0764213512 (R) (46 page)

“Rowena.” His voice was as soft as the kiss, barely a whisper in the hallway. His fingertips traced her cheek. “I love you.”

Her breath balled up. He’d said before that he
would
love her—he’d spoken of giving her his heart. But he’d never stated it so simply, so truly. He loved her. A sentiment that man waiting in the parlor had never once expressed. One her mother had said often enough, but which she had disproven with her choices—for didn’t love put the other person above one’s own desires? Malcolm . . . Malcolm had claimed it, but it had been a lie.

Had she ever really been loved before now by anyone other than Lilias? For who she was—strengths and weaknesses, both? For all she could be and all she had overcome?

She cupped his cheek, too, and looked deep into his chocolate eyes. “
Tha gaol agam ort.
”

His lips twitched up. “Which means?”

“I love you.”

“That’s what I hoped it meant.” He wrapped his arms around her, seemingly content to ignore their guest who was no doubt pacing the parlor impatiently. “I should really learn a bit of Gaelic.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “I’ll teach you. Let’s start with
An toir thu dhomh pòg?
”

He did his best to imitate her and then lifted his brows. “What did I just say?”

Smiling felt odd today. But she must take whatever joy she could find, whenever she could find it. “You said, ‘Will you give me a kiss?’ And the answer, Duke, is yes. I will.”

He was chuckling as their lips met again. “A very important phrase indeed. I shall have to perfect it.” For now, though, he held her close and kissed her deeply, sending tingles along her nerves.

Rowena held tight and let the realization come that she wanted more than his kisses. That if he had been killed today, she would have regretted not being his wife in the physical sense. She would have been sorry she hadn’t invited more than kisses that made her senses swim. Perhaps the fear still lurked somewhere inside . . . but he never lit the panic anymore. He banished it.

When they stepped apart, she could sense the calm again. She could grip his hand, manage a tight smile, and nod. She could face her father.

Brice opened the door, and she stepped through without a tremble.

Douglas Kinnaird wasn’t pacing. He was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness, and when they entered, when he turned, it wasn’t with a scowl for keeping him waiting. It was with a sigh that sounded . . . relieved. “Rowena. Nottingham.” He greeted them with a bare nod. “Forgive me for dispensing with pleasantries—but ye’ve trouble coming. Malcolm is on his way.”

The calm fled again, and Rowena stumbled in its absence. “Now?” Catherine had said . . . but then, why should she believe anything that woman said? Or perhaps Miss Abbott had contacted him. It didn’t much matter
who
, really. Just
that
.

“Blast.” Brice rubbed a hand over his face. “When?”

Father looked at him rather than her. “McPherson reported that the telegram came in yesterday for him. He delivered it, but he gave me a copy too. I left straightaway—and had McCloud get Malcolm drinking at the pub. It willna have bought much time, but perhaps a day. The wire . . . it said . . .” Father glanced at her, then back to Brice.

She stood as close to her husband’s side as she could manage. “He knows everything, Father. Including that I’m with child—Malcolm’s.”

Spitting out a Gaelic curse, Father turned away, then back. “Lilias—before you left, she’d said it wasna an issue.”

Not a conversation she particularly wanted to have with her father. “We were mistaken.” She wove her fingers more tightly through Brice’s. “Father, why’d ye come?”

Now he looked at her as he so often had in the past—as if she were daft, or stupid. “Ye think I’d just let him come and hurt you again?”

He’d let him the first time, hadn’t he? And then threatened to make her marry him, to be hurt by him for the rest of her life. “Ye could have wired. It would have been faster . . . and easier.”

Father lifted his chin. The lamplight caught the silver in his hair, but it also sharpened the shadows in his face, the angles of his broad shoulders. Made him look fierce, like the chief he was. “Ye think I’d leave yer safety to a pack of lily-livered
Englishmen
?”

Brice snorted. “No need to walk on eggshells around me, Lochaber, really. Tell me what you really think.”

“Pardon me, Duke.” Not that his tone actually asked forgiveness. “Ye’ve a lovely home, and I can see ye’re taking fine care of my daughter. But ye havena the foggiest clue how to meet an enraged clansman.”

“I suppose I should break out the broadswords and battle axes?”

Father didn’t look amused by the humor that made Rowena want to smile. But he bit back the retort she’d expected. Though his hand fisted, his nostrils flared, he shook his head. “’Tis my fault he’s still a problem. He’s my responsibility, and I failed to get him in hand when I should have done, years ago. Now it’s my family paying the price. I ask yer leave, Duke, to let me help.”

Silence pulsed, but then Brice nodded. “My way, my terms. We’ll take care of this peaceably, as much as possible.” His fingers tightened around Rowena’s. “There has been violence enough already.”

Was it any wonder she loved this man?

Father didn’t look to think it a smart stance to take. But he nodded. “As ye wish. But Malcolm willna think that way. He’ll have bloodlust in his veins, and ye’re likely to be his target, Duke.”

Brice didn’t even seem to hear him. His eyes had narrowed. “Do you know who sent the telegram?”

“Nay, there was no name. The best McPherson could figure out was that it came from Brighton. Have ye enemies who would want him to know?”

Rowena rested her hand on Brice’s arm. “Too many. Was it Catherine, do you think?”

Shaking his head, Brice focused on the nothingness across from him. “It wouldn’t make sense. Her best hope is scaring you into doing what she wants, but if he’s already here, then you’d have no incentive to give in to her. Your focus would instead be on getting away from
him
.”

“Stella, then.”

“It seems the safest assumption. That it was she, and that Lady Pratt doesn’t know Malcolm is headed our way. Still, we had better act quickly. Once he arrives, her threat loses its potency, and she’ll come up with something worse.”

A shiver overtook her. “He could be here by tomorrow.”

“Then we move first thing in the morning. I’ll ring the constable straightaway and—”

“Pardon me.” Father glared at them both. “What the devil are you two talking about? Who is Lady Pratt?”

Brice had already turned toward the door, urgency making him all but vibrate. Their fingers were still linked, but his grip had loosened. He met her gaze. “Are you . . . ?”

“I’m fine.” And she was, mostly. She squeezed his fingers and let them go. “Go and ring the constable. I’ll fill in Father on what is going on.”

His eyes asked
Are you certain?

She smiled to assure him she was.

He strode from the room, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, chilled now that he wasn’t beside her. For a long moment, she stared at the empty doorway, not really wanting to turn back and face the Kinnaird.

But she heard him shift, and then he was at her side, though a long stride away. “What did he do when he found out?”

Drawing in a long breath, she prayed for an extra measure of peace. “He did what only the best of men would do—promised to love me and the bairn, to protect us. He kissed me and swore to be the finest father a child ever had.” She kept her body facing the door but turned her head to look at him.

She’d gotten her petite stature from her mother. The shape of her face, the color of her hair. What did she have of him but for his eyes? And his propensity to assume the worst, apparently, to judge too soon and too harshly.

What a legacy to have inherited. “I’m surprised you bothered coming, Father.” She heard the rigidness in her tone, and it came out in the clipped accents of the English. “That you would worry at all with what he did. You have another heir on the way. You’ll not need me anymore.”

Cursing, he turned to face her, granite for a face. “How is it ye lived yer life in my castle, yet ye ken so little about me?”

She turned to him too, and felt a surge when she did so. How many times had she dared to face him down before? Once? Twice? “What is it I’m supposed to understand? I ken only what ye took such care to teach me—dinna disagree. Dinna disobey. Dinna speak out o’ turn or look out o’ turn or ever ask for anything. And dinna, above all, ever expect affection.” So much for English inflection. She spread her arms wide. “Those are the lessons I learned at yer knee, Father. Pray tell, what did I miss?”

He muttered another low curse and shook his head. “Lil said I’d handled you wrong. That ye needed soft hands.”

“Instead of cudgels, you mean?”

“I did what I kent to do!” he shouted. Then he heaved out a breath, slashed a hand through the air. “Hate me for it if ye must. But it was with a cuff that my father taught me how to be a Kinnaird, with a cuff that his father taught him. And ye’re a Kinnaird, Rowena. My firstborn, my daughter, my heir. Mine to protect, to try to shape into someone worth the air ye breathe—unlike yer cowering traitor of a mother.”

Her eyes slid closed, but she bit her tongue. For the first time, she listened for the hurt in his words. The hint of a man who had tried to make his wife happy, who had spent a decade doing everything right, only to lose her when he dared leave her alone. “Lilias just told me what she did. That summer.”

“Then ye ken.” His voice didn’t soften. If anything, it sounded rougher than it had before. “Ye ken that it wasna my fault.”

Her fingers curled into her palm, and she opened her eyes again. “Not that she strayed. But ye decided how to react, Father. Ye decided to punish
me
for it, not just her. And that . . . no—that I dinna understand.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen, where that precious little life grew safely inside. “I dinna understand why ye hated me for her offense.”

His larynx bobbed. “I never hated you, lass.”

But he wouldn’t say he loved her. Perhaps his lips didn’t even know how to form the words. And it shouldn’t require words, should it? Brice had proven his heart through his actions long before he whispered it to her in the hallway a few minutes ago.

Father though . . . “Perhaps you didna. But that’s what yer actions said every time ye hit me. Every time ye insulted me. Ye say ye wanted to make me worth the air I breathed—but ye taught me the opposite. That I
wasna
. That I wasna worth the air, or the land I stood on, or the castle that was more important than I was. Your actions told me that my well-being was worth less than the sheep in the pastures, less than the least of the clan, less than anything. That’s what I’ve spent the last decade feeling like—
less
. Then ye wonder at how I dinna stand tall with the pride of a Kinnaird.”

His posture went even more rigid. “Ye’re standing tall enough now.”

Perhaps his lips didn’t know how to form an apology, either. He wouldn’t say he was sorry. He wouldn’t ever admit he had chosen the wrong way to teach her what lessons he thought she needed to learn. He wouldn’t ask her forgiveness.

The question was . . . could she forgive him anyway?

She turned away, back toward the door.

“I dinna ken why ye had to run off to England to learn it, but there it is—ye’re standing as a Scotswoman should. Defiant and strong, not giving in when trouble comes. Ye do the Kinnairds proud, lass.”

And yet still he couldn’t bring himself to say she did
him
proud. Still wouldn’t even admit that she had to run off to England because he’d given her no other choice.

The silence stretched until it crackled, but Rowena hadn’t any words with which to break it. None that wouldn’t be more venom—and she pressed her lips against that. She wouldn’t be like him. Not anymore, not even with him. She’d laid out her complaints, she’d made her accusations, and what had it gotten her? An assurance that she wasn’t hated. That she was worth something to the clan.

He’d never be the father she wanted. That was hers to learn to accept. He would never laugh with her, never put an arm around her, never be one for long talks by the fire of a cold winter’s eve. He wouldn’t cheer her on in her victories or soothe her tears in her failures.

But he would leave his world to come to hers when danger threatened. He would admit, at least, to handling Malcolm wrong.

Was that enough?

“What’s this other business the duke is tending? About that Lady Brat?”

The mistake made her lips curl up. “Pratt. She wants diamonds that Brice has and will stop at nothing to get them. She threatened to unleash Malcolm on us if I didn’t discover their whereabouts and get them to her.”

A glance at her father showed his brows were arched, his arms folded across his chest. “Are the gems hers?”

“No.”

“Valuable, I take it?”

“All but priceless.”

“And she thinks to threaten my daughter into becoming a thief on her behalf? Greedy English b—”

At
her
raised brows, he cut himself off, cleared his throat—and finished with “Brat.”

“Pratt.”

“I’ll call it as I see it.”

She smiled, actually smiled. In the presence of her father, over something he’d said. On a day like this, it felt akin to a miracle. “Aye, well. I daresay we willna argue that one with you.”

He nodded, tugged his waistcoat, and drew in a breath. “I’ll help however ye need me. With this Lady Brat, and with Malcolm when he arrives. With whatever ye require.”

She would have preferred a few simple words. But whether or not it was enough, this was what he offered. All she would get from him. She nodded, then tilted her head and drew upon that well of calm inside. “Promise me one thing, Father.”

“What?”

“Annie. No matter what comes between you and Elspeth, or what Annie might do, ye’ll never raise a hand to her like ye did to me, or to the coming babe either. If they displease you, then send them to me. I’ll take them.”