"Just for a second longer."
His voice was low, rough against her ear. "Your town has given me a battering I'll never forget. I'll never underestimate the Welsh again." For the first time in days, a tiny, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, though she quickly hid it. She stood very still, heart hammering, until at last he let her go. But her body lingered a heartbeat longer before she could force herself to pull away.
"I have more to say." Dorian said.
"I'll be back later," she said shortly as she drew her armour around herself again. It was as if he hadn't spoken.
"Talk to Gramps. He's been feeling a bit chesty. He could use the company."
He frowned. "Should you even be working like this? You're pregnant-"
Her stare was blank, cutting him off more effectively than words. Then she turned and was gone, leaving him to stand in her room with the ridiculous scent of roses clinging to his skin and the burden of everything unsaid waiting.
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter 23
When Dorian came down the stairs, the house felt strangely quiet. Rune was gone. He stood awkwardly in the hall for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He had sent Eli and Tom back to the hotel earlier, insisting he would manage on his own. The smell of woodsmoke led him into the living room. Rune's grandfather was there, a large man only an inch or so shorter than Dorian, still broad and fit from a lifetime of farm work. The wood burner cracked and spat as he bent to throw in another log.
When he straightened, Dorian heard the pop of joints. Then came a wet cough, sudden and raw, that had him instinctively stepping back before catching himself. The old man's sharp brown eyes flicked to him, catching the movement. He smiled, wry and knowing. The dogs were sprawled in various stages of relaxation at his feet. One of the sheepdogs raised her head and her tail slapped the floor before she gave up and lay down.
"One too many smokes in my old days before my Heather put a stop to that." His voice carried the weight of memory. "That's Rune's nana." For a moment, they looked at each other, one a stoic farmer, the other a corporate predator in borrowed clothes, both out of their natural element.
"Come, sit," Gramps said, lowering himself into a well-worn winged armchair by the fire.
Dorian obeyed, the armchair opposite swallowing him. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the stove. Then, as if remembering something, the old man asked, "You hungry, lad?"
Dorian shook his head. "No, thank you."
"So," Gramps said, settling deeper into the chair, "you got my Rune bach pregnant, aye? Why are you here?"
Dorian cleared his throat, his voice rough. "I... I was not good to her. And I want to do better." The farmer studied him, long and slow. At last, he gave a small nod. "Good thought. But Rune – she's a stubborn lass, just like my Heather. She'll be back from the cake sale, and when she is, you'll be getting an earful." His mouth curved into a smile.
Then his gaze drifted to the fire. "When Owain died, Rune didn't speak for the longest time. I think she'd made herself believe nothing could go wrong. And when it did..." He shook his head.
Dorian's voice was quiet. "I had a sister. She died, too."
Gramps gave a low hum, not prying, only acknowledging the weight of it. "When Rune started talking again, she wanted to know all about you. I didn't know much, just your name. I didn't realise she'd held on to that."
His eyes returned to Dorian, sharp again. "So, what do you want from her? If it's for the child..."
"No." Dorian's voice caught, then steadied. "I never wanted children. But I do want Rune. I'm... all wrong without her. I think, I need her more than she needs me."
The old man leaned back, studying him with a farmer's patience. "Heather was a city girl from Cardiff. We fell in love, and I brought her here. She wasn't prepared for how isolated it was. I'd say shesacrificed more than I did, because I wasn't willing to move. She learned to help me. She had my children. And once-" his eyes softened "-I did something stupid. Almost lost her. It was only when she left for a while that I realised I couldn't go on without her." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So, you might have to think, lad, how far are you willing to go for her?"
The words sank in. And Dorian had no immediate answer.
***
Rune hadn't gone to do the chores. Instead, she walked up to the paddock, standing at the fence while the horses grazed in the misty drizzle. The damp seeped into her hair beneath her raincoat, but she barely noticed. Dorian had given her a lot to think about. Too much. Pieces of him she had never seen now slotted into place, explaining things she'd once only guessed at. But knowing didn't make deciding easier. She was tired… so tired of carrying so much, tired of trying to hold everything together. They needed to sit down and talk, but the thought of it weighed like stone. She wasn't ready to leave her family.
After a while, she turned back toward the farmhouse. The building sprawled with uneven additions, a once-small cottage stretched into a seven-bedroom tangle of stone and slate. Inside, she pulled off her wellies in the mudroom, hung up her coat, and padded through the hall.
She passed the sitting room, glimpsing Dorian with her grandfather by the fire, and slipped straight through to the kitchen. She took a glass from the cupboard, filled it at the tap, and drank greedily. The cool taste slid down her throat, easing the headache that had started to form. She had missed Welsh water, the sharp, clean bite of it. In London, water always tasted like metal.
She felt, more than saw, Dorian behind her. Turning, she found him standing there, his watchful dark eyes pinned on her. They faced each other like gladiators. "Want some water?" she asked. He shook his head. "No, thanks."
"I've missed the water here," she murmured, setting her glass down. "The stuff in London's like toxic waste."
