She had just agreed to marry a man she hardly knew. May God have mercy on both their souls. Uncontrollable giddiness took hold of another part of her. That tiny part she always kept hidden. The part of her that had always longed to draw closer to someone and have that same closeness, that need to be needed returned. She felt herself rising to the challenge and making a silent vow to turn this choice into a thrilling means of thriving—not just a way of surviving. As his hands slid from her shoulders, she leaned in and hugged him tighter. If his horse understood body language, maybe he would, too.
“That’s my fine wee hen,” he said softly, cradling her closer. “I swear ye willna regret yer choice.”
A nervous giggle escaped her, and his quizzical look made it worse. She snorted out a very unladylike laugh. “Forgive me.” Fingers pressed across her lips, she held her breath in a feeble attempt at regaining control. “I promise I wasn’t laughing at you or what you said.”
“Then what?” He looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown.
“You swore I would never regret my choice?”
“Aye?”
“My immediate thought was thatyoumight regret my choice.” She eased back a step. “It bears noting that I am not the easiest of persons to get along with.”
He grinned. “Nor am I, lass.” With a teasing wink, he wrapped an arm around her and led her back to where they had separated from Dugan. “That means our lives will never be dull or without passion.
Evie hoped he was right. She never much cared for dull, and if things kept going like they had for the past few days, she sincerely doubted she would ever see it again.
“Dugan!” Quinn’s bellow blasted through the trees.
The man reappeared much too fast for her liking, and judging by his smile, he had overheard every word. “Here I be, cousin. Ready to lead yerself and yer lovely bride home.”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit, is it, Dugan?” She stepped forward, not relishing the idea of getting back on the horse. With a hand resting on the smooth leather of the saddle, she glanced back at Quinn. “As your wife, will I be required to ride?”
With a devilish grin, he lifted her into the saddle. “I leave that entirely up to yerself, m’lady. Whatever pleasures ye the most.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” Her cheeks burned like hot coals. That was twice he had managed to make her blush. “I was referring to horses?”
“Ahh, yes.” He smiled, flashing that powerful dimple yet again. “It depends on whether we choose to travel. It would serve ye well to learn how to ride. Ye might be more comfortable on yer own mount. Eventually.”
She doubted she would ever be comfortable in the saddle, but she would try. Horses seemed nice enough. As long as they put her on a meek one, she might survive it.
Quinn pulled her back against him and looped an arm around her waist. She vowed to stay put this time. After all, why not? She had made her choice. And besides—it wasn’t as though resting against that wall of muscle was unpleasant. To distract herself from the warmth of him pressed against her back, she decided to learn what she could about her new home before they arrived. “Tell me about your keep. Your clan.”
He kept the horse at an ambling pace, as if sensing her need to immerse herself in all that lay ahead. “Some might think us a small clan, but we’re fierce and allied with the Rosses. A favorite, in fact. My mother was a Ross, and my sister married one.”
His mother was a Ross, and his sister married one? Possible genetic defects begged to be addressed, but she didn’t dare voice her concerns. The thirteenth-century had yet to realize the dangers of intermarrying.
“I see,” was all she allowed herself to comment. “Does your sister still live here, or did she leave when she married a Ross?” She wondered if the couple had children yet, and if so, would they need whatever medical assistance she could attempt to provide?
“Fern begged Gilbert to remain here.” Both his pride and the smile she couldn’t see echoed in his voice. “She’s a sweet lass, my sister, but doesna tolerate any type of change well. She gets…” His words trailed off as if he struggled to describe her accurately.
“So upset she can’t breathe? Trembles? Loses control?” Evie wondered if Fern suffered from metathesiophobia, the fear of change. Some stricken with the malady found it debilitating.
“Nay. She rages like a sore-tailed wolf, and the devil himself couldna get along with her if he tried. Do ye ken of an herb that might calm her and protect the rest of us?”
“I’m afraid not.” If she knew how to handle anger issues, she wouldn’t be in the thirteenth century. “It sounds as though her husband is understanding since he agreed to stay at MacTaggart keep.” Fern sounded like a strong-willed woman. A kindred soul and a possible friend. “Do you and her husband get on well?”
“About as well as two dogs pissing on each other’s trees.” His grim tone rang with alpha maleness and the need to lead the pack.
“But you tolerate him for the sake of your sister.”
“Aye. He treats her well. As long as he keeps her happy, I keep the peace between us.”
“Good man.” She patted his arm, then tensed. Her fate was at hand.
The multi-towered fortress loomed tall and foreboding on a point of land jutting out into frothy blue waters sparkling in the sun. It might be the North Sea or Moray Firth. Or Cromarty Firth even. She had lost her bearings since she didn’t know how far north they had traveled. For all she knew, it could be a large loch if they had veered westward. The vast fortification of stone dominated her view, blocking all else in front of them. “What body of water is that?”
“Depends which direction ye turn. West is Cromarty Firth. East is the North Sea, or some might say the mouth of Moray Firth.” He patted her arm. “Is it not a fine keep?”
