“Do not be a fool, boy,” Ahearn growled from behind Talbot when he could not cease to stare. “They are all protective fathers, but Erik may be the most fierce of all of them.”
“Erik?”
“Erik Sinclair, Laird of Blackleith.” Talbot looked up to see Ahearn smile. Indeed, the man’s eyes twinkled. “But I wager the detail you truly wish to know is that his daughter’s name is Astrid.”
Astrid.
Talbot barely tasted the fare placed before him, though it was the finest he had been served in weeks.
Astrid.
* * *
In the darknessof a private chamber at Seton Manor, Aileen, Lady of Inverfyre, lay awake and thinking. She liked the stillness of the home her niece, Isabella, and that woman’s spouse, Murdoch, had made for themselves of his family holding nestled in the hills halfway from Inverfyre to Kinfairlie. There were more fields and farms, fewer peaks and waterfalls, fewer wolves and more livestock than the wild lands to which she had become accustomed. Seton Manor had a tranquility that Inverfyre would never share, though she loved her home beyond all others.
But Seton Manor put her in mind of the holding where she had been raised, Abernye.
The once-familiar sound of goats being roused for the morning milking made her smile. The goats were another reminder of her childhood. Indeed, Isabella and Murdoch’s children made her recall of her own upbringing: Duncan had seen thirteen summers; Cameron twelve and Murdoch ten. They were active and cheerful boys whose presence made her miss the days when her own Gawain and Avery had been of an age. Her sons were knighted warriors, grown up in the veritable blink of an eye, and though they made her proud, Aileen wished the years had not passed so very quickly.
She was still considering the tidings that Roland had brought from Kinfairlie, striving to make sense of the way all had changed for Evangeline. It seemed impossible that her beloved and fearless daughter should be in such danger, yet Roland had to be believed. She was beyond glad that Alexander had dispatched the boy on that errand, sending him to follow their course to Dunhaven in reverse so they might be intercepted. Matters would not be improved if they arrived at that keep in ignorance of what had occurred.
She knew the Hawk was more than troubled by these tidings, for he had been the one to make the nuptial agreement. That his trusted acquaintance, Lawrence Percival, was dead by the hand of that man’s own son had been no good endorsement of Rufus, or his suitability as a husband for Evangeline.
That Ramsay MacLaren was returned and he stood in defense of Evangeline was unanticipated.
If naught else, the betrothal agreement with Rufus must be broken, but what then? What of Ramsay MacLaren? What hold had he over Evangeline? Aileen had watched the Hawk’s expression turn grim at even the mention of one of the MacLarens, but she remembered a day when a bold young man had walked into Inverfyre, seeking a bargain.
And she remembered the light in her daughter’s eyes.
Aileen turned in the shadows to watch her husband sleep, her blood quickening as ever it did just to find him beside her. The Hawk was the cornerstone of her life and the source of her joy. Even in sleep, he radiated authority and confidence, and she recalled her first sight of him in Abernye’s hall.
He had been honed like a favored blade in those days, all sinew and strength, lean and potent, the result of two decades of austerity and ambition. First, he had seized the land of Inverfyre that was his birthright, then he had rebuilt the ravaged keep, taller and broader than ever it had been, all the while battling the interference of the deceptive MacLarens. It was no wonder he despised them, for he had lost men to their treachery and survived much hardship due to their schemes.
But as Aileen studied his profile, she knew he must blame himself for Evangeline’s ill-fated match to Rufus. Yet he could not have anticipated that son should be so different from father. Had Lawrence deceived him? Perhaps Lawrence had hoped for his son’s reform. She had liked Lawrence herself and was saddened to learn of his abrupt passing—and at the hand of his own son. ’Twas tragic and unnecessary.
Ramsay MacLaren. There was a name Aileen had not expected to hear again.
She remembered the sight of Ramsay at Inverfyre, alone yet unbowed. There had been something in his manner that reminded her of the Hawk in his younger days. An audacity, perhaps. A conviction in his own abilities. A fearlessness in taking a risk perceived to be necessary or strategic.
What if Evangeline truly loved Ramsay? Aileen knew her daughter well enough to recognize that Evangeline would not readily compromise. She had inherited that trait from her father. Would such a forbidden love drive their family apart, dividing father from daughter forever? Or could it offer the opportunity for a final reconciliation between the Armstrongs and clan MacLaren?
Aileen knew which option she favored. The challenge would lie in convincing her beloved to even consider it.
His lashes, still dark as soot, fluttered and he awakened abruptly, as always he did. He turned to her, as he had every morn they had awakened together, and her heart leapt when he slowly smiled with satisfaction to find her there. His eyes were as clear a green as spring’s new leaves, but they darkened and heated at the sight of her in a way she still found most arousing. This man! He rolled to his side, moving with familiar deliberation, his hand falling to spread across her belly. She loved how his thumb stroked her flesh, as if he were unaware of its movement, as if he could do naught but caress her.
She loved him more than life itself and his love remained a gift beyond all expectation.
“A fine bed,” he murmured, then kissed her neck beneath her ear. His breath was warm and the night’s growth of his whiskers tickled against his skin. He continued to kiss her and she smiled when she felt the graze of his teeth. There had been a time when she had thought him as predatory as wolf, but in truth, he was both fierce and protective—perhaps also traits of a wolf. She did not care so long as she was his to defend. His hand moved to cup her breast and his intention was not difficult to guess.
“I believe it is their own bed, surrendered to us as old relations,” she whispered and he chuckled against her skin.
“I would be willing to prove my vigor this morn,” he rumbled and she turned to meet his twinkling gaze.
“Yet I would confer with you in this moment when we are alone.”
He stole a slow sweet kiss, a hint that his thoughts were fixed upon a different kind of intimacy.
“What if she loves him?” she asked quietly when their kiss ended, knowing he would have no doubt who she meant.
