“No, ye daenae,” Emma replied, her voice almost as thin as the air in the room. “I am well aware of what I am marrying into.”
Fiona leaned back as if weighing the words. “Do ye love him?”
Emma did not look away. “I daenae think that matters.”
“It matters if ye think he is worth it,” Fiona said. “To me, he will always be a killer. I ken that we never saw him and there was nay proof, but she died under his roof. He might as well have used the knife.”
Emma drew a breath. “Well, I ken that Jack wants peace, and he will fight for it when words nay longer work. I also ken that he is better with Stella than folks would expect. That is what I ken.”
“And what about what ye daenae ken?”
“I suppose I will just have to wait to find out.”
Fiona’s mouth softened. “Ye ken, ‘tis nae usual for me to admit, but I like ye, Emma. Ye seem to be the direct opposite of the Laird. Perhaps ye are exactly what he needs.”
“Aye,” Emma said. “Thank ye for saying that.”
They shared the smallest smile.
The baby stirred and made a soft sound, the kind meant to call for attention. Emma watched her tiny fist close and open.
“May I?” she asked.
“Of course,” Fiona said and sat forward.
For the next half hour, they shared stories about their lives and what had led them up to this moment. If she were being frank, Emma would say that this had been her favorite part of the day so far.
However, she kept it to herself.
When Emma walked out of the nursery a while later and headed down to Ava’s chambers, she felt free. Perhaps it was something about the cold weather or her unmoored conversation with Fiona, but she felt different. Maybe it was because she had learned more about Moira from her mother than she had from her former husband.
Maybe.
Emma stopped by the door after walking for a minute and stepped inside. Ava was sitting by the window, a vase between her knees. She pulled petals from wildflowers and laid them in a neat line on the sill. The sea breeze lifted the curtains and brought the clean bite of salt with the sweeter smell of beeswax.
Ava glanced up. “Ye’ve been hiding again.”
“I was in the nursery,” Emma corrected. “With his late wife’s maither.”
Ava winced and dropped a petal. “Good God. I can only imagine how that conversation went.”
“Strange,” Emma admitted. She rested a hand on the back of the chair and looked at the scattered petals. “She thanked me for carin’ for Stella. Then, she warned me to be careful, as if sayin’ aye put a blade at me throat.”
Ava set the vase aside. “Did ye feel a blade?”
“Nay,” Emma murmured. “It was incredibly awkward, to say the least. And frankly speaking, I think I am beginning to understand her.”
Ava patted the bench. “Sit, Em. Tell me the rest.”
Emma sat, the wood beneath her warm from the sun. “She only told me things about love and loss. Ye ken, things ye expect from a grieving maither.”
Ava’s voice softened. “That sounds like the truth.”
“Aye,” Emma agreed. “It felt like the truth. She also asked if I loved him.”
“And what did ye say?”
“That it didnae matter.”
