At that provocative statement, her gaze darted back and forth between them. Questions crowded her mind, fighting for dominance over which would burst out first. Why would Ian be hunted and not Finn? “Ye picked a hell of a place to hide out, my lord,” she addressed Ian, though at a lower volume. “Nae one would ever think to come looking for ye in such a backwater village.” Their expressions remained stern and cautious. Aila waved a hand. “Och, dinnae get yer panties in a twist, I’ll no’ be telling anyone who ye are.”
“My panties in a twist?” Ian echoed, a hint of amusement easing his harsh countenance. “I can assure ye, they are no’. How can I be confident I can trust ye?”
“My dearest friend is engaged to one of yer clansmen,” she said. “I’d never do anything to hurt them. Even remotely.”
So remotely neither would ever know.
Or would they? If Ian was the Earl of Glenrothes now and Tris the nephew of the Earl of Glenrothes more than a hundred years from now, any harm to Ian might affect Brontë and Tris in ways she couldn’t begin to enumerate.
Aila swallowed back a mouthful of wine. This time travel thing was more complex than she’d imagined. Things like ripples and the butterfly effect that had only been the stuff of fiction and cinema up to about ten seconds ago now weighed on her. She put a pin in that topic as well and would revisit it later when she was alone. Or gone.
“I am curious though,” she lowered her voice and leaned toward Ian. “What did ye do to become a fugitive?”
“’Tis none of yer concern, lass,” Finn grumbled in defense of his friend.
“’Tis alright, Finn,” Ian assured him. “I feel I can trust the lass no’ to spread tales. Aye?” She nodded when he lifted a brow in her direction. “I killed the English fleet admiral.Afterthe ceasefire had been called.”
Since he hardly had the look of a cold-blooded murderer, she assumed he’d had just cause and asked him why.
He stared into his whisky glass, his expression wooden. His tone just as emotionless. “The admiral was aboard a ship on the Firth of Forth when he ordered a bombardment upon my family’s keep at Raven’s Craig for nae other reason than it was a Scottish hold and in range. We were nae threat to him. The cannon fire decimated the entire south side of the castle. Everything inside was crushed.” He tossed back his drink, abusing the fine libation by taking it in a single swallow. Tears glistened in his eyes and Aila knew it wasn’t the sting of the alcohol alone that summoned them. “And everyone.”
She didn’t need to ask who. It was apparent that whoever it had been, their loss had broken his heart. Aila’s eyes burned, throat tight with sympathy for his loss. She reached for his hand and he let her take it. “I’m so sorry.” Regret for asking the question that had reawakened such grief gnawed at her heart. “Would ye like to talk about it?”
“’Tis years past, lass.” He forced cheer into the words. “Long forgotten.”
Nay, it wasn’t.
Ian withdrew his hand and snatched up the nearly full bottle of whisky off the table as he stood. “If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll bid ye goodnight.”
Chapter 10
Finn watched his friend leave, noting Mistress Marshall’s…nay, Aila’s stricken expression as Ian disappeared into the passage. He’d learned long ago not to ask questions he didn’t want to hear the answers to. It was clear she had yet to learn that lesson. She turned to him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. For all her vinegar, the lass had a soft heart. That surprised him.
And swept away the remnants of his anger at the same time.
“Dinnae fash, Mistress Marshall.” He thought to soothe her. “Ian’s an angry man these days. As are most.”
“Aila,” she reminded.
Ian had taken the words from his mouth in saying it was a bonny name. She was bonnier, however. Against his will, he’d spent the better part of their meal imagining her naked in his bed. That luminous mane of hair spilled on her pillow while he discovered how thoroughly those freckles covered her. Watching her answer Ian’s questions when she’d barely cast him a stray look had him green with envy. “Aila, then.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. Not a smile, but close. “He said much the same about ye earlier. I ken the war paid a toll on almost everyone.” She bit her lower lip, the gesture unconsciously provocative. “Was it his wife?”
“Aye, and his parents.” Finn thought back on those dark days. “Ian had taken his son out for a ride though the bairn wisnae even a year old. It was the cannon fire that drove him home to discover they’d been buried alive.”
The chowder stirred in her gut. “That’s horrible.”
“War is horrible,” he countered. Ian’s wife, Fiona, had been Finn’s cousin. One among the numerous casualties of a war that had brought nothing but pain and loss to his friends and kinsmen. All of it had been for naught. At least Ian had gotten his revenge even if it had done nothing to appease his guilt and grief.
Finn was still waiting for his chance to do the same.
“Is that how yer wife passed as well?”
The question was soft, hesitant. As if she were leery of triggering the same response from him as before. Another regret, barking at her so. Truth was, his wife had been the farthest thing from his mind at that moment. It was guilt that had prompted him to lash out. “Nay. Though my keep was ravaged much as Ian’s by a bombardment from a ship on the Moray Firth carrying Redcoats to Inverness, I dinnae suffer the same depth of loss as he.”
Not at that point, at any rate.
Nay, his wife hadn’t been killed by a distant barrage of enemy fire. Nevertheless, the enemy had been responsible for her death. Up close. Personal. For that, one day soon he would have his revenge. There was no other reason for him to be here.
