Chapter 17
Rain fell that night as though it would not have another opportunity. Darragh had been right; it was not just a shower, but a blustering storm marked by heavy thunder, roaring wind, and hurried footfalls of servants scampering outside his door.
He had forgotten to write a note to Mrs. Goodwill.
If he were lucky, the woman would have learned from history.
But it was unlikely. The farmer liked to make his boy sleep in the barn with the cow.
Darragh thought it cruel, but the farmer thought it practical, even though the boy was no older than sixteen and a scrawny thing even after years of farm work.
It was indeed cruel to have him act as a watchman and deter the theft of freshly pulled milk in the evenings, and care for and milk the cows in the morning.
In storms like this, he usually fell ill, leaving him bedridden for as long as the farmer would let him—three days, to be exact.
And for the next few days, there wouldn’t be any fresh milk.
This was all too ironic, considering Darragh’s mental state. The turmoil outside his windows matched the storm in his head. He had been considering his mother’s words, debating selfishness and selflessness.
He wanted Talia. His heart yearned for her. He needed to have her. But then the storm hit, and chaos ensued. It was as if some divine power was warning him off her.
Just then, a gust of wind blasted through the barred windows, breaking apart the hinges. The curtains flapped, scattering the trinkets on his cupboard, and the fire in the grate winked out. Embers fluttered about the room like fireflies before going out.
The cold that filled the room was instant and loud.
The glowing wood turned black, and he was reminded of Talia. On her first day in the castle, he had found her looking ghostly and discovered that the grate was empty. On his first day as her guardian, he had nearly caused her death.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to check on her. His fingers wrapped around the cold brass knob, which sent a jolt through him that sparked his common sense.
It would be better if he didn’t show up at her door or anywhere they would be alone, especially at night.
The smoking logs sparked, and the red glow returned. It ignited with a hiss, wrapping the room in its warmth.
He moved to lock the windows before the fire went out again. At that moment, a flash of lightning split the dark sky, and he saw his reflection in the square windowpane, naked from chest to waist, pinched skin running from his navel to his shoulder.
The scar throbbed then. It usually did during heavy rains, as if to serve as a reminder. He ran his hand across the healed flesh.
It was on a day like this that he had acquired the scar.
He had been nineteen then, and he had had his second angry spiel, the worst one of all, leading to his shoulder being torn open.
It took Cohen and Jenson holding him down, and hold him down they did as his blood mixed with the muddy earth.
His mother had come out before they were able to drag him into the castle.
He has not changed much since, only grown bigger, colder, and become Laird.
That was the part of himself he wanted to protect Talia from.
When he was powerless, he became a beast of a man who solved his problems with his fists, rage, and blood.
He never wanted her to become his mother, watching him writhing in the middle of a thunderstorm.
He did not want her feeding him tonics while nursing the vestiges of his stupidity.
Talia deserved a normal, peaceful life with a husband not saddled by darkness or a position that required him to commit atrocious acts.
As Laird, he would need to cheat and steal if he ever intended to get rich.
He could not come home to his good wife and pretend to be a good person.
People would curse them and their children.
Their children did not deserve to be punished for his sins.
For now, he would stay away from her. When he had accomplished everything he needed to, he would build a surgery in her honor and invite her and her family. Even if it took a decade, he promised to bring her back.
Darragh splayed out his bound fingers, stretching them as much as he could.
The footman’s wrapping skills were yet to improve even after years of practice. The bands were too tight, and he could feel the blood drain from them. Slowly, he undid the bandages, flexing his joints as he did.
It was as he suspected. If he had waited a moment later, his fingers would have fallen off. Other than the raw redness, they had turned a bluish hue, pinched where the gauze began and ended.
What he didn’t realize, as he undid the bandages with eyes so narrowed he seemed to be glaring, was that the man opposite him had misinterpreted his actions. He choked on his next sentence, stumbling over “loan” and “next five years.”
“Ye daenae have to worry about bankruptcy,” he continued.
Darragh looked up absentmindedly, and the man swallowed. He went on to unwrap the other hand.
While he thought that his once-majestic hands were now a pitiful, shrunken thing, the man assumed he was one boring story from reconstructing his face. It did not help when he started massaging the blood back into his fingers, not breaking eye contact with the man.
Mr. Rooney rose. “It seems I have come at the wrong time.”
Darragh quirked an eyebrow.
Mr. Rooney was a suitor who intended to call on Talia. Even though Darragh wanted to delegate the search for a husband to his mother until his mind was clear, he had to screen the man first. He was a businessman who had opened a textile factory with a loan maturing in five years.
“The time is perfect. Go on.”
Cohen and Amber had gone into the village, Amber to assess the aftermath of the storm, and Cohen to lend his strength when needed.
Jenson was also preoccupied. The minister liked to have him in the parish, taking advantage of everything. His daughter, a blonde, bonny thing, was nearing spinsterhood at the age of three-and-twenty, and Jenson was the only bachelor he considered eligible.
“I have… I have business to attend to.” Mr. Rooney made a hasty retreat before Darragh could react.
As Darragh watched the doors swing shut, he understood that his only chance at a distraction had, figuratively and literally, walked out the door.
His gaze fell on the papers he had put away just before Mr. Rooney’s arrival. The starched stacks were letters from his tenants complaining about one thing or another, budgets he had set aside to hire stonemasons and laborers, and a copy of Jonathan’s will.
The will peeked out from the bottom, highlighting the last two lines on the first page. He did not need to read them to know what they said.
Marry.
One month.
It had been three weeks since he had read the will.
In those three weeks, he had managed to accomplish nothing but ruin an innocent life.
He would count his own if he did not consider himself reprehensible.
It seemed too late to back out, but it was never too late when someone else’s future was on the line.
As he rose, the object of his confusion walked into the room, leaving a trail of lavender and honey in her wake.
His heart stopped, or maybe it beat so fast that he had no proper recollection of their meeting. If he hadn’t survived after that day, he would have believed he had stopped breathing. Maybe he did for a moment. Who knows.
Her auburn hair was pulled in a knot atop her head.
But even that did not stop him from imagining copper tresses flowing down her back.
She was wearing a dark blue skirt and a plain white shirt.
Another sprig of hawthorn was pinned above her breast, resembling the dried bouquet he had placed atop his dresser days ago.
She looked at him as if she didn’t want to. She usually stood so tall and proud. Now, she looked meek and humble.
She was uncomfortable.
She lingered by the door, as if frightened of being alone with him, and swept her gaze across the room. The way she hesitated was enough for him to understand.
Guilt drew his gaze to her hands. She held a sheet of paper to her stomach that seemed to have been folded many times. At some point, he had risen. He extended his hands towards her, not taking his eyes off the sheet. She placed it on his desk and kept a safe distance.
“This is a list of the suitors who have impressed me so far.” Her voice did not betray a thing. Her eyes, on the other hand, told many stories, and Darragh imagined himself the villain in every one of them. “I thought I should let ye ken.”
So she has decided she wants to marry.
He folded the corner as he perused the list.
Ewen Brodie. His name was first, obviously her first choice. Presumably her favorite. It was not written as hastily as the others.
Darragh did not read the rest. He took a deep, steadying breath and placed the list in front of her. Without looking at her, he said, “Ye should reconsider Mr. Brodie.”
And then he left before he did something as stupid as falling to his knees and begging her to choose anyone but that man.
He did not know the other two men, and it was hard to hate someone he did not know.
No, it was very easy when Talia came into the picture. The difference between the hatred he harbored for all three men was that he could put a face to one, and it happened to be the same man who had put his hands on Talia.
In his nightmares, Ewen Brodie stood in a pristine white suit and a depraved gaze. They sealed their vows with a kiss, and Darragh followed them into their wedding night, unable to do anything as the man touched her, kissed her, pleasured her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Like a madman, he stood in the corridor, pulling his hair. He wanted to turn back, tell her how he felt. Confess he hadn’t meant it when he called kissing her a mistake, tell her he loved her.