Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Elaina went to the observatory because she had given her word, and because some part of her, which was foolish and wounded, still too tender where Duncan was concerned, could not bear to leave without hearing what he wished to say.
Yet she climbed the narrow stairs with a heavy heart and the fixed determination that, once this meeting was done, she would go.
When she stepped into the observatory, the sky beyond the tall arched windows was steeped in a deep and burning orange, and the last light of the sun was already spilling over the hills and catching the old stone in a glow at once golden and melancholy.
Duncan was already there.
He turned the instant she appeared, and though he said nothing at first, the look with which he received her went nearer to undoing her than any words might have done. There was no triumph in it and no expectation, only relief.
“Ye came,” he said and his voice betrayed the feeling he had tried to master.
“Aye.” Her own sounded far steadier than she felt. “I have come only tae hear ye out.”
He bowed his head slightly, as though even that small grace humbled him. For a brief moment, he seemed uncertain how to begin, then, without speaking further, he reached into his coat and drew something out with evident care.
It was a ribbon.
Even before he placed it in his hand for her to see, she knew it was no ordinary trifle.
The silk, though softened by time, had been beautifully kept, and worked into it was the Grant crest, faintly glimmering in the amber light.
It was simple, elegant, and so clearly cherished that Elaina felt, at the sight of it, a sudden ache in her throat.
“It belonged tae me maither,” Duncan revealed.
The quiet gravity of his tone made her lift her eyes to his at once.
He stepped nearer, but he was still not too near, not so much as to compel retreat, but enough that she could see how carefully he held it, as though the thing itself was precious beyond words.
“She wore it often,” he continued. “And after she died, I kept it. I thought…” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher.
“I thought if ever there came a day when I wished tae place any token of her in another’s keeping, it would mean that I had found the woman I could nae bear tae lose. ”
Elaina’s breath caught. He extended the ribbon toward her.
“I want ye tae have it, Elaina.”
For one terrible moment she could not speak. She was moved, far more deeply than she wished him to see for all that it implied: the intimacy of being offered not some costly ornament or gallant flattery, but a piece of what he loved most and had mourned longest.
Yet the pain of all that had passed still lay too close upon her heart.
“I… cannae accept it, Duncan,” she whispered though the refusal cost her more than she had expected. “It is too much.”
Duncan’s hand did not falter.
“It is nae enough,” he replied.
She looked at him then and saw the truth in his eyes. This was not strategy, nor calculation, nor the logical reason of a laird securing advantage, but a man who had come to the end of all pride and all reserve, and stood before her with nothing but the truth he had once been too slow to speak.
“Elaina,” he said, and her name in his mouth seemed at once plea and declaration, “I want ye tae keep it until I can ask ye tae marry me properly. I want ye tae ken that I am nae daein’ it because I must and certainly nae because yer faither made an offer, or because the Council would have it so.
” His voice deepened, and every word appeared drawn from the most earnest part of him.
“I want tae marry ye because I love ye.”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if to steady herself against the force of it.
“When I asked ye,” he went on, “I asked as a man who had already lost his peace, his reason, and very nearly his heart tae ye. I asked because there has nae been a day since that tavern when ye have nae been in me thoughts. I asked because every hope I have fer the future now begins with ye in it.” He swallowed, and the next words came with painful honesty.
“And though I was fool enough nae tae tell ye of yer faither’s offer, though I see now what hurt me silence has caused, I swear tae ye there was never a moment when I thought of ye as a means tae anything.
I didn’t tell ye, because I wanted tae prove how little it mattered tae me. ”
Elaina’s eyes had filled before she could prevent it. She hated herself for it and yet could not command the tears away, for all her resolution had been built upon anger, and anger was a feeble defense against such sincerity when one had already loved the speaker.
Still, she whispered. “Ye should have told me.”
“Aye,” he admitted at once. “I should have. And I will repent of that failure fer the rest of me life if it costs me ye.”
The sunset had deepened now, with the orange of the sky darkening toward crimson at its edges.
The last rays poured over his face and shoulders, leaving one side of him in fire and the other in shadow, and there was in the sight of him such earnestness, such naked feeling, that Elaina could scarcely endure it.
He lowered the ribbon slightly, though he did not put it away.
“Ye dae have a say,” he told her the words she had never heard.
“More than a say. Ye have the whole of it. If ye refuse me, I will nae hold it against ye. I will nae send word tae yer faither, I will nae speak of alliance, I will nae ask again unless ye wish it. But God help me, Elaina…” His voice broke on the last word, and with that break all the restraint she had known in him seemed to vanish. “It would kill me if ye did.”
There was no artifice in the confession. This was no laird carefully phrasing an offer. This was a truth so plain and so raw that it seemed to enter her very soul.
Elaina pressed a hand against her chest for an instant, as though to contain the feeling rising there.
She had come resolved to leave, resolved to hear him and then go, to preserve at least the dignity of her wounded pride.
But pride had no strength in the face of such love, and she knew then that whatever pain he had caused, whatever fear had driven her from him, none of it had lessened what lived in her heart.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, she lowered her hand.
“Duncan…” she said, and his name was little more than a breath.
He waited motionless, as though any movement might shatter the moment. Her gaze fell to the ribbon, to the crest worked there, to the history and devotion it represented. Then, it rose again to him. The tears she had fought escaped at last, though her voice, when it came, was wondrously steady.
“I thought ye meant tae hand me from one bargain tae another,” she confessed. “I thought I had been a fool tae believe ye loved me fer meself.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she gave a small shake of her head.
“I was wrong.”
The words seemed to strike him silent.
“I cannae pretend ye didnae hurt me,” she continued, every syllable tender and true.
“Ye did. But I ken now ye would never willingly make me yer prisoner. And I ken…” She faltered, then smiled through tears that were no longer wholly sorrowful.
“I ken that I love ye too much tae leave if there is still truth between us.”
A change came over his face then, so profound, that she thought she would remember it all her life. It was the mingling of wonder, relief, gratitude, and love, all at once, as if happiness had overtaken him before he was prepared to receive it.
Very gently, as though she might still withdraw from him, he stepped nearer and placed the ribbon in her hands.
“Keep it,” he whispered.
This time, Elaina did not refuse. Her fingers closed over the silk with reverence, and the gesture felt less like accepting a gift than accepting the future he offered with it.
When she looked up again, Duncan was watching her with such tenderness that the last of her resistance melted entirely away.
“I should still like a proper proposal,” she said, with the faintest tremor of spirit returning beneath her tears.
At that, a breath that was almost a laugh left him, a sound of relief so heartfelt it broke whatever remained of the sorrow between them.
“And ye shall have one,” he promised.
She smiled then and it was all the permission he needed.
He gathered her into his arms with a care that was nearly reverent, as though even now, he could scarcely believe she had not slipped from him forever.
Elaina went willingly, pressing close against him, feeling the frantic strength of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
When at last he lifted her face and kissed her, it was with all the tenderness he had denied himself and all the devotion he had finally spoken aloud.
When Duncan at last drew back, Elaina could only look at him.
Her breath came unevenly, and the whole world appeared altered by the warmth of his hands still resting at her waist and by the tenderness in his eyes.
She had not known a kiss could so thoroughly disorder a person, not merely in pulse and breath, but in thought, in feeling, in every resolution she had so stubbornly formed only an hour before.
The grief, the anger, the dread of having been deceived, all had been shaken by the force of his sincerity, until she could scarcely distinguish what remained except the certainty that she loved him, and that he loved her.
Duncan seemed little better composed.
Elaina could not help but smile, though tears still clung to her lashes. It pleased her beyond reason that a man so steady, so habitually controlled, should be rendered speechless by her.
“We should perhaps,” he spoke through a grin, “make our way tae dinner.”
Elaina blinked, as though the notion of dinner belonged to some other existence entirely.
“Dinner?” she repeated, with the air of one who had forgotten the world contained such common obligations.