Can you look past my ravaged face and love the man beneath?
Before she could answer, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. He wanted to savor the feel of her soft warmth crushed against him for the twisting in his gut warned it might be the last time he’d hold her.
“I am not going on a journey,” she said, and the finality of the words sank his heart. “But I am woman enough to tell you, you are better off leaving without me.”
Pulling back, she pressed her fingers against his lips when he made to protest. “You deserve a woman who can love you with a full and open heart. I am not that woman.”
Marmaduke released her, let his arms hang at his sides. “I will ask you once and never again,” he said, stamping on his pride one final time. “Will you ride with me?”
“Nae, sir, I will not.”
Five simply spoken words.
Utter honesty.
And then she was gone.
Vanished into the milling throng, leaving him alone in the smoke-hazed corner, the shattered remnants of his heart winking up at him from a glittering, mocking pile at his feet.
Chapter 48
The next day, in the frozen quiet of near-dawn, Sir Marmaduke and his MacKenzie Highlanders rode through the arched pend of Dunlaidir’s gatehouse, putting that once-more great stronghold behind them as they set off on the long journey home to Kintail.
A blustery wind, icy and black, accompanied them and nary a soul who dwelled within Dunlaidir’s stout walls hadn’t braved the frigid morn to pay their respects.
Scores of chilled, red-nosed well-wishers had waited for them in the bailey, some having stood vigil since before first light. And they tagged along now, on foot or mounted, keeping pace with Mamraduke and his men as their steeds clattered across the high and precipitous neck of land to the mainland.
His lady rode at his side as well, but only in a parting gesture of goodwill.
James, Rhona, Black Dugie, and others accompanied her, and even Leo trotted along. The little dog frolicked in the snow, weaving in and out of the legs of those trudging beside them, clearly unaware the slow procession was anything but a gay excursion.
Marmaduke knew and that was enough.
They’d all stay with him until he and his men reached the outskirts of the village. Then they’d return to Dunlaidir, and their lives.
As he would, too, and with all speed, for he burned to pass through the village, spur his steed, and return to Balknezie never to leave again, no matter how many pressing requests his liege’s sweet lady wife plied him with.
No matter how many pointed stares Duncan MacKenzie aimed his way.
He’d steel himself against them all and remain where he belonged – a wounded beast sheltered deep in his lair, free to lick his wounds in peace.
Squaring his shoulders, he nodded to the villagers lining the road, his heart wrenching at the smiles they wore, the sincerity in their shouted well-wishes.
Peace and prosperity had returned to the region, and if the prattle-mongers were to be believed, the proud new Master of Dunlaidir would soon take a wife.
A fine and good lass, loved by all. Able and big-hearted. And if some suspected her of being a mite meddlesome at times, no one really cared.
Aye, the good people of Dunlaidir and its lands had ample reason to rejoice.
Only their lady appeared solemn, her expression as grim-set as his own best field-of-battle stone face.
She rode quietly beside him, taking little heed of the crowd, even ignoring the sleet-laced wind tearing at them in great blasts and buffets.
Her guard only began to slip as they neared the end of the village road and the dark edge of the woods suddenly loomed ahead of them.
But it wasn’t toward that boundary that she stared.
“Leo!” she cried then, yanking her horse around, then plowing straight through the crowd of tag-alongs to spur down a gorse and boulder-studded slope to a tiny loch some distance off the road.
