“But you won’t tell him about Geordie, will you?” Finley pressed. “Lachlan, you gave your word.”
“I won’t,” he promised, seeming to search her eyes for something he expected her to be or say or do. Finley wished she knew what it was he wanted. “I’m glad you came with me tonight,” he said. “We’re friends now, are we nae?”
Finley barely nodded. “How can we nae be?” She felt an inexorable pulling sensation in her middle, as if some magnetic force was drawing her closer to Lachlan Blair, a force she couldn’t resist.
Now he was closer to her, too, so perhaps this force was pulling him as well. Or pushing him. But when he closed the distance between their mouths, pressing her lips with his, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of her head and deepen the kiss while the Carson dagger rested between their hearts, Finley realized that Lachlan himself was the force.
Finley felt every bone, every muscle in her body with exquisite detail, heard the rushing of her blood in her veins, pulsing like the roar of the falls above the bridge. It was a new world spread before her to discover; it was an ancient secret, her palm brushing away the centuries in a sparkling cloud to understand the very meaning of her existence. It was magical and mundane; made law by their marriage vows and also forbidden by their own agreement with each other.
Finley’s world changed with the mingling of their breath.
Lachlan pulled away and yet stayed near, his thumb stroking her hair back and forth.
“Do friends kiss like that?” she whispered.
“Probably not,” he admitted with his wry grin. His hand fell away from her scalp, and the chill rushed in maliciously to replace his warmth as he rose from the pallet. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Nay,” she said, her head swimming with confusion and excitement and sadness, and she gained her feet. “I’ll go.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “I’d not have my parents searching for me in the morning and take the chance of Geordie being discovered.”
“He’s managed to stay hidden for thirty years,” Lachlan argued, his hands on his hips causing him to look oddly unsure of himself. “Are you afraid I’ll kiss you again?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said and stood before him, presenting the dagger to him across her palms. She looked up into his face, and perhaps now she understood what he had been looking for in her eyes.
Who was Lachlan Blair to her? Who would he be to her in the future? Did he care? Should she?
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
Lachlan wrapped his fingers around the sheath and took it, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—let me walk you back.”
She shook her head and then did what she’d been longing to all evening: She reached up and placed her hand along his jaw, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh again at the warm, prickly feel of him against her palm. She smiled at him.
“You didn’t take advantage of me, Lachlan,” she said. “And even if you had…we are married.”
His eyes smoldered. “Stop.”
Her smile grew, triumphant that she had gained the upper hand at last. “Good night,” she said pointedly. She turned and ducked out of the storeroom, running lightly through the cavernous hall until she burst through the wide, arched entrance of the old house, beneath the sky pricked with countless blazing stars.
The village below was dark. Everyone was asleep, oblivious to the secret Finley had discovered tonight and was walking away from, back to the old farm.
Not Geordie Blair; no, no.
Finley Carson was in love with Lachlan Blair.
Chapter 11
Lachlan met Finley coming out of the door of her house, a plate of bannocks and a mug of milk in her hands.
He noticed at once that her hair was different that morning: plaited along each side of her head and coiled neatly at her neck. The effect was pretty and showed off the creamy, pale skin along her cheekbones.
“What are you about so early in the day?” she demanded, stepping outside after Lachlan had relieved her of her burden. She pulled the door shut after her and wrapped her shawl tighter, her breath misting in the heavy, cool air. “Da’s not roused himself yet.”
“He might be in no hurry; the first work is done. I’ve a mind to speak to as many of the townsfolk as I can,” he said, pausing to take a bite of an oatcake, chew, and swallow, not bothering to tell her that he’d finished with the chores hours ago by lamplight before the sleepy, blinking animals in the darkness, trying to push the memory of Finley’s kiss from his mind and failing. “I reckon the next step to earning their trust is to lend my help.”
Her spare eyebrows rose. “You mean to help everyone in town with all their chores?”
He nodded while he chewed another mouthful. “As many as I can. Your da’s got the largest stake besides Eachann Todde.”
“And he’s over the mountain with the sheep,” Finley said. She paused, her lips pressed together. “Can I come?”
