Chapter Eight #2
He watched her rest her tear-stained fingers on his forearm. “Lochiel, ye dinna need to hold back yer tears either.”
Of course, he would not weep. It would not bring his family back.
“I didna have a chance to mourn my father,” she said, looking off in the distance.
“Almost immediately his wife arranged fer me to be courted. A se’nnight after my father’s final farewell, my betrothed swore that the more I mourned my father, the crueler he would become toward me.
My mother spied on me, I am certain of it and reported my tears to him.
Despite the chief keeping his word, I still wept fer my father.
” She blinked away from wherever she was and gazed at him.
“But it was always in fear. I dinna feel afraid right now.”
He was glad. Even when she bent her head and wept into her hands, he was glad she was not afraid of him. He did not weep with her, and was barely familiar with comforting anyone, especially a lass.
But he had known how to comfort Alison.
This was not Alison.
He looked at Miss Drummond’s bent head. One of her pins was dangling over her ear. He lifted his fingers to it, then, without thinking, he slipped his hand around her shoulder, bypassing the pin, and pulled her a little closer.
He sat that way with her in the mist, on the ground in the hills, unseen by anyone else while she wept for her father.
Finally, she wiped her eyes then her nose, and sat up straight. The gratitude in her smile warmed his blood.
“Shall we go?” he asked, looking past her smile before he lost more than his logic.
Her gaze spread over the hilt of his sword, his dirk, and his boots, where more knives were hidden. She knew where everything was.
“But ye havena polished yer blades yet, Chief.”
He chuckled softly. “Ye would rather sit here while I do such a tedious task then return and sew something pretty?”
“Aye,” she said without hesitation. “I used to sit with my father while he polished his sword. I found it verra peaceful.”
That was what she wanted, Constantine told himself. Peace. But there was something she was keeping from him. Something that haunted her.
He repositioned himself on a rock and produced a cloth from his belt. He started with his sword, wiping it clean of any dried MacKintosh blood.
She kept her word and remained quiet, watching him.
She tempted him to smile back at her—or get up and run for his sanity. He did neither but ran the rag down the soon-shining blade.
When he finished with his dirk, he found her bending to a patch of blooming thistles. She looked at him at the same moment. Her smile widened, along with her eyes.
“Look! Are they no’ pretty?”
He slipped his gaze to the thistles. He never noticed them before. “Aye, they are,” he said, returning his gaze to her.
“I have only seen thistle twice before, when I traveled with my father. ’Twas late summer. And they were dying. But these are blooming so late,” she marveled. “I willna pick them, since this is not my land, but—”
He put down the knife from his boot and rose to go to her. When he reached her, he bent and plucked one thistle from the bunch and held it before her. “As long as ye stay here, this is yer land as well as mine.”
She offered him a beguiling smile in exchange for the thistle, making him both thankful he gave it to her, and angry with himself for the same reason.
He stepped back, afraid that if he didn’t move, he might go forward.
She held the aromatic thistle to her nose and looked up at him.
He almost reversed his tracks. He didn’t want anything save to be a little closer to her.
He told himself it meant nothing. He didn’t have to fret over it or feel guilty.
“Lochiel—” she began.
“Constantine,” he corrected. His voice sounded deeper in his ears than he intended.
Her fading smile shone to life again for a moment, but she did not speak his name.
“What ye offer is tempting, indeed. Nae man but one has ever invited me to share his home and his land. I would venture to say that I could nae doubt be happy here, mayhap bloom like these thistles if my life had been different. But I canna risk being found and dragged—”
“Do ye think I would let anyone drag ye anywhere, lass?” he asked with a darkening expression.
Severing her gaze from his, she laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
“Why do ye think I would let ye fight fer me?” She turned back to him and looked him straight in the eye when she spoke again.
“We are nothing to each other, Chief. I didna agree to stay here. I have thought about it and decided to keep moving and get as far away as I can from my past. I will find a convent and spend the rest of my days there.”
He wanted to say something. His jaw clenched with the need. But he fought it and won. He did not know what to say anyway.
“I will never ferget ye, Constantine.”
His heart lurched within him, making him involuntarily reach his hand to his chest. He looked down at it and then raised his gaze to her. “Let us head back. I have things to see to.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and started back.
It was good that she was not staying. The sooner she was gone, the better.
He didn’t like that something about her attracted him.
He hated how out of control his reason and emotions felt around her.
Let some convent have her. He scoffed in front of her.
She would never master meekness or obedience.
He had the mad urge to turn to her and tell her to never change.
She wanted to forget her past. He never wanted to forget his.
And yet, once again, he had not thought of Alison all morning. He had not felt her in the mists or heard her laughter in the wind. Instead, he’d heard another voice.
I will never ferget ye, Constantine.
It felt like a hook piercing him in the gut.
He wanted to forget her. He wanted to forget the possibility of being happy again.
Too many of his fellow patriots had died in battle against Cromwell’s forces.
His wife died giving birth to their child, who left the earth soon after.
Too much pain and loss had seeped into his heart.
He had learned to live with it, never wanting anything more.
He still did not want more. His life was just fine.
He scowled and aimed it over his shoulder at her. The more he had, the more he’d be afraid to lose.
“Am I correct to believe yer pout is aimed at me?”
“Pout?” he asked incredulously. He did not pout.
“Whatever it is ye are doing with yer face,” she clarified…sort of.
“Nae, ye are no’ correct. I am no’ scowlin’ at ye.” He returned his attention to the unseen dirt road in the fog.
“Do ye know where ye are going in this mist?” she asked. “’Tis getting thicker.”
“Do ye intend to insult me every time ye open yer mouth?” he asked, brooding fully.
She hardly noticed and hurried to catch up to him. When she reached him, she clung to his arm.
He almost pulled away. No woman had touched him since…but he let Ismay Drummond cling to him. From the moment he met her, he let her cling to him.
It was not such a terrible or forbidden thing to do. In fact, it was a wise decision on her part, he thought. Rather she clung to him than try to foolishly go off on her own again.
He let her hold on, ignoring the blaring warnings going off in his head and led her down the hill.
Like a curtain parting, the mist rose above them, leaving them in the bright light of day. She did not release him immediately. He crooked his arm and laid her hand on his elbow.
But as if she were just coming awake, she moved away from him.
He kept going and only paused when she stopped behind him. “Are ye comin’?”
“With ye?” she asked.
Instead of a reply, he gave her a look that asked if she was dull-witted.
“Where are ye off to, Lochiel?”
She was back to calling him Lochiel then, he thought with an impatient sigh. “I am meetin’ with the council.”
She nodded and hurried to him.
Continuing onward, he smiled despite himself. He was eager to discover the effect this breath of fresh air had on the elders of the clan.
“Are ye smiling, Chief?” she nagged beside him.
“Nae,” he answered, tossing heaven a patient look.
Then he smiled again.