“Two days after your own departure. We were already planning a visit to Leslie, and Kendra talked us into tagging along. I can see we made better time than you did. Was your journey unpleasant?”
“It went well.” He just hadn’t been in a particular hurry. The closer he got to Duncraven, the less he looked forward to a reunion with his mother. Half of him was afraid to hope for a reconciliation—afraid she’d disappoint him again. The other half was hoping too much.
“Finding you here is a timely stroke of luck,” Jason added.
Perching her wet cloak on a rack beside Kendra’s, Caithren aimed a coquettish glance over her shoulder. “Does this mean we get our own room at an inn tonight?”
Jason’s green eyes sparkled down at her. “Just like old times, sweet,” he said, referring to their own madcap courtship, conducted mainly on the road.
His wife went on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.
“Delicious,” he declared, pulling back with a grin. “Speaking of which, I’m going to get us something to eat.”
He took Cait’s hand and drew her toward the bar.
Kendra slid onto the bench next to Trick.
“How long have they been married?” he asked, moving close.
She smiled. “Almost a year.”
“Newlyweds,” he murmured.
“We’re newlyweds, too,” she reminded him. As though he could have forgotten. He moved closer still.
Unbelievably, she leaned against him.
This wasn’t the Kendra he remembered—the one who always shied away from his advances. To convince himself she really was here, he ran a hand through her dark, rain-soaked hair. It felt as real as it looked. “I still like it this way best.”
She pulled something from her pocket and glanced up at him. “What?”
“Your hair. Wild and streaming down your back. And wet isn’t bad, either. I’d like to see all of you wet.”
She blushed, then removed his hand from her head and put a letter into it. “I came all the way to bring you this. Read it.”
“What could be so important?” Pushing his soup bowl aside, he spread the paper on the table and dragged a candle near. The letter was wrinkled and the ink a wee bit runny, but still readable.
“Dear Patrick Iain,” he said under his breath, then scanned the page and whistled.
“It’s a good thing I brought it, no?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It could mean nothing. My mother might have asked him to write it just in case I’d decided not to come. A last ditch effort, if you will. But it’s difficult to tell. I’m left to wonder what I’ll be walking into.”
“Whatwe’llbe walking into.”
He nodded again, not at all sure he was happy about that.
But he was happy to have her here tonight. Wondering what could have happened to change her attitude, he tentatively laced his fingers with hers, smiling when she didn’t pull away.
Conversation buzzed around them, mixing with the sounds of eating and drinking. “Do you remember this Mr. Munroe?” she asked.
“Aye. He was a jolly type, always hanging around, it seemed. A very old friend of my mother’s—they grew up together.” His other hand gripped his tankard, and beneath the table, he slid his foot against hers. “From what I remember seeing through the eyes of a lad, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was sweet on her.”
“Did that not bother your father?”
“He was never home. In any case, I’m sure nothing ever came of it. Of course, Father accused Mother of all sorts of things…”
Musing, he took a long sip. He didn’t like to think of his mother as an adulteress, no matter what his father had said.
