Chapter Twenty-Three
Braya opened hereyes to sunlight streaming into her un-shuttered windows. For a moment, she forgot where she was. She remembered, sighing with delight at the comfort of her bed. She became aware of a heavy arm strewn across her belly, a long, even heavier leg tossed over hers. She smiled from the innermost depths of her heart and turned to look at Torin sleeping beside her.
Oh, but she loved his face. His beguiling curls falling over his sleeping eyes. His shapely lips were relaxed and waiting to be kissed. Did she want to disturb him? He looked quite peaceful.
In fact, since he returned with the earl and the earl’s Highland brother yesterday, he seemed less melancholy—until he looked at her. Was she making him unhappy for some reason? Even last night after they had lain together, he’d regretted coming to her room. Why? Why would he ask her to be his wife if she made him sad?
And why wasn’t he angry with the earl for deceiving him all these years. Nicholas MacPherson was a Scot, a Highlander, though he did not dress or speak like one. How could Torin forgive him after what the Scots had done to his family?
She wanted to wake him up and ask him, but she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer.
She was being silly. He wasn’t unhappy around her. She made him laugh, and if she had her way, she would make him laugh until they grew old together.
And, of course, he forgave the earl. They had been friends. The earl hadn’t killed his family. He had lost his beloved wife though, and Torin was just trying to help him through the day. She hoped he had, but perhaps now was the time to go. She wasn’t comfortable around Scots.
But they had been nothing but nice to her. The commander had even complimented her on her skill. And her bed was so damned comfortable.
“You are beautiful in the morn.” Torin’s deep, groggy voice swept through her and warmed her insides.
“I have not even combed my hair.”
“Then do not comb it,” he told her, closing his eyes again. “’Tis perfect.”
He was perfect, Braya thought, gazing at him.
“Ah!” he said, opening his eyes. “You were correct about this bed. I want to sleep for another sennight.”
She brushed her fingers through his curls and smiled at him. “Shall we stay in bed all day?”
“I would love to.” He laughed and pulled her closer. He was so much bigger than she and quickly covered her.
A rap came at the door. Again, harder this time when neither of them moved to answer it.
“Gray! Open the door!” It was Adams. “I know you are in there.”
“What the hell is he doing out of bed?” Torin asked Braya while he left the bed and stumbled into his breeches.
“He must be feeling better,” she guessed and climbed out of bed wrapped in the colorful bed coverings. She stood behind the door when Torin went barefoot and bare-chested to it and swung it open.
“Adams, what are you doing out—”
“Where is she?” Braya’s family friend demanded. “Does she know, Gray? Does she know that you are a Scot? That you came to Carlisle to prepare it for defeat against the Bruce’s soldiers?”
Surely she was dreaming. This was not happening. Torin was a Scot? A spy for the Bruce? No! No! He was here to bring…war? She shook her head. She didn’t believe it.
“Braya!” Mr. Adams shouted.
She didn’t care what Mr. Adams thought of how she was dressed; she stepped out from around the door. “I am here, Mr. Adams. Who told you such a vile thing?”
“I discovered the truth quite by accident,” he told her and then stared at Torin. “The earl’s babe has a nurse, and she came to have a word with Edith, who was bringing me food. She told Edith all about how you are the earl’s long lost brother and how even Commander MacPherson believed it since he introduced you to his son as Uncle Torin!”
His brothers? She couldn’t comprehend what he was telling her. He was the Highlanders’ brother? No. She’d brought him to her family! Helped them trust him! She’d trusted him. She let him—no!
“Braya,” Torin tried. “Let us speak alone.”
She turned to him with a hardening gaze and her heart shattering at her feet. “Then ’tis all true.”
“Aye, but I beg you, give me a chance to—”
