Chapter 11
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
The letter from Malcolm arrived just after breakfast.
Gavan hadn’t expected it so soon, but Malcolm’s efficiency had rarely disappointed him.
He slit the seal with the edge of his thumb, scanning the neat, precise handwriting.
Dear Gavan,
You were correct to be suspicious. Ferguson’s debts are extensive—several markers taken out in London and Edinburgh, were covered by his uncle in quiet installments.
The broken engagement last winter was indeed with the Ainsworth lass.
It ended under “mutual understanding,” though my sources suggest she discovered him keeping company with an actress at the same time.
His name appears in several gaming clubs, always in the company of men whose pockets are as deep as their reputations are shallow.
Nothing criminal yet, but his pattern is clear. He charms, he spends, he disappears.
I’ll send more as it comes. In the meantime, keep your cousin cautious. Ferguson plays for his own amusement, not for hearts, and if she’s got a sizeable dowry, that will be what he’s after.
—Malcolm Gordon, Earl of Dunlyon
Gavan folded the letter slowly, as if the extra seconds might soften the jagged edge of confirmation. But it didn’t.
He’d wanted to be wrong. He realized that now. He’d wanted Ferguson to be nothing more than a careless flirt, a nuisance, not a danger. The rumors unsubstantiated. But Malcolm’s words had the ring of cold truth, and Gavan’s gut churned with vindication laced with fury.
He’d need to tell Moira. Gently. And Ava…
His jaw tightened.
Ava.
She’d been so quick to dismiss him, to laugh off his warnings as nothing more than brooding. Would she dismiss proof, too?
The memory the shaded rose path, the impossible closeness of her, flashed sharp and uninvited. Her parasol poised like a shield, her voice cool but not as steady as she wanted him to think. That stubborn tilt of her chin when he’d accused her of meddling.
And the space between them, thin as a breath.
He exhaled hard, swiping a hand down his face. He needed to clear his head. Sitting in this study, surrounded by ledgers and letters, would only drive him deeper into the spiral she seemed so adept at pulling him into.
A ride. That was what he needed. Fresh air. Distance.
He saddled his horse himself and guided the animal out into the crisp Highland morning. The sun broke over the hills, turning the dew to silver, and the air smelled of wet grass and woodsmoke. He rode hard at first, as if the speed could drown out the clamor in his thoughts.
It didn’t.
No matter how far he galloped, her voice lingered. That quiet question she’d asked him on the rose path, Why do you care so much? echoed like a drumbeat.
He didn’t have a simple answer. Not one he could give her, even if she’d asked again. Because her question wasn’t just so much about Moira, as it was about Ava herself.
He only slowed when the land began to change, the familiar hedgerows giving way to the manicured approach of Heatherfield Castle.
Gavan swore under his breath. Riding without thinking, he’d unconsciously steered his mount toward her home.
Ava’s family estate loomed ahead, sun catching on the stone, the grounds as carefully arranged as they’d been since he was a child, visiting the grand landscape with his parents.
He should turn back. Instead, he pressed his knees to the horse’s flanks and rode on. He slowed his horse as the path curved, the crunch of gravel under hooves giving way to the softer thud of packed earth. That was when he saw her.
Ava rode a chestnut mare, her sea green habit blending in with the moors.
Her bonnet ribbons fluttered in the breeze, curls escaping at her temples, and for a moment she looked less like the calculating matchmaker who orchestrated romantic connections and more like the lass he used to know, wild, laughing, racing him across these same hills on summer afternoons when neither of them had been weighed down by duty.
A memory struck him like a blow. Ava at sixteen, chin tipped up in defiance, calling over her shoulder, Ye’ll have to try harder than that, Gavan! before leaving him in a spray of dirt and laughter.
His chest tightened. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see her like that, wild and carefree.
Now, she reined her mare to a gentle stop as she spotted him, surprise flashing across her face. “Lord Darkwood,” she called, voice smooth as cream but with the faintest lilt of question. “To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?”
He inclined his head, trying to tamp down the strange collision of memory with the present. “I was out for a ride.” His tone was neutral, but his grip on the reins was not. “Didna realize I’d be trespassing.”
“Ye’re hardly trespassing,” she said lightly, though her gaze narrowed, assessing him. “But I admit, I did no’ picture ye as the sort to take a morning ride without purpose.”
Gavan shifted in the saddle, eyes flicking to the letter tucked into his coat pocket.
Malcolm’s words weighed on him like stones.
He charms, he spends, he disappears. He could hand her the truth now.
Lay it bare. But something in her expression, the openness of her face, flushed from the ride, made him hesitate.
Would she even believe him? Or would she think it just another attempt to undermine her plans?
“Ye used to be better company on a horse,” Ava said, drawing his attention back to her. Her lips curved into a faint, teasing smile. “Quieter, aye. But ye at least raced me.”
The memories of those races flooded through him. The way her laughter had echoed amid the blur of the Highland hills. The way his pulse had raced faster than the horse beneath him as he gave chase.
Gavan, gritted his teeth, forcing the recollections away, hoping doing so would help him remain in control of this conversation. “We were children,” he stated simply.
Her brows lifted in amusement, as if she knew the game he played. “And now we’re dull, my lord?”
Dinna take the bait, he told himself. “Nay. Now, we know better than to be so reckless,” he said.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Ye sound older than my father.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “And ye sound exactly as ye did then, determined to ride headlong into trouble.”
Her hand tightened on the reins. “If ye’ve come to lecture me again about Mr. Ferguson, ye may as well dismount and hand me your sermon in writing. It would save us both the trouble.”
His jaw worked. This was the moment. He could pull the letter from his coat, show her Malcolm’s words, force her to see that he wasn’t just brooding or jealous or whatever other name she wanted to give it.
But the way she looked at him, bright, unguarded, flushed from the wind, made him pause. It was the same look she’d given him years ago, on these same hills, before everything between them had grown sharp and complicated.
“No’ today,” he said finally, his voice rougher than intended.
Her eyes narrowed. “No’ today? So ye are here to lecture me, but ye’ve decided to spare me until tomorrow? How generous.”
He met her gaze with steady and unflinching eyes. “No, Ava. I’m here because—” He stopped himself. Because what? Because he couldn’t stay away? Because every time he thought of Ferguson’s hand brushing hers, he wanted to burn the world down?
“Because ye need to be careful,” he finished, the words clipped.
Her chin lifted, the teasing gone from her expression now. “Ye make it sound like I’m the one in danger.”
“Perhaps ye are.”
The words hung between them, thick with warning. He wanted to shove the letter burning a hole in his pocket into her hands. To let the proof of ink speak for itself. But still, he didn’t move.
She stared at him for a long beat, something flickering in her expression. Curiosity? Confusion? Something softer? Then she laughed lightly, though it rang a touch too hollow. “Ye’ve grown far too dramatic for morning conversation.”
“Or perhaps,” he said quietly, “ye’ve forgotten how to hear someone who is no’ telling ye exactly what ye want.”
That silenced her.
The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the rustle of the breeze through the trees and the distant call of a skylark.
And in that quiet, his gaze dropped, against his will, to her mouth.
It would be so easy. To close the distance between their horses, to lean forward, to claim the thing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for years.
Gavan swallowed and forced his eyes up, breaking the spell with an incredible amount of effort. “Enjoy your ride, Ava.”
And before he could betray himself further, he turned his horse toward the hills, leaving her staring after him, refusing to look back.
The hooves of his stallion struck a steady rhythm against the packed earth as he guided the horse toward the hills, away from Heatherfield Castle, away from her. But no matter how far he rode, the letter in his pocket felt heavier than iron.
“Gavan!”
Her voice carried after him, sharp and clear on the wind. He told himself he’d imagined the rest, but it came anyway, faint but cutting. “Running away, like always!”
The words hit with a familiarity that hollowed him out.
He was fifteen again, astride a younger, wilder horse, watching her at the edge of the orchard after one of their endless arguments.
She’d shouted those very words at his retreating back then, too, her cheeks flushed, her fists balled in outrage when he’d chosen silence over saying the thing they’d both been teetering toward.
He hadn’t turned back that day either. And now, years later, she still knew exactly where to aim to wound him.
Malcolm’s letter burned against his chest like a brand, demanding to be shared, demanding action. Yet he couldn’t give it to her. Not yet.
The wind caught at his coat, and he spied the fields stretching endlessly before him. All he could feel was the weight of what he carried. The truth, unspoken and waiting.
He told himself he was riding away to clear his head. To think. To protect her, even if she hated him for it, didn't understand him.
But as the manor disappeared behind him, he knew the truth. He was carrying more than a letter. He was carrying the unbearable knowledge that when the time came to show her, nothing between them would ever be the same.