Chapter Thirteen
Annista stared at the man beside her. A very handsome man was her husband, now that she saw him out here in the sunlight, with glints of blue showing in the black of his hair and his eyes turned so pale and clear. Mayhap even handsomer than the brawny blacksmith back home.
But she was in no fit state of mind to appreciate that.
“’Tis no’ I,” she began, her voice hard as flint, “to whom ye should apologize.”
“I ken that.” His gaze did not flinch from meeting hers. “But I canna apologize to your sister, can I? Just like I canna go back and change what happened to her. Besides—” He paused and drew another breath. “She was the half o’ ye—”
“The better half,” Annista nodded bleakly.
“The better half, so I do owe apology to ye.”
Annista sighed, a little of the fierce anger trickling from her. She tried to imagine growing up with Evan MacKallan as an older brother. How readily would one step up to face the monster, especially on behalf of a stranger?
Be she ever so small, and timid, and gentle.
She resumed walking, going blindly toward the wood she could barely see ahead. “Your parents should ha’ protected Robena. They knew wha’ he was. Ye all knew.”
“Aye.”
“Ye left her in the hands o’ a—an ogre.”
“You are no’ mistaken. Annista—” He reached for her arm but at her fierce glare allowed his hand to fall. “Wha’ I want to say is, I am no’ afraid o’ him now.”
Annista wondered if that was true. She’d felt the emotions that arose in the chapel when Evan had appeared. Aye, they were both grown men. But one of them retained the advantage of being a savage.
Yet Alan focused on her, holding her with his gaze as he did not with his hands. “I will no’ allow him to harm ye as he did Robena. I so vow it.”
She spun to face him fully. “Why? Why protect me as ye did no’ that gentle soul who—who far more deserved it?”
“Because ye be my wife.”
“No’ through choice!”
“No’ through choice on either part. Still and all, I will protect ye.”
“I can protect mysel’.” Annista thought of the knife in her pocket, and of her intentions.
One side of Alan’s mouth drew upward. “I believe it.”
“’Twas Robena who needed ye.”
“Annista, I barely saw her. Barely crossed her path. I was off always about my own business and will confess I spent as little time at home as possible. An old habit, that, of avoidance. I ha’ said I regret it. But how could I ha’ come between them, a man and his wife?”
“Perhaps by standing up—as a man. I do no’ think I can forgive ye that, for all your apologies.”
He took it like a blow, she saw that, and steeled himself to it.
“I did no’ expect your forgiveness.”
Again now, with a depthless anger, Annista resumed walking. “Ye, as ye say, must ha’ known what Robena suffered. She was alone. Ye should ha’ stood as her friend.”
“I should.”
“Or at least ye should ha’ made certain your parents did protect her. Stood her friend even if it earned ye a thrashing. But, nay, likely ye would no’ even keep him fro’ beating his horse.” Unexpected tears flooded Annista’s eyes. “That beautiful animal.”
They had reached the edge of the wood. Annista turned to face him. “Your regret comes too late. And I do no’ see that I can ever do aught but despise ye.”
He bowed stiffly. “As ye will, mistress. ’Tis a poor beginning for a marriage.”
“This? This is no’ a marriage. ’Tis, as I say, a sham thing forced upon the two o’ us. Do no’ try and mak’ it better. Ye canna.”
“As ye will.”
A faint path led away through the woodland. Annista swept up her skirts and followed it, all too aware he came after.
“Will ye no’ leave me?” she asked over her shoulder.
“I will no’.”
Aggravation flared in Annista’s heart. Was he going to dog her steps, the big lummox, like some mangy hound?
She marched on, noticing only by bits and pieces that the woodland was an enchanting place.
Mostly standing pine with a few aspens in the open places, it had a roof made of boughs through which the light slanted in ladders.
Above her head, the branches stirred and whispered, sounding very much like falling rain.
There were no bluebells now, yet she could almost picture them.
A place, this, that Robena quite likely never knew. He said she had not strayed far from the house.
Her prison.
Even that dark thought could not obscure entirely the enchantment of this place.
She glanced at the man beside her. He had shuttered his face, very little now showing in his eyes, his expression cool and distant.
She had rejected his apology. And him.
“How far does this woodland extend, Master Alan?”
“A good mile or more.”
“And beyond?”
“Beyond, it opens into the moor. If ye continue to follow the rill upstream, ye will climb the great ridge o’ land that marks the boundary o’ our estate.”
“And then?”
“Similar lands—and the sea.”
Despite the hard grip he now kept on his emotions she could hear the pride. And the love. Aye, men felt love for the lands they held. As did women, sometimes.
Her father’s estate, where she had lived all her life, held a firm place in her heart. But for all its familiarity and grandeur, it lacked the wild beauty of this place.
Neilan MacKallan, just like Father, acted to protect the lands he steaded, in treacherous times. What was the life of one gentle lass in that process?
“We ha’ walked far enough,” Alan said, “and should turn back.”
She wished she need never go back. Could commit herself to this woodland and live as her ancestors once had, close to the earth.
“Come along,” he urged. “We will be missed, back at the house.”
“I wish to see the view from the ridge.”
“No’ today. ’Tis better reached on horseback.”
“I lack those means.”
“I mean to rectify that, Annista. So I do promise.”
Him with his promises and apologies.
He grimaced as if he could hear her thoughts. Then he turned back, following the rill downstream.
After a few moments’ hesitation, Annista followed.
She could not run away, could not stay away, till she’d executed her revenge upon Evan MacKallan.
****
“Annista—’tis an unusual name,” Alan said, jarring Annista from her deep, bloody thoughts. She could imagine killing Evan but not quite what would come after.
“Wha’?” Had he truly spoken to her, or had she but imagined that also? “’Tis no’ my name,” she told him carelessly. “At least, it was no’.”
He lifted a black brow. He tried to engage her in innocuous conversation, to establish some sort of workable relationship between them where none could reasonably exist.
“My name is Ann. Just plain Ann. When we were very small, Robena—but a year and a half older than me—called me Ann-sister. All lisped into one, as it were. She had a lisp then.” A bolt of pain burgeoned in Annista’s heart. “It became Annista.”
“Ah.”
“Everyone took to calling me that and—well, it stuck.” Robena had granted her even her name.
“I see. So, then—would ye rather I called ye Ann?” When Annista glanced an inquiry at him, he added, “So as no’ to remind ye o’ your sister every time I speak to ye. Or—” he gave an ironic smile, “might I address ye as Madam Wife?”
“Not that.” She did not want him to address her at all. Yet—they were stuck with each other, were they not? Two souls in this place of madness.
“It does not matter. I ha’ been Annista so long, and as I say, it is not only Robena who called me so.”
He nodded somberly. She supposed she should give him credit for asking. The man did quite clearly seek a way forward. But her heart lacked the ability to grant him grace. And she would prefer him not addressing her at all.
“Tell me, Master Alan,” she said as they moved back through the wood, “wi’ what do ye to fill your time?”
“I work on the estate, mak’ certain the fields are well-used and the tenant farmers have no lack. Father and I lay out the crops and calculate the numbers o’ the beasts—”
“Should that no’ be Evan’s role?”
“It should.”
He did not elaborate farther on that and fell silent.
Annista gave a wry smile. “It seems ye tak’ up many of the duties that should be your brother’s.” Including marriage to her.
“Aye. And this place—much as I look after it and hard as I may work for its sake—will never be mine.” Ruefulness tinged his voice.
“Unless your brother were to die.” The words came from Annista before she could catch them back.
His step faltered and he stopped walking. They stared at one another.
Was he a fool? Had he not thought of this on his own before she arrived? Could she not persuade him to do her task for her?
“He is my brother,” he said, sounding hoarse. “I would no’ like to think—” The words died. He had thought of it. He must have.
“He is a monster.”
Alan blinked. “The devil will tak’ ye for such a suggestion.”
“I am certain the devil knows what your brother is. And has had a hand in it. If ye love this place as ye say, and value it, I am surprised ye ha’ no mind to mak’ it your own.”
Still he stared at her, very much as if seeing her for the first time. Could he truly be so decent as to claim the notion of clearing Evan from his path did not tempt him? Could anyone who shared even a drop of blood with Evan MacKallan claim such decency?
He spoke at last. “What ye suggest is a mortal sin.”
“I suggest nothing. I merely point out what so many in your position might do. Men, as I have learned and as has been well-proven by recent events, can be ruthless. They plot, they scheme, and they pay little heed to right, wrong, or harm to the weak.”
“Evan is no’ weak.”
“Aye, so. I thought ye said ye were no’ longer afraid o’ him?” Though any sane man might be.
“I no longer fear my brother. Yet, defending mysel’—or my wife—fro’ him is a far cry from—”
“As I see it,” Annista began walking again, “removing him fro’ your path would be defending yoursel’—and me. He could no longer harm ye, or anyone, once in the ground.”
To her surprise, Alan gave a bitter laugh. “I am no’ at all certain Evan would no’ rise up from his grave and walk, precisely in order to do harm. If anyone could, ’twould be he.”
“D’ye believe in such things?”
For answer, Alan shook his head.
“Would ye no’ like to be free o’ him?” she asked.
“Mistress Annista, this is a conversation we should no’ be having.”
They had reached the edge of the wood. Beyond lay the field bathed in chilly sunlight, and past that, the darkly huddled bulk of the house.
The place that housed the very monster who had taken Robena’s life.
Annista did not want to return there but could afford no mercy—not for herself or this man beside her.
“Ask yourself,” she bade him, “what kind of future ye want. One where ye continue to live in the dark taint o’ Evan’s shadow, or one o’ yer own?”
When he continued to merely stare at her, she gave him another tight smile.
Leaning a bit closer, she said, “’Twas ye who wanted to come walking and grow better acquainted wi’ me.
” She spread her hands. “This is who I am. What I am. And wha’ are ye, Alan MacKallan? A man who can lay a claim to courage?”