The Highlander's Stolen Touch. Terri Brisbin

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      ‘But, Tavis …’ she began to argue. She had enough love for him that it would be enough. ‘I have loved—’

      ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Do not say such things.’ He paced around the cottage, making it feel so much smaller than just moments before. ‘You were a child when you decided you loved me and you must grow up now, Ciara. I simply paid heed to a little girl on a journey, befriending her as she grew up. That is all that is between us. You must put aside such childish notions now, for there can be nothing more.’

      The pain could not have hurt more if he’d used a real blade instead of his words to strike at her. But that pain made her realise how foolish her words and her actions had been this night. He did not want her. He did not love her.

      He would not marry her.

      She’d waited for him, waited for his pain over losing Saraid to ease, and waited for him to accept her as an adult, but it was clear he never would. Though foolish, she was not daft, so Ciara used the edge of her cloak to dry her eyes and wipe away the worst of the tears. Humiliated for having so misjudged his feelings and her plan, she stood then and walked to his door. She had to get away from here as quickly as possible. Lifting the latch, she stumbled out into the cooler air, trying to catch her breath, as the tears streamed freely down her face now.

      He spoke her name, but she would not, could not, look back at him. Sympathy or pity, she cared not for either right now. Her feet took her down one path and up the hill towards Elizabeth’s cottage. She thought he might have followed her, but she never paused and never looked back. When Elizabeth stepped from the shadows to meet her, Ciara felt him stop.

      Elizabeth took but one look at her and opened her arms, allowing Ciara to step into them. Though younger by a year, her friend always seemed to be the older one and, for now, Ciara accepted her comfort. When she could breathe again, Ciara stepped back and took Elizabeth’s arm, walking beside her the rest of the way. They sneaked back in and soon they were lying in the bed in the loft, though sleep would not come that night.

      Only then did Elizabeth dare to ask for details of her talk with Tavis. Though there were many words she wanted to say, none of them mattered any longer. Only one thing did.

      ‘He does not want to marry me.’

      Worse, she realised in that moment that the very things her parents had done for her—providing her with a dowry, an exceptional education and making certain her links to two powerful lairds were known—were exactly what now placed her out of reach for Tavis. Had they done that a-purpose? Did they make her so appealing and valuable that only those outside the MacLeries or Robertsons would be eligible for such a bride? Did they wish her gone?

      She turned those thoughts over and over in her mind that night and on many others as she tried to recover from this crushing emotional loss.

      The next days and months were difficult, but whether by plan or by providence, Tavis seemed to travel on the laird’s business more than before and they did not meet face to face for some weeks. By that time, her embarrassment had faded and she could almost believe she’d dreamt the whole encounter. Only a fleeting expression in Tavis’s gaze when they spoke the next time convinced her it was all real—far too real.

      She spent the time facing the possibility that Tavis had been correct about the nature of her feelings towards him. As eligible men were presented to her, she realised she might have to put aside the dreams of her childhood and face the realities of adulthood.

      And when her father announced a possible match one night at supper while Tavis was present and he did not even flinch, she forced herself to accept the facts. She would have to marry a man she could never love.

      For in spite of any growing up and regardless of the foolishness of her feelings, she, too, had given her heart away.

       Chapter Two

       Late summer, AD 1371

      The sun broke through the cloud-filled sky, piercing the greyness and brightening the village around him. It should have lightened his spirits, since he liked not the usual autumn storms, but it did not. Tavis MacLerie crossed his arms over his chest, set his teeth edge to edge and shook his head once more to add to his refusal.

      As the laird’s man, his job was to assign warriors to whatever purpose or task that the laird required, but this time he would not relent. Many times he accepted the assignment, doing Connor MacLerie’s bidding outside the village of Lairig Dubh. But not this time. Others would have to see to this … task.

      ‘Explain yourself,’ Connor said in a low voice that worried him more than if the laird had shouted his words. Something within Tavis sparked and his muscles gathered as though he’d been threatened and his body was ready to fight.

      ‘I have other responsibilities,’ he replied, meeting the stern gaze of his laird without flinching. ‘Young Dougal and Iain can see to this journey.’

      Connor had recently arranged a tentative marriage contract between Duncan’s stepdaughter and the heir of an ally clan—the third in a series of never-completed contracts—and all it needed to go forwards was for Ciara to visit the other clan and accept the offer. Her parents were about to leave on the laird’s business, so they could not travel with her. Ciara seemed to favour this offer from the Murray clan in the east of Scotland and this trip would be crucial in finalising the arrangements. He’d heard all of this from others, for he’d not spoken directly to her since that night in his cottage.

      He could see her face, ashen at his refusal that night, in his mind. It plagued him even now, but he’d spoken the truth to her that night. He would not, could not, remarry. He had not shared the whole of his reasoning, for it would damn him in her eyes and in the opinion of anyone who knew of it. The fear of someone discovering the full and terrible story of Saraid’s death held him apart from the clan and kept him from believing that there could be a happy wedded life in his future. He shook himself free from the memories and the regrets and waited for Connor’s answer.

      At his refusal, Connor and Duncan exchanged glances that spoke of some kind of message between them. Then Connor nodded his acceptance.

      ‘Tell them to be ready two days’ hence,’ Connor ordered.

      Tavis nodded and turned to leave, relief flowing through him now that he did not face the task of taking Ciara Robertson to meet her betrothed. Startled at that emotion within him when he had denied caring about her in that way, Tavis took no time to dwell on it. As he left the laird’s chambers and walked down the stairs to the hall below, he found Marian Robertson, Ciara’s mother, waiting for him.

      ‘Tavis, I would speak to you about the journey to Perthshire,’ Marian began.

      ‘Marian …’ Did she know her daughter had come to his cottage and proposed marriage to him? And that he’d refused her? What could he say?

      ‘Marian!’ Duncan’s voice called from above them on the stairs. Sharp, but not angry in its tone, the interruption stopped her from saying whatever else she’d planned to say to him. Duncan soon joined them, placing his arm around Marian’s shoulders and drawing her near to him. ‘Tavis has assigned others to escort Ciara. She will be safely delivered to meet her betrothed.’

      Tavis did not like the way those words sounded. СКАЧАТЬ