Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Duncan remained where she had left him. The courtyard carried on as though nothing of consequence had occurred to him, and it all seemed distant and dulled to him, as though he stood apart from it.
Beside him, Iain had watched the entire ordeal in silence.
At length, he spoke. “Ye hadnae told her.”
It was not a question, so Duncan did not immediately reply. His gaze remained fixed in the direction she had gone, with his thoughts moving too quickly for ease.
“I didnae think it necessary,” he admitted, realizing how wrong he was.
Iain’s brow lifted slightly. “Nae necessary?” he repeated.
Duncan exhaled in a sound that was controlled but strained.
“I asked her tae marry me because I wished tae,” he explained. “Because of what I feel fer her, nae because of what she might bring tae the clan, nor simply because her faither made an offer.”
The words came with certainty, though there was frustration beneath them now, at himself, at the turn of events, at the realization of what his silence had cost him.
“She was never part of any bargain,” he added, more firmly. “Nor will she ever be.”
Iain studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I ken that.”
Duncan’s gaze flickered toward him briefly.
“But she daesnae,” Iain continued.
The truth of it settled heavily between them. Duncan said nothing. What could he say?
He had meant to speak to her. He had intended, in his own time, to explain what Fraser’s offer entailed, to make it clear that it had no bearing upon what he had asked of her. And yet, he had delayed. He had assumed there would be time.
Iain shifted his stance slightly, and when he spoke again, he did not do it as a captain, but as something far more personal.
“Then ye must make her understand,” he advised. “And quickly.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened.
“She will nae listen,” he replied.
“Then make her listen,” Iain returned without hesitation. “Dae whatever ye must.”
There was no trace of command in his voice now, only conviction.
“I am telling ye this nae as yer captain,” he added, “but as yer friend.”
Duncan looked at him fully then, and Iain met his gaze without flinching.
“I have watched ye these past weeks,” he went on. “And I have kenned ye long enough tae see what ye will nae say aloud. Ye care fer her more than ye ever intended.”
Duncan did not deny it.
“I want tae see the clan secure,” Iain continued, “and but I want tae see ye happy as well.”
A brief pause followed.
“And if she is the one who brings ye that, then ye would be a fool tae let this end over words that can still be mended.”
The simplicity of it struck more deeply than any argument of strategy or necessity.
Duncan drew a slow breath. “She believes I have deceived her.”
“Then prove her wrong,” Iain countered.
There was no hesitation in it. Duncan held his gaze a moment longer, then gave a short nod. He turned without another word, and knew that whatever remained to be done, he would not delay again.
He crossed the yard with such speed that several of the men turned at his passing, though he neither saw nor cared.
The air struck sharp against his face, cool with the fading day, yet it did nothing to steady the heat that had risen within him.
One thought alone pressed upon him with intolerable force. That she might already be gone.
The corridors seemed longer than usual and the stone passages close and airless, lit by the waning gold of afternoon filtering through narrow windows.
His boots struck hard against the floors as he took each turn with barely checked urgency, his mind advancing before him to what he might find.
By the time he reached her chambers, his breath had begun to shorten, though whether from haste or dread he could not have said.
He did not knock. The door opened beneath his hand at once, and he crossed the threshold breathless.
She was there.
The relief of it came so fiercely that for one disordered instant it was almost pain. Yet it was gone again the next.
Elaina was standing in the midst of the room, surrounded by the visible signs of planned departure. Drawers had been opened and left ajar. Garments lay in disordered folds across the bed, and her small case stood upon the chair, already half-filled.
She was not merely upset. She was leaving.
The sight stopped him.
For a moment, he could only stand there, with one hand still upon the open door, while his whole being was seized by the dreadful certainty of how near he had come to losing her without explanation, without forgiveness, perhaps without another word.
She turned at the sound of his entrance.
There was color in her cheeks, but not from softness. Her eyes, wide a moment before, hardened as soon as they met his, and the hand in which she held one of her gowns tightened upon the fabric.
Duncan had faced armed men with less disquiet than he felt beneath that look.
“Elaina,” he said, though the name came rougher than he intended, because his breath was not yet fully mastered.
She did not answer.
The room held the faint scent of lavender from the linens, mingled now with the sharper disturbance of opened trunks and unsettled air.
The fire had burned low. One of the curtains stirred at the window, and in that slight movement, in the quiet disorder of the chamber, he felt as though he had intruded not merely upon her packing, but upon the collapse of every hope he had foolishly imagined secure.
“Ye mean tae leave,” he said at last, though the evidence of it stood before him plainly enough.
Her chin lifted rebelliously. “Did ye imagine I would stay?”
There was no violence in her tone. That might almost have been easier to bear. What cut him instead was its restraint, the chill composure of a woman who had already suffered enough to expect betrayal where she had once permitted herself trust.
Duncan took a step into the room, then another, without getting too close.
“I should have told ye,” he admitted in words that lacked defense or ornament. “Before today, before ye had any cause tae hear it from a conversation that didnae include ye.”
Her expression did not soften. Not that he expected it to.
“Aye,” she replied. “Ye should have.”
He accepted the rebuke without protest. He had earned it.
“I did nae tell ye because I did nae think Fraser’s offer mattered beside what I had already decided.”
At that, a bitter little laugh escaped her. It was so slight a sound, yet it struck him with all the force of accusation.
“Didnae matter?” she repeated. “Me faither offering ye an alliance through marriage didnae matter?”
“Nae fer the reason I asked ye,” Duncan said, more urgently now, feeling time narrow around him. “Nae in the least. When I received it, I didnae even ken yet who ye were, but I already had feelings fer ye, which is why I never answered him.”
She turned from him then, setting the gown down with too much precision, as though careful movement were all that kept her from breaking under the strain of it.
“That is all very prettily said,” she answered, “but I have heard enough of what men dae fer reasons that have naught tae dae with kindness.”
He closed his eyes for the briefest instant. Her words were not wild. They were not unjust. That was the worst of it. They made perfect sense.
When he looked at her again, she had resumed packing, though her hands were unsteady now. He could see that every fold was too sharp and every motion too quick.
Duncan watched her for one helpless second more, then crossed farther into the room, the sight of her gathering her belongings with such determination stirring within him a misery he could scarcely master.
The late light touched the loose strands of her hair, the slope of her cheek and the trembling line of her mouth, and he thought, with a force so sudden it left him almost breathless anew, that if she left him now, it would not be only her presence he lost, but the only future he had desired for himself.
“Elaina,” he said again with all the steadiness he could summon, “ye must hear me.”
She did not so much as look at him when she answered. “There is naething left tae say.”
The words were delivered with a composure more dreadful than anger.
Had she wept, had she raised her voice, had she reproached him with all the bitterness he knew he deserved, he might have borne it better.
But this effort at distance from a woman who, only hours before, had placed her heart so trustingly in his keeping went to him with intolerable force.
Duncan stood very still. He saw, with painful clarity, that argument would only harden her further.
Explanation, offered here and now, would sound to her like excuse.
She had suffered too much already at the hands of men who explained their necessities while asking her to surrender her freedom to them.
If he pressed her now, he might lose even the chance to be heard.
At length he spoke with more restraint than ease. “Then I will ask only one thing of ye before ye go.”
Her hands paused over the open case, though she did not turn.
He took a breath. “One last favor.”
That made her look at him, though wariness rather than softness met his gaze. “A favor?”
“Aye.” His voice had lowered, and with it came a gravity she could not mistake. “There is something of great importance that I wish tae show ye. I only ask that ye meet me at the observatory before dinner, and hear me out.”
She said nothing. The quiet in the chamber deepened.
From somewhere beyond the window came the faint cry of rooks settling in the trees, and the late light, now beginning to turn from gold to amber, lay across the floor in long quiet bands.
Duncan felt, with miserable distinctness, how much depended upon her answer.
He went on, more softly now. “I will nae keep ye by force. I would sooner die than dae that.” The words came from him with a plainness that admitted no ornament.
“Come tae me there, listen tae what I have tae say, and afterwards, if ye still wish tae leave, ye shall be free tae go, and nay one will stop ye.”
A flicker passed across her face at that, though whether it was surprise, disbelief, or pain, he could not tell.
He wished, in that moment, to go to her, to take her hands, to beg, to kneel if such humiliation would help him, but he knew instinctively that any greater display would ruin him entirely in her eyes. She had to choose of her own will, or not at all.
“Before dinner,” he repeated quietly. “That is all I ask.”
For a moment she only looked at him, with her heart hidden once more behind pride and injury. At last, she inclined her head, though without promise in her manner.
“I shall consider it,” she told him.
It was not an encouragement, yet neither was it refusal.
Duncan bowed his head slightly, as though she had granted him far more than he had any right to expect. “That is enough.”
He did not trust himself to remain longer. If he stayed, he might say too much, or worse, not enough. Therefore, he withdrew, though every instinct in him rebelled against leaving her amidst the visible preparations for her departure.
When he reached the door, he paused with his hand upon the latch and looked back once. She had already turned away from him.
The sight of it followed him out like a wound.