He didn’t see her again until the woods opened up near the bridge, and the space in the canopy above allowed the moonlight to shine through as if reflected from a lamp. He saw her gallop across in the white mist of the falls and lean into the curve of the trail, disappearing once more. He slowed his horse as it clomped onto the wooden planks, feeling the loneliness of his surroundings, both literal and figurative, press around him. He was truly between clans, belonging to both of them and neither, if what rumor and Lucan Montague said was true.
What awaited him at Carson Town?
Probably Finley Carson with a great sword, he thought darkly to himself. He paused, checking his belt for his own blade before continuing on the path.
The trail emerged from the wood above the bay, and Lachlan was struck by the beauty of the scene, the moonlight rippling on the sea like the iridescent scales of a fish, the dark shadows of the dwellings below snuggling together like newborn pups. He turned to his right, toward the cliff face to which the town backed up, and saw right angles of constructed openings illuminated by the moonlight—a tall, stone house of some sort, lording over the lower structures. He wondered if it was Murdoch Carson’s house.
It was only by luck that the moonlight caught the shadow of Finley Carson galloping up a rise on the far side of the town, and Lachlan waited a while for a lighted square to shine, indicating that she had entered into the house that was to be their own. Only then did he carry on through the dark town, riding straight to her door. He sent his horse into a stall of the small animal shelter, already outfitted with the treat of oats in a bucket, and then went through the yard to the house, looking around him as he walked at the shadowed rooflines and dark shelves of pen walls in the night. It was a small stead, but a fitting gift for a couple just married.
He pushed open the door and was surprised at the comfortable interior, the selection of cooking pots and dishes, the soft welcome of stitched textiles and well-worn chairs and tables, polished to a gleaming sheen. The furnishings were old but plentiful, and the room smelled of warmed beeswax and fresh baking, so that Lachlan had to blink against sudden drowsiness.
Finley Carson was moving through the room toward a door along the left wall, her discarded cloak over one arm. He couldn’t help but acknowledge how beautiful she had looked today, in the fine gown and with her fiery hair piled atop her head like a fae queen. Her rib cage narrowed to an impossibly tiny waist, and Lachlan knew from the time he’d held her against him in the wood that she possessed enough softness in the right places.
He remembered curvaceous Searrach at the wedding fete, and how she’d pouted jealously at Dand when only a fortnight ago she was pleasuring Lachlan with that same mouth. He shook the image from his mind and followed Finley Carson through the doorway, stopping short at the threshold as she spun on him.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
But Lachlan was taking in the small chamber lit by a single lamp, casting jolly waves of light over the walls, and the pair of bedsteads pushed against opposite sides of the room. Pegs and hooks ringed the walls, displaying a selection of aprons and gowns, worn trousers and bonnets. A thin curtain hung from the center of the ceiling.
Lachlan finally looked at her. “Who sleeps here?”
Her expression was unamused. “I do.”
“Who else?” he pressed. “There are two beds.”
“My first husband, God rest his soul,” she said. And then rolled her eyes and turned away from him to hang her cloak on an empty peg. “My parents.”
“Your parents live here?”
“It’s their house; where else would they live?” she asked in exasperation, and then turned around to face him. “I told you they would stay in Town Blair until morning, but you…” Her eyes widened a bit, and a smile that Lachlan felt he would come to dread came over her face. “You thought this house was yours. Didn’t Marcas tell you you’d be taking on the farm with my da?”
“Of course he did,” Lachlan scoffed.
“He didna,” she insisted smugly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you assumed the lowly Carsons would surely gift such a mighty man as Lachlan Blair with one of the finest farms in the town just for the inconvenience of marrying me. I doona believe I’ve ever met anyone as full of himself as you.”
“If this is one of the finest farms in the town, little wonder you all nearly starved,” he said, his pride creaking under the strain of her correct assumption. “A strong fart would likely blow out the walls.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No one’ll be forcing you to sleep here. Certainly nae me.”
“Fine. After all this, I’ll nae be sleeping under another man’s roof. I’ll pay a visit to the Carson and avail of his hospitality until other arrangements can be negotiated.”
“Avail of his hospitality, will you?” Finley laughed. “Murdoch has nae more room than we do here.”
“He’s a large man, aye, but he doesna take up the whole of that stone house.”
Finley looked confused for a moment, and then that blasted grin was back. “Oh, Murdoch doesna live up on the cliff.”
“Then who does?” Lachlan demanded.
“No one at all,” she said airily. “It’s completely empty.” She began to stroll slowly toward him. “In fact, I’m sure no one would mind should you decide to move in there yourself.”
Lachlan grew wary. “This is some sort of trap. Sure, I’m to be attacked as soon as I enter in.”
“Nay,” Finley answered straightaway, her eyes wide. “I swear it: no one lives there. It would be a perfect place for you to be alone to ruminate over that dark-haired cow who’s after your brother.”
Lachlan ground his teeth together. His thoughts weren’t clear enough to trust his mouth to convey them, but he was so humiliated by his mistakes—and his clan’s neglect—his pride wouldn’t allow him to remain under this roof with the sharp-tongued lass, face of a fairy or nay.
Lachlan turned and quit the doorway, marching back through the warm, comfortable main room and sweeping his bag from the polished table.
