Do not bother looking for me. I will not come back until you have lost interest in finding me a wife the moment I set foot over the threshold.
Hunter
No apology. No explanation for walking out on his duty, only wild resentment at the idea that duty might find him again.
Maxwell’s fist closed around the parchment, crumpling the lower edge.
For a moment the room narrowed to the small space in front of him. The fire at his back crackled. The distant sounds of the courtyard drifted in, muffled.
He saw Hunter at twelve, mud on his boots and mischief in his eyes, swearing he would never wear a sword because swords meant responsibility. He saw him at fifteen, blustering through training, laughing off every reprimand. He saw himself, younger and rawer, thinking he could shape the boy into something solid with enough pressure.
And now this.
“Does he say where he is?” Finley asked.
“Nay.”
“Of course not,” Finley muttered. “That would make things too easy.”
Maxwell smoothed the letter open again, as if a second reading might reveal some sense. It did not. The words remained the same. Sharp. Foolish. Afraid, though Hunter would never admit it.
“We still daenae ken where he is,” Finley went on. “We have lads asking quiet questions in every tavern within three days’ ride. A man like him leaves noise where he passes. We will hear more in time.”
Maxwell said nothing.
Finley shifted his weight. “For now, perhaps we let him be. Hunter has always had a way of finding his way home when his pockets are empty and his temper cools. Chasing him when he is set on running will only make him bolt farther.”
The thought scraped. Let him wander, while O’Douglas circled like a wolf at the edge of the trees. Let him drift while Ariella stood in the keep wearing a McNeill name Hunter had thrown aside like an old coat.
Maxwell folded the letter once, twice, until it was nothing but a small hard square. He set it carefully beside the blotter.
“See that the rider is paid and fed,” he said at last. “Then have the gate captain keep an eye on any stranger asking too manyquestions. If Hunter is spreading his name about, I want to ken who is listening.”
Finley inclined his head. “Aye, Laird.”
He paused at the door, looking back as if he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. He slipped out quietly and pulled the door shut behind him.
Silence settled around them.
Maxwell leaned back in his chair. The rafters overhead swam in and out of focus for a moment.
Blast.
Blast himself, for thinking affection and stern words would be enough to make Hunter into the man their clan needed.
A light, quick knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” he said, more roughly than he intended.
The door eased open.
Ariella slipped in, skirts whispering against the floor, cheeks faintly flushed from some exertion. She shut the door with care and leaned against it, studying him.
“Ye look haunted,” she said pleasantly. “More so than usual, I mean.”
He stared at her. Her eyes were bright. There was a smudge of flour on one wrist. She smelled faintly of herbs and bread.
Blasted beam of sunshine, this one. All the time. Even in his study, where ghosts preferred to sit.
