Startled, Fiona turned to see Diarmid upright and leaning against Hamish. Hamish had rigged her bloodstained shawl into a makeshift sling. Her husband looked pale and in pain, but steady on his feet.
“Diarmid…”
Diarmid kept looking at Christina. “Your mamma is a real heroine.”
“Uncle Allan said—”
“Uncle Allan was a liar.”
“So you still love me, Mamma?”
“Of course I do,” Fiona said in a husky voice. Longing and desperate love made her voice shake. She wanted to kill Allan all over again when she saw the mistrust in her daughter’s wan face. “You’re my girl, don’t you know that? I’ve missed you every day since they took you away, and I’ll never let anyone take you away again.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” Fiona held her hands out, wishing they weren’t bloodstained, wishing she’d been strong enough to protect her daughter from the wrongs the Grants had done her. “Christina?”
After a pause that cut like a razor, Christina stumbled forward and flung herself at her mother. Fiona’s arms closed hard around her daughter’s shaking body.
Tears poured down her face, as at last Christina’s nearness filled the agonizing absence that had tormented her for a year. Every difficult moment, every terror, every sacrifice was worth it in return for the chance to hold her child close.
“I’ve missed you so much, Mamma,” Christina said, her voice muffled with tears.
“And I’ve missed you so much. There wasn’t a second I didn’t think about you. I love you so much, Christina.”
“I love you, too.” Christina pulled away and sniffed loudly. Fiona noted that her daughter already looked less frozen and more like the little girl she remembered. “Do we have to go back to Bancavan?”
“Never,” Fiona said fervently. “Never, never, never.”
“So where are we going?”
Fiona hesitated, as she wondered how much she should tell Christina right now. But when her delay in replying brought the fear back into her daughter’s eyes, she rushed on. “I’ve got so much to say to you. But first let’s go somewhere safe and warm and let me change out of this frock.”
A flash of the earlier vulnerability. “You won’t go away again?”
“Never, my darling.” She reached out to cup Christina’s face. Such a simple action. Such a privilege to touch her child after all these months apart. “Believe me.”
“I do.”
“Then give me another hug.”
As her daughter stepped back into her embrace, she turned her head to say thank you to Diarmid. But he was already several yards away, climbing into the shabby carriage with Hamish’s help.
“Diarmid?” she called after him, and he turned to give her a brief wave with his good arm.
“Lady Invertavey, Mr. Mactavish asked me to return you and your daughter to Lyon Castle in my carriage.” Sir Quentin was at her elbow, his spare, undistinguished face full of concern. “I’ll ride with the driver and give you both some privacy on the way back.”
“I wanted to…” Her voice trailed off, and she noted the sympathy in his gray eyes.
“We’ve sent for a doctor to see Mr. Mactavish. It’s best we get him to the house as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” It was the right decision, but still she felt bereft. Some deep instinct told her she should be with Diarmid. “What about Allan?”
“I’ve sent one of my men for a cart to collect the body. His kinsmen will want to take him back to his estates for burial, I assume, but first we’ll need an inquest.”
“I see.” She shivered. The rain had retreated, but the wind still cut like a knife.
“If you’ll come this way?”
“Mamma, why did that man call you Lady Invertavey?” Christina asked, her gaze darting with fearful curiosity between her mother and Sir Quentin.
Fiona bit back a sigh. She’d hoped to put off making some of the more difficult explanations. “That’s part of the long story I have to tell you about my adventures since Allan took you away. Let’s go back to the house, and I’ll give you the whole tale.”
Chapter 34
Diarmid stirred from a restless, dream-muddled sleep and opened his eyes on a lamplit room and a lovely woman sitting beside his bed. He shifted to reach out to her, and the shaft of pain through his shoulder proved a sharp reminder of the day’s dramatic events.
“Diarmid, how are you feeling?” Fiona asked softly.
“Like my head is full of cushion stuffing.”
“That’s the laudanum.” She smiled. “Once he’d dug Allan’s bullet out of you, the doctor said he wanted you to sleep.”
Mercifully he’d fainted during the worst of the extraction, although he remembered gripping Fiona’s hand so tightly he suspected he must have hurt her. Now his shoulder felt like it was on fire.
“Ye didn’t have to stay to watch that.”
“Yes, I did,” she said steadily. “Can I help you to sit up?”
The tight bandaging restricted movement. “Aye, please.”
“It might be painful.”
It was.
By the time he was propped against the pillows, he was grinding his teeth and fighting to clear his vision. Still he felt better sitting upright. He hated lying flat and helpless. While he sipped the glass of water Fiona gave him, he waited for the throbbing agony to subside.
“Where’s Christina?” he asked, as the drugged fog receded from his mind. “Shouldnae ye be with her?”
“She’s asleep down the corridor. There’s a maid with her, so if she asks for me, I’ll know straightaway.”
“Dinna ye want to be there?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then?”
“But I also want to be with you, and I can’t be in two places at once. I sat with her until she dozed off. Unless she has a bad dream, she’ll sleep now. The poor wee poppet is tired out.” He heard such tenderness in her voice when she spoke of her daughter. “I’m just so happy to have her under the same roof. I can hardly believe it.”
“Aye. You’re reunited at last. Your quest has succeeded.”
“Thanks to you.”
He didn’t want to deal with that right now. “Did ye tell her about me?”
“Yes, I did. I tried to keep things simple, but even then, I’m not sure she took it in. She’s still trying to grapple with Allan being gone. She’s never known a minute without his evil influence.”
Poor wee poppet indeed. “She’ll need time to come to terms with her new life.”
“She’s young. God willing, she’ll heal with kindness, patience, and love.”
“Aye, with kindness, patience, and love.” The last word in that prescription echoed through his mind. He was achingly conscious that his wife hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t even tried to hold his hand.
“Does your arm hurt?”
Like the devil. “No.”
“Liar.”
He didn’t argue.
“You don’t have to be heroic all the time, you know. You’ve already been quite heroic enough for one day. Dr. Gillies left a sleeping draft, if you’re in pain.”
“Nae more potions, by heaven.” With an unsteady hand, Diarmid set the empty glass of water on the nightstand. He felt ridiculously tired. And downhearted, which was mad when they’d succeeded. He’d returned the child to her mother, he’d beaten Allan Grant, he’d even emerged unscathed. Mostly.
What did Fergus call him? The white knight? If so, he’d done his duty most satisfactorily.
But the stories never said what the wandering knight did after he won through. Did he ride off with the damsel and set up a home and family, or did he go away lonely and return to his endless questing?
“Do you remember talking to Dr. Gillies about your injury?”
“Aye.” Diarmid paused. “But I was in nae state to take in what he said.”
“He believes that as long as there’s no infection, you should r
ecover full use of your arm.”
At last, Fiona reached across to take his hand. Och, that was better. The roiling discontent in his heart settled. Her touch had such power over him.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
He laced his fingers through hers. “A mere flesh wound?”
“A little more than that, but it could have been worse.” She leaned in closer, and her eyes darkened as she stared at him. “I warned you to expect trouble when you met Allan. How on earth did you let him shoot you?”
“An oversupply of confidence, damn it. I thought the danger was past. Allan had got his money, and Hamish was there to see everything stayed honest. It was madness to try and kill me at that stage. A sane man would have gathered up the cash and headed for the hills.”
“Allan wasn’t sane.” Her free hand made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I don’t mean he was a raving lunatic, but he couldn’t bear for anyone to best him. He never could.”
Diarmid forced his mind back to those chaotic seconds before the bullet hit him. Everything had a strangely unreal edge, as though he’d heard about the events, instead of lived through them. “I heard ye cry out.”
She’d called Christina’s name in a tone that would ring in his mind forever. Love and fear and longing. The sound had startled him, and he’d looked up to see his wife darting down the brae like an arrow shot from a bow.
“I couldn’t bear waiting any longer.” Her voice roughened with emotion, and he realized she wasn’t nearly as calm as she seemed on the surface.
“I ken that. When I saw you running away from the trees, I remember cursing the way ye put yourself in danger.”
“Hamish says that turning to look at me must have saved your life. That’s why the bullet entered your shoulder and not your heart.”
He found it in him to smile. “Och, lassie, and now I suppose ye want credit for the fact that treacherous bastard didnae kill me.”
Characteristic dry humor flattened her mouth. “Well, you should give praise where it’s due.”
“When I should be furious with ye for disobeying me. I was furious with ye for disobeying me.”
The amusement faded from her eyes. “Speaking of furious, how dare you give Allan ten thousand pounds for Christina?”
This was one argument he knew he’d win. “Wasnae she worth it?”
It was Fiona’s turn to look embattled. “How can I say she wasn’t? You can’t imagine how it felt to take her in my arms after a year apart and know we were free of Allan at last.”
“I can guess.”
She studied him with a serious expression, before her rare, unfettered smile lightened her features. He hoped to see that smile more often, now that she’d escaped her vile kinsman’s power.
“Yes, you probably can. But that doesn’t mean you had a right to keep secrets from me.”
He shrugged. Very briefly. He kept forgetting that he'd just had a bullet cut out of his shoulder. A flash of agony radiated through him and had him seeing stars. As he fought the encroaching darkness, he inhaled on an audible hiss.
“Diarmid, I hope you haven’t opened your wound again.” Fiona sounded cross. He didn’t mind, because at last she perched on the edge of the bed and slid her arms around his waist. “For heaven’s sake, be careful.”
As the pain slowly ebbed, he opened his eyes. “Och, lassie, I’d go through it all again if it means lying in your arms.”
Keeping a loose hold on him, she shifted to fix wide blue eyes the color of heaven on his face. Unhappy blue eyes. “You shouldn’t even want me anywhere near you. After all, it was because of me that Allan shot you.”
Diarmid caught her fingers and brought them to his lips for a quick kiss. “Don’t be a silly widgeon, Fiona. I always want ye to touch me.”
With a gentleness that eased his pain better than any laudanum ever could, she drew him down to rest against her. For a sweet interlude, he lay silent and unmoving in her embrace. Her warmth surrounded him, and the world took on Fiona’s soft, floral scent. The horrors of the day retreated to the edge of his mind.
“That’s good,” she said, without moving and as if there had been no break in the conversation. “Because I like you to touch me. I like it very much indeed. I’m hoping you have plans to touch me soon and often.”
That sounded promising. Perhaps the knight was about to cease his wanderings after all. His dejection faded with every moment. “How do you feel about more children, lassie?”
To his surprise, her answer came swiftly. “I’d love to have a family with you. More than I can say.”
“That’s grand.”
Diarmid wasn’t sure whether he was up to settling the details of his future this very instant, but it seemed the time had come to make confessions and commitments. The most difficult confession of all loomed ahead, but he could no longer bear to hide the truth in his heart, however Fiona received the news.
This was the greatest risk he’d ever taken, greater by far than meeting Allan Grant today on that bare brae. “The ten thousand pounds I offered Allan isn’t the only secret I’ve kept from ye, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” To his regret, she sat back and regarded him with familiar uncertainty. “You’re making me nervous, Diarmid.”
His lips turned down in self-mockery. “You’ll be bloody terrified before I’ve finished.”
“You were already married when you married me? You have a mistress and ten children stashed somewhere at Invertavey?”
He didn’t smile, although he knew she was trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Much worse,” he said gravely.
“What is it? Stop playing with me and tell me. Whatever it is, I can bear it.”
He swallowed. Now the moment was here, his courage threatened to desert him. “I’ve done a rash and dangerous thing.”
“By helping me?”
“By falling in love with ye, lassie.”
She went white and scrambled off the bed. Disappointment heavy as an anvil smashed down on his heart. Not unexpected, but wretched all the same. He’d never seen a woman look less ready to respond to a declaration of love with a declaration of her own.
“You can’t,” she whispered, one pale hand rising to where her pulse hammered in her throat.
“Aye, I can. I have.”
Perhaps he’d have been wiser to keep quiet. But if they were to stay together at Invertavey as husband and wife, she had to know how he felt. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life with that lie between them. A lie of omission perhaps, but still a lie.
“I know ye, Fiona. I know ye, and I love ye, and nothing will change that until the day I die.” He felt like he dredged the words up from the depths of his soul. “I’m no’ a fickle man. I’ve never been in love before. I willnae fall in love again. It seems I’m just like my father, after all.”
“Because you, too, fell in love with the wrong woman?” Her voice was bitter.
“You’re no’ the wrong woman.”
“I am if I can’t make you happy.” She stared down at the floor. She looked less shocked, but no more gratified. “I’m not sure I know what love is, Diarmid.”
“Ye love Christina.”
“Yes, but that’s not what you’re asking for.”
“No.”
The gaze she raised to him was flat and desolate. “It would be easy to lie to you.”
His good hand made a sweeping gesture. “A lie dishonors everything between us.”
“Yes, it does. But I hate that I’m hurting you. Are you sure that you love me?”
His lips tightened. “That’s an insulting question.”
She didn’t flinch. “Fergus says you suffer from an excess of chivalry. Is there any chance that you’re confusing your urge to rescue a damsel in distress with something more profound?”
“You’re nae damsel in distress.” He snorted with scornful amusement. “You’re a force of nature. Nothing can stop ye. Just ask Allan Grant. Or at least, you could ask him, if ye hadn’t comprehensively trou
nced him. He came to grief today because he underestimated how strong and dangerous ye are. How can I help loving you? You’re powerful and brave and loyal. And sweet and warm and passionate. And bonny. You’re so bonny, it nigh breaks my heart every time I look at ye.”
***
Fiona stared at this remarkable man who laid his heart at her feet and felt utterly sick with herself. She swallowed the bile that soured her mouth and made herself speak the harsh, unwelcome truth.
“Diarmid, I honor you. I admire you. I like you. I like being with you. I like what we do in bed.”
“Like, like, like,” he said grimly.
How she wished she could get away with a comforting falsehood, but he knew her too well. And something within her flinched from telling him a lie when he’d been so honest with her.
“Yes. I wish it was more.” She forced herself to proceed to the difficult truth. “But we’ve only had a few weeks together, a handful of days for me to learn what it is to live in the sunlight, to trust a man, to be friends with a man.”
“Before that, ye had ten years of Bancavan.”
His tone hinted of hard-won acceptance. He understood. Of course he did. But understanding didn’t stop her rejection from wounding him. She flinched to think of the pain she inflicted.
“Yes. Ten long years. I let a vicious old man use my body. I had my child stolen away from me. I was beaten and confined and treated with contempt. Something inside me was broken then. Despite your kindness and care and…love…” Even saying the word was difficult. “…I’m still broken.”
“I cannae believe you’ll be broken forever.”
“But it’s possible that I will be.” Possible? So probable it was certain. “I can’t hold out any hope that I’ll ever be capable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.”
The telltale muscle flickered in his cheek. He maintained an outward calm for her sake, but she knew that every word she spoke wounded him. “Once you thought ye were incapable of passion.”
“Love is more complicated than passion—and passion is complicated enough.”
The Highlander's Lost Lady Page 28
