His brow had softened, and there was a sense of calm surrounding him. She didn’t want to disturb him, but the man surely hadn’t intended to sleep the day away, especially when he needed to arrive at Glengarnock Castle to take up his new employ. Biting her lip and taking a deep breath of her own, she reached out a timid hand and touched his shoulder, giving him a nudge.
His eyes flew open, his outstretched hand clamping around her wrist. His hand beneath his pillow whipped forth a dagger, which he brought down against her skin. She shrieked. His eyes cleared of their sleep-induced haze. He released her, springing to his feet.
She stumbled backward, falling and landing on her rear while he tossed the knife, as if it were poison, onto the blankets.
“Lady, I…” He reached to help her up but she pushed away from him, shaking her head. She dragged her leg, shoving backward across the flooring, her head still shaking. “Christ…” he whispered, his eyes furrowing. “I’m sorry, Lady. God, lass, I meant nay to harm you.”
She reached the door and used the frame to help lift herself back up. Her long hair, still not styled save for two braids along the side of her head tied together at the back, draped around her in a tangle.
“Madeline, please, woman,” he croaked.
She shook her head and wiped her hand cross her eyes. “I, eh…” Her voice was shaking and she wouldn’t look at him. “The morn grows late, and we were concerned you were unwell…I’m sorry to intrude—”
“’Twas no intrusion,” he said, walking toward her to take her hand. “Madeline, I—”
She flattened herself to the wall at his approach, her fingers attempting to grip the plastering, and watched him from her periphery.
“I’ll leave you to ready yourself for your journey,” she said, inching along the wall and escaping out the door.
…
Teàrlach’s whole chest ached to see her so terrified of him. He wanted to make chase, but he knew all he would do was frighten her further. She had just politely implied he should leave. He stood frozen, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He shoved the door shut.
“Dammit!” he exclaimed, banging a fist against the wall.
He raked his hand through his hair, looking out the open shutters at the sunlit yard, perching his hands upon his hips. Lord, he must have looked like a beast to her, half naked as he was. His warrior instincts ran too deep. What had his unconscious mind been thinking, to attack her so suddenly? He’d been startled awake in a strange place. That was what happened. His years of training had ruined him to ever letting his guard down.
Sweet Madeline. He shook his head at his stupidity. He walked to his bed and picked up his dagger again. She had harbored concern for him and that was what he’d given her in return. She had witnessed too much violence at her father’s hand. If ever he could push her away, snatching her arm and pulling a knife on her was the way to do it. He tossed down the blade again with disgust, resting his hands on his hips and releasing a slow exhale.
He looked to the corner where he had leaned his project from the night before. Of course he had overslept. He had only gone to bed an hour before the dawn broke, after completing his woodworking. On another exhale, he moved to the chair in the corner and swept up his trousers, trying to imagine away the terror that had sprung to her face. He had been the cause of that, and he feared it would be too late to make it up to her.
Dressed in a tunic, his surcoat, freshened, and with his packs and habergeon hoisted over one arm, he jogged down the stairs. Greta and Madeline were laying out the morning meal for him again, nay doubt to placate the beast. Madeline looked up, seemingly composed, though she offered a polite curtsy and remained silent.
And maintained her distance.
Greta, however, seemed none the wiser. Had Madeline not mentioned it to her?
“Good day, sire!” Greta smiled. “We were worried you had taken to the sick bed. Here, we have some boiled eggs and bread. You were indeed up late, were you nay?”
He nodded his thanks, dropped his packs by the main door, and turned around.
“Lady Madeline,” he began. She looked up from the pitcher of watered wine she was pouring him at the board. “I fashioned these for you last night.” She paused. “May I show you how to use them? They’re crutches and a decent splint. To ease your pain as you walk and allow your leg to heal better.”
She looked at him, without speaking. He walked to her as Greta busied herself across the hall, stoking the fire and casting glances at them. The weather was fine this time of year, and there was no need for a fire. He knew they prepared one simply for him. Arriving before her, her head dropped. He reached out, took one of her hands working the fabric of an apron, and lifted it. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed it, inhaling the smell of it before lowering it. It smelled of bread and a hand cream scented with floral herbs. She had obviously helped prepare the morning meal. It smelled wholesome, delicious, and feminine all in one. He loved it.
She froze, her eyes shooting to his face.
“I am truly sorry for frightening you,” he muttered, shame contorting his brow. “Forgive me. I suppose I’m too much a fighter that when startled awake I reacted. I’ll never hurt you. ’Tis a promise.”
She considered him, then turned and saw Greta gaping at his forwardness. Ignoring the woman, he turned Madeline’s face back to his, gazing into her watery eyes.
“’Tis I who am sorry,” she offered, delivering a low curtsy. “For intruding upon your privacy. I take full blame.”
He furrowed his brow. That was a practiced answer, if he had ever heard one. Only a woman trained to placate a man at every turn would take responsibility for that man nearly severing her hand from her arm for naught.
“I’ll hear none of it,” he retorted, his eyes angry. “You should nay take the blame for another’s actions. Sit. Let me see your leg.”
She gaped at him.
“Indeed, sit,” he repeated. “I need to see that this brace will fit, before I depart.”
She obeyed, pulling out the chair at the board where she had dined with him. He knelt and reached toward her hemline, thinking of their encounter the night before when she had gazed at him from the roof. It had been brief and yet had felt as if time stood still. Mayhap it was just him, but he had felt as if she’d appreciated what she’d seen. Seeing her legs now was different, as if the tension from the night before was thrumming to life again like the reverberation of a lute string.
He glanced up at her as he lifted her gown, her crudely braced leg outstretched beside him. Again, her cheeks were flushed and he noticed her breath shallow. Yes. He could sense when a woman was interested. She might be nervous, but she was interested. In him. He wanted to puff up his chest. That something could come of the attraction was pure fantasy, he knew, but it didn’t lessen the excitement any.
He severed eye contact, fixing his eyes on the brace and began unwinding the strips of fabric. Finally, he pulled away the wood. She sighed with unabashed relief, smiling at him.
“I debated a drink of whisky had we any such drink in store, but alas, I had to settle for sleep,” she jested.
She actually jested, he noticed, her lips upturned. He pondered the revelation as he unwound the bandaging around her leg and ripped the fragments of her stockings away, her skin up to her knee exposed. He noted that there were, in fact, points of pressure that seemed red and sore.
“Hopefully, this brace will be more comfortable,” he replied, examining her. Then he rewrapped it and placed the wooden slats he had made on either side of her leg, slats that curved to the shape of her calf and were sanded smooth. “There, how is this?”
She nodded, smiling with wonder. “However did you make it so well-fitted?”
He shrugged off the question, but he knew how. He had memorized the shape and dimension of her leg. He had needed only one time of seeing and feeling it to never forget a shape so fine. With her approval, he tied the braces onto each side of her leg again, pulling down her gown.
“Can you stand easily?” he asked.
She smiled with more wonder. “My thanks, Teàrlach…sire,” she corrected.
Ah, to hear his name spoken from her lips. It was a lovely sound.
“Teàrlach is fine, Madeline,” he replied, his eyes catching hers. “You may call me familiarly.”
Did the blush ever stop raging on her cheeks? He hid his smile. Her hand migrated to her face to cup her burning skin.
“Here. Try these crutches.”
He held out the pair, evenly crafted and sanded smooth, with underarm supports well-fastened to the shafts by wooden pegs. She took them, seemingly unsure what to do with them. And so, he helped her place them under her arms.
“Have you ever used these before?” he asked. She shook her head, and he chuckled. “Well, I have. I grew up with three other brothers, and we tended to get into mischief.” He winked.
She giggled.
He looked away, a smile tugging on his lips again. What a favor to make her happy. Perhaps he hadn’t put her off completely with his barbaric awakening this morn.
“Place your weight on them and lift your braced leg so it hovers over the floor. Keep your support on your good leg. Like that, aye,” he guided. “Now instead of taking a step with your bad leg, do so with your crutches.”
She did so, wobbling off-balance, and Teàrlach caught her waist from behind. So slender. His fingers gripped her. It was a wonder women of such size could ever grow a bairn. Bairns. That was the last thing he needed to think about. With her breathing so erratic and with his hands upon her waist, he didn’t need to imagine bairns in her stomach, which, of course, led to him thinking about how a bairn was put there to begin with. She may not be experienced with how a man’s touch could set a woman on fire, but it was clear that she could feel it.
Righting her, he let go, steadied her, and bade her try again until she found a rhythm.
She smiled at him. “I thank thee, Teàrlach. This is what you were crafting all night? All of this, for me? How can I ever repay you?”
He shouldn’t feel badly, but he did. No one had ever done much for her, aside from provide her with the basics to which a lady of breeding was entitled. But right now, she was looking at him as if he had given her the world.
“Mayhap allow me to come check in on you from time to time,” he suggested, his voice hedging. “’Twould be repayment enough to be given another fine meal.”
She nodded and smiled.
“You would be most welcome, sire. And I shall be more careful waking you in the event you sleep here again.”
He noticed the tease in her words, her eyes flashing him a hesitant gaze and she smiled, then chuckled, then brushed a strand of hair over her ears.
“Am I to assume I’m forgiven for being an arse?”
Her breath left her again. Her face raged with blush again. “Indeed,” she said breathlessly.
“Good,” he murmured, wanting nothing more than to kiss her. The urge came on all at once. He wanted to take her in his arms and offer her her first taste of a man’s lips. He stayed the urge. What right did he have? Her father might be imprisoned, but Crawford had also been an earl while he was still only a fourth son from a Highland clan, slated to inherit no title.
“I shall eat and be on my way,” he said, to which she nodded and watched him take his seat.
Not long after, Fingal brought him his horse, and he mounted in the yard, his packs secured, his mail habergeon beneath his surcoat, protruding over his shoulders. He looked down at Madeline, her hair blowing in the breeze, her cheeks and nose pink from the sunshine the day before. She looked up at him. He reached down for her hand, and she seemed to know what he wanted, letting go of the crutch braced beneath her shoulder and giving him what he sought. He bent low, taking her fingers, and placed a kiss upon them.
Reluctantly, he let go.
“My thanks for the fine food and hospitality, Madeline. I haven’t had such accommodations in years.”
“And my thanks for these fine wood crafts. ’Twas kind of you,” she replied.
He dismissed it with a shake of his head. “’Twas nothing. I’m glad I happened upon you when I did. To think what could have happened otherwise…”
She nodded while he righted himself, gathering up his reins.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” she exclaimed. “Greta. Will you retrieve the parcel I laid upon the board?”
Greta eyed her curiously but hobbled back inside and returned moments later. She handed it to Madeline who nodded her thanks. Turning back to Teàrlach, she held it up to him.
“Please take this, sire. It’s nay much, but I hope it will show how grateful I am for your assistance.”
He hesitated, looking down at her. He had never received a gift from a woman, and very few from men. If truth be told, he had only received gifts from his oldest brother and his father, the two lairds of his clan, whose place it was to bestow gifts downward. When he did nothing, she retracted her hand, holding it down before her while resting her underarm upon her crutches.
She looked down. “Of course, if you deem it inappropriate, I understand—”
“Let me see it, Lady,” he said, coming out of his stupor.
She handed it back up and this time, he took it. He unfolded the fabric, feeling a skip in his heart at the prospect of something special from this woman. It unfolded into a tunic with leather lacing at the neck. What an intimate garment. It was the sort of item a wife might make for her man. He brushed his thumbs over it, not knowing what to say.
“I was sorry to see you tear up such a fine garment yesterday simply to make a splint for me,” she began, casting furtive glances at his face to read his expressions. “It could nay have been cheaply bought. Mine is nay as fine of quality, but none the less, it ought to give you some good use.”
He looked back into her face, smiling at her ramblings. She was clearly nervous. He returned his attention to the tunic. It was sewn flawlessly. And it was also clear that he wasn’t the only one who had stayed awake into the wee hours working his industrious fingers, unable to sleep.
“’Tis as fine a tunic as I’ve ever had. I shall wear it gladly, Maddie,” he replied, the shortened name slipping out. Dammit, he cursed to himself. A blush was raging across her face, and he was certain he had embarrassed her. What on earth had possessed him to speak so freely? When had he ever lost his focus, his manners, his propriety? He tightened his grip on the garment, then rolled it and tucked it into the sleeve of his surcoat against his chest. “My thanks, lass. Such kindness was nay necessary.”
She bowed her head, offering no words. He wanted to chasten her. No woman should be bowing to him, the fourth son of a Highland chief.
“Good day, my lady,” he said, turning the horse. “I’ll look in on you soon.”
“God go with you,” she replied.
…
He nodded once and nudged his horse into a lope, exiting the open gate and disappearing down the pathway. And that was that. Her stern rescuer with beautiful whisky eyes and a gentle heart was gone. Greta came up beside her.
“My, my, my, does the lad fancy you.” She clicked her tongue.
“Him? ’Tis preposterous.” Madeline dismissed the old woman’s claim.
“’Tis the truth, Lady. Oh that look upon his face each time he looked at you…he’s a man smitten with a young beauty. Could you nay see his longing?” Greta scolded. “He’s a hardened man with good schooling over his expressions, but he’s still a man. He stayed up all bloody night making you crutches with nothing expected in return. What man would do that for a lady he only met?”
Madeline looked at Greta. The old woman, a peasant, often had a foul mouth and Madeline had learned long ago not to overreact. And if what she was saying was true, the idea didn’t seem all that displeasing. In fact, the idea pleased her well. Teàrlach seemed a valiant man, even if he was quiet. It was true that while he had terrified her that morn, he had also caught himself as quickly as he had reacted. He had looked horrified, dropping the dagger and springing to his feet. Shame and shock had covered his sleepy face, his eyes not fully lucid. She should have known better than to sneak up on a man at arms, she chastised herself, but he had indeed proven to her his regret.
“And I dare say, you, Lady Madeline, were taken with him as well? What unmarried maiden makes a man she hardly knows a tunic, eh?”
Madeline looked at the old woman and rolled her eyes, then laughed to herself. Her older sister was always the one to roll her eyes, not her.
“He ripped his to shreds to splint my leg. I owed him the kindness.”
“The man wanted to kiss you. I know these things. He wanted to steal such a favor—”
“Posh.” Madeline dismissed the thought with a wave.
“And he was most appreciative of your gift,” Greta continued. “Ye struck him dumb for a moment.”
“Well it matters nay,” Madeline said, turning on her crutches to return to the tower and retrieve her pile of mending. “He’s gone and will nay return once Laird Moreville busies him with work.”
“Oh, I have every confidence he will return. And as soon as he can take the leave,” the old woman called at Madeline’s back. “Glengarnock is only an hour’s walk from here! I suspect he’ll bring a favor or two with him!”
Madeline ignored Greta’s rambling. Teàrlach was a fine man, but she would never hold his interest for long. She didn’t know the first thing to do with a man who favored her. No one had taught her how to court or what to expect from a man who wished to perchance court her. She didn’t even know the details of her wedding night, only that her husband would deflower her. All she knew was what she had seen betwixt serving wenches and men in Castle Ayr’s great hall, and had indeed walked in on couples from time to time, fornicating in a quiet nook or darkened corridor. Such a thing had been inevitable in a castle as populated as Castle Ayr. But she had never stuck around to watch the mechanics involved, even if common sense and a basic understanding of animal husbandry told her what body parts were utilized.
And come to think of it, of all the guardsmen and servants she had walked in on, even her own father on occasion, Teàrlach had never been among those men. Ridiculous. Teàrlach, no doubt, had participated in bed sport. He had just been more discreet than others. All men enjoyed the act and he was likely no different, just more private. Except last night when he had seen her spying on him. He had boldly welcomed her inspection. It caused a flutter to awaken in her belly that had never been there before, a restlessness that caused her to fidget and couldn’t be assuaged. And for a brief moment, after returning to her bedchamber to busy her restless hands with sewing, she had imagined him kissing her like she had seen those guardsmen and serving wenches do, and that flutter had grown until her whole body had felt pleasantly warm and frustratingly unsated.
She sighed. It mattered not. He was gone, and he had a living to make. Visiting her would gain him no coin, and thus, Greta was wrong. He wouldn’t be coming back.