Chapter 14
Afew hours. That was how long Dougal waited before he sought her out again. Apparently, their last encounter in the attic hadn’t been enough for Dougal.
It was ridiculous that he could not last longer than a few hours before he sought out the woman who tormented his thoughts, whether he was awake or not.
A part of her knew it too.
He rapped softly at her door and waited for her to respond, but he was met with silence. It wasn’t strange on the surface, but he saw light flickering beneath the door.
Either Skye was still awake and promptly ignoring him, or she had fallen asleep without putting out the fire.
“Skye?”
Silence.
“Skye, I would like to speak with ye.”
Still nothing.
Perhaps he had misjudged how angry she was.
He opened the door himself and found an empty room. The bed was made, as it had been this morning by the servants, but Skye was nowhere in sight.
An empty room.
A missing woman.
It reminded him of Elsie, setting a fire and faking her death in her hope for a better future.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
No, this was not the same. Skye was not Elsie. She had not fled after setting a fire, hoping to run off with her beloved. This was not the same situation.
Dougal had to remind himself of that.
He couldn’t ignore the fact that Skye was not in the rooms he had assigned her, but there was a different explanation. Her things, most importantly her latest draft of the story, lay untouched on the desk. She wouldn’t flee the castle without it, so she must be somewhere close.
He glanced out the window, scanning the courtyard, but there was no sign of her there either. Then his eyes landed on the lake.
Someone was swimming.
It was a cool night, but not so cool that one couldn’t take a dip in the lake. From here, Dougal couldn’t tell who the feminine figure belonged to, but his gut told him it was her.
What he did next was foolish.
He should have sent a maid after her or perhaps his mother. There was the option of waiting until morning. Anything other than heading downstairs and outside towards the lake, where he suspected Skye had gone.
It’s prudence. Nothing more.
He kept telling himself that.
A betrothed, even a false one, wandering the grounds alone at night was a risk he was not willing to take. She was vulnerable out there in the water, completely unguarded.
He kept telling himself that as well—and many other things—as he approached.
He smelled woodsmoke and lavender soap, carried faintly on the night air, and then he saw her. She stood waist-deep in the dark water, moonlight sliding across her bare shoulders where her hair had come loose and wet against her skin.
She was bathing.
It was a sight to behold.
Dougal felt trapped there, standing and watching the captivating sight. Skye had yet to notice him, caught up in enjoying the cool water lapping at her soft, smooth skin.
He should have turned around, but he didn’t.
He should never have been out here in the first place, but there was no point in turning back now.
He took a step forward, keeping silent. Skye remained there, her back turned to him, humming a soft tune under her breath that he recognized as one his mother used to sing to Lily when she was younger to soothe her during those difficult nights.
“Ye shouldnae be out here alone.”
Skye started, sinking lower, water lapping at her collarbone. “Ye shouldnae be spying on me, either, but here we both are, breaking the rules. What do ye have to say about that?”
He thought about reaching out, brushing off the droplets that ran down her body, and tasting them. He yearned to coax more moans past her lips.
“I wasnae spying. I was looking for ye.”
“Why are ye so concerned?” Skye countered.
Dougal narrowed his eyes. “It was ye who werenae in their rooms at this hour.”
“So ye sought me out?”
He shrugged. “We have a conversation to finish.”
It was the safest response. Either he answers her and admitted it, or remained quiet, confirming her suspicions.
Skye surprised him then by not playing the shy lass he had assumed she was. She had found her boldness suddenly.
He expected her to sink further into the water until all he could see was her head, but she rose until the swell of her breasts broke the surface. They caught the moonlight before she went still, waist-deep once more, her gaze never leaving his.
She wasn’t hiding as he expected her to. She might have even heard him long before he’d spoken, same as she had the first time, but she made no move to cover herself.
Dougal swallowed, biting back a growl.
This was a sight only his eyes were privy to. His betrothed, whether she was fake or not, was his to see and his to be around. No other man, including Stephen, should be around her.
They should not receive her smiles. Her laughter. Her gentle touch. They were all for him and him alone.
“Well, ye found me.” She didn’t move to cover herself further, her chin lifting instead, daring him to look away first. He didn’t do that either.
“I daenae like other men fussing over ye. Betrothed or nae, fake or nae.”
He couldn’t get her joy around Stephen earlier that day out of his mind. It had consumed him. Perhaps Stephen had been right.
Dougal hated him even more now.
“Ye cannae say that if ye’ve no intention of claiming me fully,” Skye said, her voice tight. “Ye cannae have it both ways, Dougal.”
“I ken that.”
“Then stop looking at me as though ye already have.”
He stepped closer to the water’s edge, every part of him straining toward her despite the voice in his head screaming at him to leave.
“What would ye like to do? Keep me locked up inside those walls like ye’re doing to Lily?”
His blood ran cold.
She didn’t understand beyond knowing that Lily was not his blood.
She couldn’t possibly understand the true reason why he kept Lily inside.
Why he protected her from the dangers of the Highlands.
Her birth had been violent. She had come into this world moments after losing her mother at the hands of the man who had sired her.
Lily would never know.
He would do whatever it took to protect her. That was all that mattered. She was all that mattered.
Skye’s expression shuttered instantly, something sharp replacing the heat. “She needs to be a child, Dougal. What do ye even ken about fun, locked away as ye are?”
“She needs to be safe. Ye daenae understand the situation.”
“How can I understand when ye refuse to tell me anything?” she snapped. “Is that what ye were thinking when ye touched me?” The words escaped before she could stop them. Color flooded her cheeks even as she lifted her chin higher, daring him.
He said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Sometimes, staying quiet was the best decision one could make.
Skye sank further into the water, her shoulders slumping.
“I think this fake betrothal was a mistake,” she said, quieter but no less fierce.
“Aye? And why’s that? Was the version of me ye built on paper kinder than the real one?” Dougal sneered. “Are ye starting to realize that the rumors may be true?”
The words landed exactly where he’d aimed them, and he watched something flicker across her face. Hurt, then something worse—recognition.
“Ye’re right.” Her voice was soft, almost defeated. “I’m sorry. But I cannae talk about this anymore tonight. I want to go to bed. Goodnight, Dougal.”
She turned and waded toward the bank, before reaching for the cloak she’d left folded on a stone. Dougal made himself look away this time, staring hard at the tree line instead of the water dripping off her skin.
He followed her back at a careful distance, close enough to see her safely to the castle doors, far enough that she wouldn’t feel his eyes on her the whole way. She never once looked back to see if he was there, and somehow that stung more than if she’d told him plainly to leave.
He stood outside her chamber door longer than he meant to, listening to the quiet sounds of her settling in for the night, some part of him wanting to knock, to take back the words he’d thrown at her like weapons.
He didn’t. Instead, he pressed his palm flat against the wood—a foolish, useless gesture—and let out a slow breath.
“Goodnight, Skye,” he murmured, too quiet for her to hear.
Then he turned and walked away, telling himself it was only a month, and knowing, with a certainty that unsettled him, that he no longer believed it.
Dougal did not sleep that night. He kept replaying his conversation with Skye in his head. Kept seeing the way she had slunk back defeated to her rooms.
Regret. One did not need to be a mind-reader to tell she was regretful. Regretful that she had agreed to their arrangement.
Stephen found him in the yard at dawn, sword already in hand, hacking at the training post with more force than the exercise strictly required.
“Ye’re up early.”
“Couldnae sleep.”
“Aye, I gathered that much.” Stephen leaned against the fence post, arms crossed, and watched him take another swing hard enough to rattle the training post in its socket. “Ye look like a man who’s lost a fight, nae won one.”
“I havenae been fighting anyone.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Stephen nodded toward the training post. “That poor bit of wood seems to disagree.”
Dougal said nothing, resetting his stance and swinging again.
“Ye ken,” Stephen said carefully, “I daenae have to ask what’s gotten ye in such a state. I can guess well enough.”
“Then daenae ask.”
“I wasnae planning to.” Stephen held up both hands in mock surrender. “I’ve learned better than most when to keep me mouth shut around ye, me Laird.”
“Have ye, now?”
“Mostly.” Stephen’s mouth twitched, though he wisely kept whatever jest he’d considered to himself, watching Dougal’s jaw tighten instead. “Ye’ve a look about ye this morning. It’s the same look ye had after the cèilidh when ye came home with a man’s tooth in yer pocket.”
“This isnae the same.”
“Nay?”
“Nay.” Dougal finally lowered his sword, breathing hard, sweat gathering on his brow despite the early chill. “It’s worse.”
Stephen straightened at that, his expression sobering. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s nae an answer, and we both ken it.”
Dougal said nothing, sheathing the sword with more force than necessary.
Wisely, Stephen let the silence stretch rather than pushing further. He’d learned long ago when Dougal’s temper was close enough to the surface that prodding would only earn him a fist rather than an answer.
“She’s regretting it,” Dougal finally muttered, almost to himself. “The betrothal. I could see it plain on her face last night. Even if I didnae, she told me as much.”
“Did ye ask her why?”
“I didnae need to ask.”
“Ye’re guessing, then.”
“I ken her well enough by now.”
Stephen considered that, tilting his head slightly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps ye’re seeing what ye fear rather than what’s actually there.”
Dougal shot him a look sharp enough to end most conversations, but Stephen only shrugged, unbothered, long since immune to that particular warning.
“I’m only saying,” he continued, “ye’ve a habit of deciding how a thing will end before it’s had the chance to prove ye wrong. Done it for seven years now, if I’m being honest.”
“That isnae yer business, Stephen.”
“Nay, it isnae.” Stephen pushed off the fence post and clapped a hand briefly on Dougal’s shoulder, before stepping back, sensing correctly that he’d pushed exactly as far as he safely could this morning. “But I’ll be in the stables, should ye decide that it is.”
He left without waiting for a response, whistling a random tune.
Dougal stood alone in the yard, staring after him, the sword still heavy in his grip, the ache in his chest no lighter after their exchange.