Taking her hand, he lowered it from his mouth to his chest. Touching her was always better than not doing so. “Then why were you crying?”
She tried to tug her hand away, but he held it there. “What in the world makes ye think I was weeping?”
Gabriel tilted his head, wishing he had more light with which to study her face. “I may not be an expert in female behavior,” he retorted, “but I know what the aftermath of crying looks like. And since you’re dancing about the question, I have to assume it’s either something I’ve done, or something you think you’ve done. Or haven’t done.”
“Well, ye’re wrong. So ye ken even less than ye thought ye did.”
“By God, you’re exasperating. Just tell me, will you?”
She met his gaze, briefly, then looked away again. With a clearly irritated sigh she jerked at her hand again, and this time he let her go. When she started for the door, though, he shifted around her to block her escape. Fiona shoved at his shoulder, but he refused to budge. Whatever troubled her, he was beginning to feel quite alarmed. Wounds, he could manage. But she wasn’t physically injured.
“I cannae talk to ye with ye looking at me like that,” she burst out.
He didn’t know what it was about his gaze that was so distressing, but he did know how to remedy it. Licking his thumb and forefinger, he reached over and snuffed out the candle. “Then talk to me now,” he said into the darkness.
And itwasdark. He couldn’t even make out his hand in front of his face. He could hear Fiona, though, her surprised breath as blackness enveloped them, the fumble of her hand as she brushed against a chair back and then gripped it.
“Ye’re a madman, Sassenach,” she muttered, the veriest touch of amusement in her voice.
Well. He considered that to be progress. “I asked you a question, Fiona. Why were you crying?”
“Dunnae ye have more pressing matters to worry over?”
“Other matters, yes. More pressing ones, no.”
“Fer God’s sake.” She took a breath. “Fine. Uncle Hamish had words with me. They cut a wee bit deeper than I expected.”
Ah, good. A target. “How so?”
He was quite certain she growled. “He’s a widower. Did ye know that?”
“No.” But he did make note of it. Hamish Paulk wouldn’t leave anyone behind when Gabriel killed him.
“Dunncraigh’s after him to remarry. The duke gave him a choice of three sisters. They’re from a good family, and the marriage will strengthen the bonds of the clan.”
Clearly she was on her way somewhere, so he kept his silence, his face turned to where he knew she stood even if he couldn’t see her there. He could still conjure her, though, every curve, the soft, curling dusk of her hair, her eyes as black as the darkness around them. The warmth of her skin, the delight of her laughter—the Fiona Blackstock he saw in his mind stood as vibrant and compelling as the actual lass before him.
“Ye’re from good family, whether ye knew it or nae,” she finally went on. “Old Lattimer’s line was nearly snuffed oot. Ye cannae let that happen again, or who knows what’ll happen nae just here, but at yer other properties, too. Ye’re the beginning of a new dynasty, Gabriel. Ye need to find yerself a lass from a respected family, an aristocratic one, and marry and have bairns.” She sniffed.
“And that makes you weep?”
“I’ll… I’ll miss our… our friendship, is all. Is that so daft?” she demanded damply.
For a moment he listened to her sniffling. This concept of him marrying had evidently come from her conversation with Sir Hamish, and she’d said it had cut her. And if something in all that had hurt her… He smiled in the darkness. “Would you say I’m a straightforward man, Fiona?” he asked.
“Aye. That ye are.”
“Then when I say I can’t even imagine selecting some dainty finishing-school heiress, you would believe me?”
Silence. “What ye cannae imagine now and what might happen in six months are two very different things, Gabriel.”
Well, he was very much the living example of that. He could announce that he already had a bride in mind, but that was more likely to begin another argument about how he had no idea what it meant to be a duke. She preferred deeds to words, anyway. He meant to provide her with deeds aplenty. And when she looked at him and saw results rather than her very determined hope, he would say the words. All of them.
But he couldn’t leave her to dwell on Hamish Paulk’s words, either. Those ugly things could defeat both of them before they had a chance to begin. “I promise that I don’t give a damn how your uncle thinks my life should proceed. And I promise that you will never be alone as long as my heart is beating.” Again he had to hold himself back; this didn’t seem the time for words he’d only been repeating to himself for the past day or so. “Does that suffice for today?”
“Gabriel, ye dunnae—”
“Does that suffice, Fiona?” he repeated, more forcefully.
