He sighed and met Angus’s stare. ‘Nay.’
‘Then write her and make haste about it. I will deliver the message to her maid myself.’
‘You think she will agree?’
Angus’s eyes softened. ‘If but half of the gossip I have heard about what has befallen the lady is true, then aye, I think she will come without question. I also know that once ye leave this place today, the laird will not allow ye to return. Seems he has a loftier match than ye in mind.’
Rory didn’t doubt a word, but the blunt truth of it still cut like a dirk to his chest.
If it was now or never, then he would choose now and seize his moment, no matter how brief and flickering it might be.
‘Give me but a minute, then,’ he answered. Rory settled in at the writing desk and gathered parchment, ink and a quill ready to draft the first note to his soon-to-be wife. His fingers tingled as he gripped the quill. What did one say upon such a note when so much depended on her agreement?
He scratched the first word of his message with certainty. He would tell her the truth. Well, most of it anyway.
Chapter Eight
Moira sat curled up in her favourite reading chair in her chamber, trying desperately to focus upon the words of the page on the history of violets she’d reread several times now. Laird McKenna’s words and the memory of his touch in the library just the hour before still had her in knots. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but there was no disputing the man had an effect on her. She frowned. Was that good or bad? She desired a marriage of convenience and solitude. Feelings and expectations only led to disappointment.
She snapped the book shut and set it on the nearby end table.Disappointment.A feeling she knew well. Father had already expressed his displeasure at her actions. She’d been fetched from her quiet, peaceful reverie in the library by poor Enora, her lady’s maid, who told her she had been ordered to bring her to her chamber, where the laird bid her to stay for the remainder of the tournament.
She’d been locked into her room as if she were a petulant child.
She pounded the armchair in frustration. She was no child, even if she felt like acting like one right now. Father had no right to order her to do anything. She was a grown woman with her own mind and her own choices to make, no matter what he believed.
The outer chamber door of her rooms opened quickly. Sweet Enora, who had been off seeing to the repair of her grass-stained gown from the day before, scurried in and then closed the door securely before clicking the lock in place. The poor lass looked behind her as if she were being chased by the devil himself before she continued on through the chamber, rushing to Moira’s side. Brushing aside tiny pale strands of hair that had escaped her linen headpiece, Enora clutched the arm of Moira’s chair. Panting out a breath, she pulled correspondence from her apron pocket and pressed it into Moira’s hand.
‘What has happened?’ Moira asked, sitting up straight. Enora’s odd countenance sent Moira into high alert. ‘You look as if you’ve seen Nan’s ghost.’
‘Nay, miss.’ She chuckled at Moira’s reference to the old folktale. ‘The laird has sent word.’ The young girl’s blue eyes were wide and her breath uneven.
Moira sighed. ‘What does my father command of me now?’
‘Nay, not from yer father. It is from Laird McKenna,’ she rushed out.
Moira’s heart faltered. ‘Laird McKenna? Has something happened?’ Her nerves pricked to attention. Had he changed his mind or been forced to by her father? She knew just how persuasive he could be.
‘His manservant gave it to me directly. Asked that I give it to ye meself and await yer answer.’ She stood with her arms behind her back and nibbled her lip.
Moira stared at her maid dumbfounded. What could he possibly be writing her about when he was still within the castle walls?
‘Well, hurry,’ she urged. ‘Please read it, miss! I can take no more.’ She shifted on her feet.
Moira started from the urgency in Enora’s voice and hurriedly opened the letter.
My dearest Mrs Fraser,
My manservant has told me of your father’s plan to keep me from you once I depart today, so I have a bold proposal for you to consider: escape and elopement.
We have a way for you to leave with us unseen, but only if you wish it. And if you dare not risk such a scandalous and hasty separation from your family, I understand, but I cannot ensure that I will be allowed to return to Glenhaven and wed you formally as I had hoped.
It seems not everyone is so eager for you to accept a dying man’s proposal.
Yours,
Rory McKenna, Laird of Blackmore
‘Lord above,’ Moira murmured, allowing the letter to rest in her lap. The man couldn’t be serious. Elope? As if they were vagabonds, criminals or lovers, but they were none of those things, were they?
