Chapter 16
Talia ignored him the entire time he stood by the door. She led Mr. Turnbull out of the room with a smile that wavered when she looked at him.
He could have either made way for the man or forced them to squeeze past him through the doorframe. He considered the latter when Mr. Turnbull had his back to him, hoping the man would trip.
He considered the casualness of showing him his back an insult, and to add salt to his wounds, Talia seemed to want more of his company even after spending an hour with him.
She had sent for tea at some point, and a maid had returned with a teapot and only two cups, one for her and one for her ‘guest.’
Then, looking abashed, before she had lifted her cup to her lips, she had turned to her guard and asked if he wanted tea too.
Of course, he had declined the offer. He had enough common sense to understand the weight of the question and its implications.
Then she had dismissed him, saying she was alright being alone with her ‘guest.’
Alone? Alone? Darragh was right there with her.
If anything, he was glad of her slights.
She was aware of him. He wasn’t some ghost that could not quit her presence. He was a living, breathing being that bothered her. In her disregard, she regarded him. It was better than being ignored. He liked to be noticed by her, even if it came from hate.
Mr. Turnbull watched the door with a fond look, which Darragh considered a disgusting expression in the presence of another.
His eyes skimmed over the words written in a perfect, bold hand on a rectangular piece of white cardboard pinned to the door.
Miss Collins, it read, and under it, Healer’s Chambers.
When Mr. Turnbull was ready to move along, he seemed a different man. He had the gait of a businessman who had just closed an advantageous deal. “The air is fresh here,” he noted.
Indeed, the air was cooler in the servants’ passage, which they traveled. It seemed as though the constant coming and going did not heat the blocks, instead creating a whirlwind of starch and cold.
Darragh understood the man was merely making conversation, but now he had no scruple against ignoring him.
“Would ye like a tour of the estate?”
He cringed; he had taken it too far. He had intended to only agree with the man and then send him on his merry way.
He wanted to be rid of him quickly. Mr. Turnbull had had Talia in his arms. He had touched the warmth of her cheek and pressed a kiss to her slender fingers, but now his gait mocked him.
Darragh watched his face for any sign of agreement. When Mr. Turnbull sighed ruefully, he felt the knot in his chest loosen.
“I would have to decline. Me journey was long, and I am nae so young again. I would like to return to me lodge.”
Darragh was tempted to ask if he would be lodging in Mrs. Marwick’s inn in the village, or if he would find somewhere else, preferably in town.
Then again, if Mr. Turnbull was staying in the inn, Darragh risked another unpleasant visit soon. But he also risked a request to rest in the keep if the man was lodging in some far-off town.
He could not let the man stay in his keep. Absolutely not.
They stepped into the courtyard in silence.
“The inn I’m staying at is so far away, I dread the journey.” Mr. Turnbull’s pace slowed.
Darragh kept up his pace, ignoring him. By the time Mr. Turnbull caught up to him, he was stroking his gelding, which neighed beneath his touch.
The brown creature was well kept, with a coat that glistened like lacquered mahogany under the morning sun.
A long mane the color of polished terracotta cascaded down its neck, and its tail was long and feathery.
It swung the whip about itself as if to shoo him away, but he knew from experience that if a horse did not want to be touched, it would not let anyone touch it.
Mr. Turnbull sidled up to him, wearing a proud expression. He did not supply the beast’s name, breed, or gender, which was customary when one caught someone else admiring their pet.
Darragh had to assume that the man could not supply those details. Or, his silence was in contempt of the discourtesy he had shown him thus far. He let his hand drop from the horse.
He noticed how the man’s scar changed shape when he flipped through emotions. The crescent moon had now become a straight line. His face smoothed into indifference as he petted the hide of his horse. Darragh understood their meeting was not yet over.
“I heard ye’re trying to find Miss Collins a husband.” Mr. Turnbull feigned nonchalance, but he could not hide the strong emotions in his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“How did ye find out?”
“Miss Collins informed me.”
Darragh wondered how much she had told the man about their relationship, from the moment he had thrown her over his shoulder to the moment that he had kissed her a day ago.
He had also just realized that he had missed parts of their conversation. It must have happened when he was studying her lips, deciding if he had caused the swelling.
“Has she found a husband yet?”
“Nay, she hasnae.”
“Ah.”
For some reason, Mr. Turnbull averted his gaze. A calm seemed to wash over him.
“I remember Talia as a girl.” The use of her first name was purposeful, but Darragh could not tell what purpose it was intended for yet.
“She used to be such a clumsy thing. Bright but clumsy. Yer cousin and I were best friends. I practically watched Talia grow up. Ye could say nay livin’ person understands her more than me—her grief, her life, even her career.
And for that, I would like to marry her. ”
“Nay.” The word was out of his mouth before he thought of saying it. Mr. Turnbull was stunned. “Miss Collins must see ye as a faither figure. I understand yer intent to save her from her misery, since she’s like a daughter to ye, but I assure ye, it isnae necessary.”
He could not rationalize it any more than that.
To say he was appalled was an understatement. He considered walking away, filling his lungs with air that was not thick with fur stench and feminine perfume before returning. It was the only way he could stop the headache crawling up the back of his skull.
“Ye misunderstand, I daenae see her as a daughter. As a man, I expect ye to understand where I am coming from.” Sympathy, that was what Mr. Turnbull intended to evoke by using her name. “I promise to treat her well and respect her. Ye daenae have to worry about that.”
Darragh blanched, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown at his face. Hell, a bucket of ice-cold water would have been less chilling than the dread slithering through his veins.
From what he had learned, Mr.—he hated the respect the title offered—Turnbull had tutored Talia since she was sixteen. He had known her since she was a child and watched her blossom into a young woman.
No self-respecting man saw a child he had raised through romantic lenses. Mr. Turnbull was proving to be the opposite of that, with his perverse strut and odor.
Then a thought came to Darragh. Maybe the man had already broached the subject with Talia.
Possessiveness surged through him, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine.
Talia had rejected suitors on bases one would consider superficial: age, height, weight, and attractiveness. And Mr. Turnbull, in his entirety, lacked in every aspect. Would their shared past give him an appeal, or would his physiognomy be a deterrent?
Darragh regretted turning out most of their conversation, but he could not have missed a proposal.
The white streak in Mr. Turnbull’s hair caught the light, and sweat trickled down his temples.
Of course, he hadn’t had the spine to ask her.
He was certainly the old school sort that asked a woman’s father for her hand.
If not that, then he must be aware of her aversion to marriage since adolescence.
A predator always took the coward’s way to catch its prey. Darragh understood the man was nothing but an expedient to his vice.
But then he was angry. Angry at himself because he had preyed on Talia too, forcing himself into her home, then forcing her to bend to his will. Angry at the horse that jerked and neighed furiously beside him. Angry at Mr. Turnbull, most especially.
He wanted to grab the man by his lapels. Instead, he said, “I will never let ye marry her.” He silenced any protest when he lifted his hand, flashing his signet ring. “It would be best if ye leave and never bring this up again.”
Mr. Turnbull’s face contorted in anger, but he mounted his horse wordlessly and rode out of the courtyard.
Darragh waited until he disappeared from view. The fading silhouette did not manage to calm his nerves. He had delayed the man for now, but he still had a place in Talia’s life. He still had a minuscule hold over her.
When Mr. Turnbull returned, there would be nothing Darragh could do to stop it. At the moment, Mr. Turnbull had more right to her than he did.
He could not return to the castle in his state. His knuckles had turned white, and his palms itched to hit something. He headed down to the village, to the spot he knew he could take out his hatred without any restraint.
Night was falling when Darragh returned to the keep.
The orange horizon faded into a purple and blue sky, winking behind growing dark clouds.
He enjoyed sunsets when he could almost imagine he was anyone other than a laird, with free time to appraise the avant-garde work of a venerated French artist, with velvet coats and bright-colored cravats, sipping brandy or cider in an English parlor.
Not that if he were ever reborn, he would choose the life of a stuffy Englishman. It was sometimes fun to be in their heads, as they seemed to always speak with a script and act without an audience.