The more he pushed, the more inevitable it became that her own sins would tumble loose, burying them both in a rubble pile of hurt and betrayal.
Chrissi had survived his loss once, if just barely.
But a second time?
No.
Alis would destroy her in truth this time around.
Particularly when he left her bedchamber and returned an hour later, a bouquet of freshly cut wildflowers—Highland thistle, wild rose, and dog violet—clutched in his fist.
CHRIS WAS MELANCHOLY.
The development puzzled Alistair.
When he had determined to woo her, he had expected resistance—anger and recriminations.
Instead, with every kind act, she seemed to sink a wee bit more inside herself, becoming more wan with each passing hour.
After two days, Alistair decided a change of scenery was in order.
Surely, Chris was simply upset to relinquish the excavations to his care.
He ordered a roaring fire built in the library and installed her there, ankle propped on a footstool and the pottery sherds on a table within easy reach.
She seemed content enough, sorting and cataloging as he read across from her.
From time to time, he would feel her eyes upon him. But when he glanced up, she would immediately look away. And the one time their eyes met, Chris blushed.
He considered that to be progress.
But his attempts to draw her into easy conversation were stymied.
The next day, he moved her to the great hall, placing her in an overstuffed chair before the enormous windows.
“If ye lean to the right here, lass”—he pointed—“ye will be able to see the excavations.”
Her expression brightened at that.
“And how fares the digging?” Chris pressed him for updates.
“Well! The workers are slowly removing the dirt I marked from the tunnel. They are to summon me should they find anything. In the meantime, I shall enjoy keeping ye company.”
“Thank you,” she replied, almost absently, adjusting her ankle on the footstool.
Alistair frowned. Her words felt . . .blasé.
For not the first time, he wondered if something was wrong. It was as if the more he wooed her—the kinder his actions—the sadder she became.
Was she melancholy, in truth? The Chris of his memory had never suffered from a depression of spirit. But perhaps she had over the intervening years, particularly given the twin losses of husband and father and the financial instability their deaths had brought.
Regardless of its source, Chris’s sadness weighed on him. Was there some piece of this puzzle that he was missing?
He thought of it as he watched her stare listlessly out the window. Her stark expression remained with him as he troweled away the remaining dirt blocking the tunnel, revealing a path to the chambered cairn beyond.
Chris was clearly eager to return to the excavation site. Refusing crutches, she began limping across the great hall, testing her ankle for how much weight it could sustain.
A week after her injury, Alistair arrived at her bedchamber to find her bed tousled and empty.
