He suppressed a frustrated huff, determined to salvage what was supposed to be a special night. Rather than comment and risk inciting her anger further, he made his way to the sidebar. “Wine or whisky, m’love?”
“Wine. I won’t do well if I mix my spirits.”
At least she answered him. He drew some comfort from that, knowing other men who had complained of their wives punishing them with silence and sullen looks. After pouring wine for her and whisky for himself, he joined her on the cushioned seat in front of the open window. Perhaps the rhythmic shushing of the waves and the gentle breeze would calm the storm between them.
“I am sorry I offended ye.” He offered her the drink, hoping she would believe he meant every word. “Please know that wasna my intent.” When she accepted the glass, he noticed she avoided touching his fingers. This time, the frustrated huff escaped. “I say things I shouldn’t. Or I say them wrong. But ye must know I would never intentionally hurt yer feelings.”
“I know.” She avoided meeting his gaze. Instead, she sipped her wine and shifted on the bench to stare out the window. “I understand you need to keep your people safe,” she added in a grudging tone.
“And yerself,” he gently reminded. “Even though we know much about each other, we still have a great deal to learn. Can ye honestly say ye trust me fully?”
“I am not certain trust would be the proper word.” She spoke as if in a trance, her attention focused somewhere else. Far from the window in their solar.
He propped against the broad ledge of the windowsill and joined her in looking out at the night. Dark. Lonely. A starless void that mirrored the aching emptiness of his heart. “And now we are married,” he mused quietly.
“Yes. We are married.” She set her elbow on the ledge and rested her chin in her hand. With no thought to her gown or decorum, she settled both feet atop the cushions and hugged her bent knees.
Evie reminded him of a forlorn child searching for a star to wish upon. The utter simplicity of her ways. Her flagrant disregard of all things ladylike and proper. She captivated him. Made him need to know her better. He yearned to possess her and make her want to possess him. This rare woman was meant to be his—if only he could convince her.
The sound of the waves encouraged him. Made him as relentless as the sea. “It occurs to me a way to foster trust between us is if we share more about ourselves.” He rose, sauntered across the room, and refilled their glasses. “Tell me one thing about yerself that ye have yet to share with me. Just one thing. If we share one thing every night, soon, we shall know each other better than anyone else ever could.”
“You go first,” she said as she accepted the fresh glass of wine. She sank back into the cushions, watching him like a wee beastie eyeing an adversary.
Her response brought him a grin. Somehow, he had expected her to say that. The one thing he wished to share came to him in an instant. “My father wasna chieftain before me.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she struggled to sort through her thoughts. “Then how did you become clan chief? And how did he afford this?” She held up her left hand and flashed the ring.
“He was war chief, as was his father before him. Both were paid verra well for their battle prowess.” Quinn rolled the glass between his hands. “The chief before me was Dugh MacTaggart. My father’s brother. A cruel bastard feared by one and all.”
“He had no children?” She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took another sip.
“One. A son. My cousin Fingal. As vile a man as his father.” He downed the whisky and rose for another. “I killed him.”
“Youkilledhim?”
“Aye,” he said. “I came upon him ravaging a young lass.” The memory of it still unleashed enough rage and disgust within him that he wanted to roar, but he maintained a quiet tone. “She was little more than a child.” With his glass refilled, he returned to his seat. “So, I killed him.”
“Good.”
That one word meant the world to him. Filled him with hope. She understood and agreed with what he had done.
“So, I suppose when his father, your uncle, found out, that didn’t go well?” She rocked forward, still hugging her knees, like a child enraptured by a bedtime story.
“No. Not well at all.” That day haunted him worse than his failed marriage. “The day after, while in the great hall, Dugh avenged his son by killing my father, overcoming him in a surprise attack.” He set down his glass before he crushed it. “My father’s last words werekill the bastard.So, I did.” Overcome by the memory, he shifted and stared out into the darkness, calming himself and shuttering the dark memories back into oblivion. “Some in the clan agreed when I claimed the chieftainship. Others did not.” He finished his drink but didn’t rise for another. None for now. Not when his blood had heated with the memory of his rage that day. “That is one of the many reasons why I am verra careful with my trust. The waterfall wasna the first attack on my person. I have spent the past five years weeding out those in this clan who dinna willingly grant me their fealty.” He slid his hand beneath hers, then lifted it for a kiss. “I protect those faithful to me. I banish those who are not.”
She nodded, her gaze locked on their hands. “I understand.”
“Now, it is yer turn to share something.”
She pulled her hand away and returned to hugging her knees. With a nervous shifting and quick intake of breath, she stared out the window instead of looking at him. “I hadn’t spoken to my parents in over a year when they were killed in a car—in an accident.”
“In a carriage accident?” She had the oddest way of speaking sometimes. As if forced to interrupt herself for reasons unknown. It made him wonder if she had an ailment that befuddled her speech or if she was lying again.
“Yes. A carriage accident.” She held out her glass. “Another, please.”
“Did they live far from ye? Could ye nay write to them?” he asked as he refilled her glass.
“London,” she said in such a sharp tone that he turned and looked at her. “We lived in London. Only separated by a few blocks.”
