Hold fast.
Rory sucked in one deep breath and then another as his body thrummed in desire and want of his wife. There was no denying it. The feel of her strong, small frame against him and the slight tremble he felt pass through her undid him. The irony of desiring his wife so much when she feared intimacy was not lost on him. Fate had a grand sense of humour, it seemed. The dying man had finally found a wife, yet he could not begin the act of trying to beget an heir with her.
Another man might have just bedded her without cause and justified it with the fact that he was her husband and the future of a clan was at stake, but he was not that man. Perhaps it would be easier if he was. They began the slow descent to the back entrance of the castle and Rory accepted the truth with each footfall. He would have to be patient. Once more, time demanded more from him and Fate would give him what he desired on Her terms but not a moment sooner.
Moira shifted against him and slowed, turning her face to the west. ‘It’s beautiful. May I look inside?’
Rory glanced in the direction of her interest and his chest tightened. They should have gone the long way around to the front entrance and risked getting caught in the rain. The painted glass windows of Blackmore’s small chapel winked back at him as it caught the sun’s intermittent rays, as if daring his approach and mocking his past with it. If it wasn’t sacred ground, he would have spat upon it. He met her quizzical expression and realised he’d not answered her. ‘If you wish,’ he replied, his words sharper than he intended.
‘Did something horrid happen here? You’re scowling.’ She tilted her head and stepped out of his hold. An immediate sense of loss consumed him. Some from the past and some from the present.
He sighed and crossed his arms against his chest. ‘’Tis not my favourite part of Blackmore.’
‘Oh? It’s quite lovely. I am surprised you did not wish to have our wedding here.’
‘I tried that once before,’ he muttered, and started up the worn stone path to the chapel’s large, dark wooden doors. With every step, the walls he’d built to keep the loss he’d experienced there fell away until only the feelings of shame and grief remained.
A crack of thunder sounded and the skies opened up, releasing plump, heavy drops of rain. ‘Seems the weather has decided for us. Come inside. We can wait out the storm.’
He couldn’t prevent the dry, bitter laugh from escaping his lips as he continued on.
Moira walked beside him until they reached the doors where he stopped cold, staring blankly at the barrier standing between him and the past.
To her credit, she didn’t move but waited patiently for whatever truth he would give her.
Rory’s hand grasped the large metal handle. All he had to do was pull on the ring and the door would open, yet he couldn’t quite summon the courage to do so. He hadn’t been inside since he’d caught Lorna in the throes of passion with one of his stewards here. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sight and sounds of such a discovery crashed through his mind like it had but a thousand times before. He clenched his jaw. The wedding they had planned to have there but days later had been cancelled, the steward cast from the castle and Lorna not far behind. He gripped the iron tightly. The future he had planned had turned to dust by entering this door. Would it do the same now if they went in?
Moira placed her hand over his own and he started, yanked back from his memories.
‘We don’t have to go in.’ She smiled up at him, and he met the blue depths of her gaze. One filled with concern, empathy and understanding even though he’d told her nothing. Perhaps if he allowed her into some of his pain, she would allow him into hers, and somehow they could find a future, no matter how brief it might be, together.
He relaxed his hold and pushed it open. ‘It’s time to set aside some of the demons of the past. Come. See the chapel.’
The dank, musty chill of the air startled him. He hadn’t been in this space for over a year, but his body remembered the familiar sights, smells and sounds that he’d cherished as a boy. He smiled. ‘I used to love this place. I’d come and sit in here for hours.’
‘You did?’ She studied him. ‘What changed?’
‘Her. Lorna. She changed it. We were planning to marry. Thought she hung the moon and stars, and I would have done—’ He stopped himself from blathering on, ashamed of how foolish he had been to believe in such love. ‘Anyway, we were to marry here, but a few days before our union, I found her here—’ he paused, searching for a softer way to say the truth of it ‘—in a rather compromising position with a steward. Said she believed I would one day be too weak due to my illness and that she needed to make other arrangements.’
Moira’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘Oh. That is ghastly. I’m sorry.’
‘Thatis why I did not wish to marry you here. I have not got over the betrayal in a place I once cherished.’
‘Why did you love it so? It is peaceful, but for a child it might be a bit dull, I would imagine.’ She twisted her lips and scanned the small and albeit simple church.
Rory’s gaze danced along the space. It was still clean and cared for. No doubt Uncle Leo had made it so despite Rory’s initial command that it be razed to the ground. He smiled, grateful his uncle never listened to a word he said. ‘Father and I came here every week when I was very young and then my uncle continued the tradition. My father used to tell me stories of my mother and we’d pray to her and then walk about the place looking at the carved stones and depictions of all the McKennas before us. Later, Uncle would tell me the stories of our clan, and the hours would just melt away, especially on rainy days such as this.’
He removed his gloves and let his fingers drift upon one of his favourite carvings. A chiselled depiction of a woman with a small babe that measured the length of two hands. He traced it with the pads of his fingertips, allowing them to dip in and out of the crevices. ‘Father always told me he crafted this one of me and Mother himself.’ He chuckled. ‘Although I doubt he did such as he had little talent with drawing let alone stone carvings. But I always wanted to believe it was true. Perhaps more than he even wished for me to.’ The soft shadowy cheeks and upturned quirk of the woman’s lips always made him smile, as if she held a lovely secret that she would never tell.
‘It’s quite beautiful. Have you ever thought to carve one yourself? Leave your own McKenna mark upon this chapel?’
He shook his head and let his fingers fall away from the wall. ‘Never even thought of it.’
‘Well, you should.’ She smiled up at him and walked to the small scarred altar that stood resolute at the front of the chapel. Steady rain created a soothing rhythm upon the roof overhead, and he suddenly felt peace rather than anger in this space, just like he had as a child. He walked down the aisle and slid into his favourite pew, the third row centre. The familiar hard, solid strength of the wood against his torso as he sat was a blessed comfort he had missed. His hands relaxed in his lap and he closed his eyes, content to hear the rain and breathe in the damp musty scent of the place.
The pew shifted beneath him, and he opened his eyes to see Moira sliding down to him. She sidled up to him. Meeting his gaze, she said, ‘Thank you for sharing this place and what happened here with me.’ Before he could say a word, she rested her head upon his shoulder. His chest tightened and a knot formed in his stomach. The harder he tried to keep his feelings for this woman at a distance, the closer she came to his heart as if she were the tide raging in and he the moon above. He clenched his jaw as the familiar pull and burn in his gut took hold of him. He seethed out a breath trying to let go of the pain slowly without jarring her. Another reminder that no matter his plans, Fate had yet another. One he had no control over.
She lifted her head and faced him. ‘Are you unwell?’
