Hands clenching into fists, she gave him a bold look, far more direct than he thought her capable. More bold than any other lass of his acquaintance.
“Do you think to use me for revenge?” she asked.
Her question punched the air from Tavish’s lungs.
“Revenge?”
“Yes. Against my family . . . Do you attempt to befriend me in order to wound them? We are enemies, after all.”
Tavish’s jaw worked for a few seconds, unable to form words. The thought hadn’t once crossed his mind, but he could see how his actions might appear to her.
He simply considered her a bonnie, interesting lass whom he would like to know better. And . . . maybe laugh with on occasion.
“Never,” the word coming out more forceful than he intended. He shook his head. “I would never use any woman, much less yourself, so abominably.”
Still, she hesitated, suspicion in her gaze.
He liked her all the more for her careful consideration. It showed spirit and backbone and a strong sense of self. Attributes he applauded.
“I swear it, lass. Upon my mother’s grave.” He crossed his heart. “Are ye using myself?”
“And if I were?” she asked, voice cool.
He mimed a dagger to the chest. “Best to get it over with quickly, then.”
She shook her head, but a genuine grin picked up one corner of her mouth.
“Come. Let us set aside our familial enmity today of all days.” He beckoned. “I have set a humble birthday party of sorts.”
He led Lady Isla around the base of the castle to a clearing between the towerhouse and the cairn. Here, he had placed a small table and two chairs, all taken from the lower room of the castle. Atop the table, he had arranged his large slice of clootie dumpling in the muslin and a jug of small beer he had pilfered from the cold larder.
He held out a chair for her, helping her to sit, before taking his own seat.
“My lady, may I offer ye a wee slice of the best clootie dumpling in this corner of Scotland?”
She smiled again, slightly broader this time. “I should like that.”
“Unfortunately, my hostess skills have not extended to china or cutlery, so we shall have to make do with our hands.”
He broke off a piece of the pudding, several currants and a lone sultana tumbling to the muslin. Peeling off her gloves and retrieving a handkerchief from her sleeve, she set her slice atop it, nibbling at a bite, head bowed.
Tavish detested the wee quiver he noted in her bottom lip. This lass was made for laughter and sunshine. How the stern Kinsey family had birthed a daughter who shone like fairy light, Tavish hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Happy birthday, lass.”
She sniffed. “Thank you.”
Breaking off another piece, she lifted it to her lips before wiping a tear from her cheek with a knuckle.
He wanted to thumb the teardrop from her face himself, to pull her to his chest and let her weep her grief.
“I am sorry about your father,” he said.
She nodded, taking another nibble of cake and wiping yet another tear.
“I would have thought my tears would send a gentleman scrambling for the hills,” she sniffled. “I know my brothers cannot leave the room quickly enough when they find me crying.”
“I ken a wee bit of emotion to be a good thing. My own mamma said a soul suffers when feelings stay locked tight inside. Feelings are something yefeel. If ye refuse them, they can fester and poison ye from within.”
