Chapter 16 #2
He stood in the corridor overlooking the alder tree and watched the sunset, the smell of medicinal herbs wafting around him. He suddenly remembered the pain in his raw knuckles. His footman had taken one look at him and immediately requested that he wait for him in his study.
It was unlike his servants to give him orders, but when they did, it was usually for the best.
His clothes were a disheveled, sweat-soaked mess, his hair was matted and clung to his head, and his fists were bloody and bruised.
It had been a long time since he had shown up in such a state, almost a year since he had become a beast, pounding away at a sandbag until his fingers throbbed, until the emotions he was trying to bury could no longer be named, dissipating into a smoke of insubstantiality and obsolescence.
When the footman returned, he was positively disappointed. He tended to his knuckles, pulling and cutting, rubbing and wrapping.
Darragh wanted to feign indifference, let the man work, then soak his bones in a warm, relaxing bath. But he kept thinking about the gauze and ointment. Talia must have prepared them for him. He imagined her hunched as she worked frantically. He could not fight back a smile.
The footman had noticed, and like the wiseacre he was, he asked, “Is the ointment working? I fished it out from the reserve.”
Darragh’s smile instantly dropped.
“And the gauze?” The footman could not hide the eagerness in his voice. If Talia’s fingers had touched the fabric, it would all be good. “Thankfully, we had some lying about, or I would have had to disturb Miss Collins.”
It took everything for Darragh not to wretch his hand away.
A pleasant scent suddenly mixed with the herbal one. His mother’s footsteps were light until the scent of her perfume wrapped around him. He hadn’t realized she had turned into the corridor. He hid his hand behind him, wanting to spare her the sight.
She did not say anything for a moment, watching his face with an expression he could not decipher. Love? Adoration?
Impossible, he was not something a mother should be proud of.
When she came to his side, his spine instinctively straightened.
“Let’s take a walk to the stream.” She wrapped a hand around his bicep. Her touch eased the tension in his muscles. He suddenly didn’t feel like a laird, but a son escorting his mother into the open air.
Fog crept up to the castle, shrouding the green grass in a white, ominous haze. It hovered over the stream as it rippled serenely, slithering in its own silent waves. It drifted around their feet, parting as they passed.
He had been enamored by the phenomenon as a boy. As a man, he thought it somber and sad.
“Ye can barely see the stream now, but even when it’s hidden, it still flows just fine. A little fog is fine as long as it doesnae stop the flow of things.”
He understood his mother’s unnatural perceptiveness, but he was stunned when she guessed his inner turmoil. He thought to remove her hand from his bicep, which betrayed too much.
“Do ye remember when ye were twelve, and ye pulled a drownin’ kitten from it?”
How could he forget? The alder tree had grown bigger, taller, but he still remembered the prick of its branches and the cold swathe beneath it.
He did not respond. Instead, he followed her gaze to the low recess beneath the dense branches.
Her smile was fixed, as though she recalled a fond memory but remembered it was the coldest day of his life. He had been so small and yet so brave, soaked from head to toe, holding a shivering kitten to his chest, sharing heat he could not afford to lose.
“Ye could have easily gone into the kitchen for warmth and a meal for the little thing.”
“But Faither would have seen me.”
Her grip tightened on him, and he looked away.
“So ye are the sort of man who saves a kitten from drowning and sits out in the cold to protect it from a higher power?”
“I acted on the whims of a boy. Any curious child would have done the same.”
“Ah, then ye must have grown up to be as good a man as any other.” His mother’s intelligence was alarming. “Talia would appreciate the story about yer kitten friend.”
Talia would first inquire about said kitten if she did not decide that she wanted nothing to do with him as a boy or a man.
“How do ye feel about Talia?”
It felt freeing when his mother released him and moved closer to the bank. But now, he needed her support to stand. She was not asking anything. She was letting him know that she knew. And if she knew, then there was nothing to deny, only to accept.
“I shouldnae feel anything.”
“But ye do.”
But I do, a voice echoed in his head.
“I’m wrong.”
He felt like the cowering boy beneath the alder tree when she took both his hands in her own. His hands were now significantly bigger, scarred, and calloused.
Her hands stroked the bandages, and he found himself wincing, physical pain overtaken by regret when he saw the slight disappointment in her eyes.
“I daenae ken what to do.”
He had to let Talia go. It was the only way he could make it up to her.
He should have listened to her before letting it come this far.
She needed to be far away from them—from him—in her own home, where her future wasn’t dictated to her.
In the unlikely event that she did decide she wanted to marry, he would step out of the way.
As if sensing his thoughts, his mother tugged on his hand.
“Ye have to stop being so selfless.”
No, selfless was when one put others’ needs above their own, and Talia’s needs were naturally above his. Letting her go was not a disservice to himself, but restoring her life to the way it was.
“Ye have to be true to yer feelings or…” His mother stepped back. “… let her find her happiness. But before ye feel ye’re nae worthy of her, remember that ye are the sort of man who sacrifices himself to protect the weak.” She stroked his arm. “Ye’re a good man.”
Her words fell on deaf ears, as he was already mired in self-loathing. It didn’t matter whether he had chosen to save the kitten. His father had come upon them before he could set foot in the keep and ordered a footman to get rid of it.
What good was an attempt that only ended in failure?