“And why would ye do that, lass?” The horse slowed as if quietening its gait so it could eavesdrop.
“Because I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Wouldn’t you prefer to marry someone you loved? I always thought to marry for love.” Heaven help her. Could she not stop babbling and just speak like a sane individual?
She had always hoped to marry for love. If she married at all. Her schedule allowed little time to meet any prospects, much less invest in nurturing a romance. She almost huffed out a bitter laugh because her schedule had now cleared completely.
“We went over that yesterday. We know enough to start with each other. Many a successful union starts with even less.” His legs shifted again, and the beast returned to its clip-clopping pace.
“You make marriage sound like a business proposition.” She had heard of arranged marriages, but wasn’t that for royals? And did those really go all that well? How many stories about infidelities filled the gossip columns? “Have you never hoped to fall in love and marry the woman your heart wants?”
An uncomfortable pause made her wonder if he had chosen to ignore her. He would soon learn she let nothing go. Especially not something this important. “Well?”
“I felt somewhat of an interest in my first wife,” he said, sounding as though he balked at digging up the memory. “At least in the beginning.” The warmth of his heavy exhale tickled across the hairs on the back of her neck. “But it went verra bad. She avoided me as much as possible the short time we were married. Said she loved another and had only married me to obey her father. In fact, I feel sure the babe she bore belonged to her lover.”
“How awful.” All of it. Not just the way the woman had treated Quinn, but that her father had forced her into an arranged marriage when she loved another.
“It was not a pleasant time at the keep,” he admitted, his knuckles whitening with a tighter grip on the slack reins.
“I’m sorry.” But her question remained. What would happen if she declined his offer? “You never said what would happen if I decided not to marry you.”
He tensed against her. The corded muscles of his arms flexed and hardened. “I suppose ye might become our clan healer, but I canna say if that would keep ye as safe as bearing my name.”
“Why?”
“Yer English. Yer strange ways and unseemly clothes. I’m still none too sure ye’re not one of the Fae.” He drew in another deep breath and resettled his powerful arms as if trying to relax. “Or a witch.”
“You know very well I am not a witch.” She frowned, trying to hone her argument. “Or one of the Fae,” she lamely added when she remembered he had accused her of that first.
But she couldn’t deny he still jumped when she used her penlight to check his eyes and had also warned her to never use it around anyone else. From what she remembered about her history lessons, this century, especially in the Highlands, was filled with a superstitious lot. Truth be told, twenty-first century Scots hadn’t evolved all that much. Most were still as superstitious as their ancestors.
“But ye are most definitely English, and ye do wear unseemly clothes. At least, for now.”
“Do you and your people truly hate the English all that much?”
“We hate anyone who tries to rob us of our identity and beliefs.” He paused, then added, “Would ye not feel the same?”
“I suppose I would.” She hadn’t thought that much about Scotland’s wish to be independent.It could still be a volatile topic in the twenty-first century. The issue obviously raged hot and strong right now. Especially since Scotland’s first war for independence was no longer a mere page in a history book but a very active reality in her present timeline. “I would hope they’d give me a chance. You know—get to know me?”
His arms shifted with a shrug. “Decline my offer and try yer hand at getting the clan to accept ye.”
She bristled at his poor attempt at reverse psychology. “Behaving like an ass does not further your cause.”
He laughed out loud. “I love yer fire, m’wee hen. We two are a fine match. Trust me.”
Dugan rode closer, a wide grin splitting his round face. “’Tis a day for merriment, indeed. They shall hail me a hero for returning with our chieftain alive and well.”
“At least some will hail ye a hero,” Quinn corrected.
“Nay, cousin.” Dugan gave Evie a wink, then shook a finger as though scolding them. “Ye are beloved to most in the clan, and those who do hate ye dinna have the spine to do anything about it.”
“Someone gave him quite a bash,” Evie argued, wishing Dugan would stop attempting to sugarcoat everything in front of her. When a man spoke as loudly as he did, any confidences he shared could be heard clear to London, and he needed to realize that. She had overheard him ask Quinn if he remembered who in the clan rode out with him on the day of the failed attack. “Was anyone in the keep able to tell you who left with him that day?”
Dugan’s bushy black brows arched to his hairline. “Ye’ve got the ears of a bat, m’lady.”
“And you have the voice of a bellowing cow.” It was the loudest thing she could think of in this era that he might understand.
“She has a point, Dugan. Ye ken we’ve told ye that before.” Quinn smoothed the reins through his hands. “And no one in the keep knew anything, Evie. Or at least no one admitted to knowing anything.”
“Well, they wouldn’t now, would they?” Neither man asked her opinion, but it needed saying. “If you committed a murder, would you admit to it or confess anything?”
