“Give me some time alone with the lass.” Connell rose from his seat, walking around the desk and approaching his men. He placed a hand on Glenton’s shoulders. “I believe I can get her to speak without harming her. She knows me.”
“But what if she doesn’t speak?” Donald asked, stepping forward and into the candle’s light.
Grant sidled up next to Donald, his brows tented with concern. “We don’t have much time, Connell. What if she remembers ye and still refuses to aid our cause?”
“The lass is quite fiery,” Ian added. “She threatened to slit our throats. What if she decides to attack us in our sleep?”
“Aye,” Logan slurred. “To the dungeons with her.”
“The door is locked,” Brann said loudly. “And the tower is high. She will not escape, and I doubt she’ll make good on her threats.”
“How do ye know, lad?” Logan stumbled forward, drool sliding from his lips.
Brann scowled. “Are ye really that scared of a little lass?”
Logan grimaced and lurched away from Brann. “She’s not that little,” he mumbled.
“I suppose we could wait a day or two,” said Ian.
“But not longer,” added Donald. “Any longer and we might miss our opportunity. There may be others searching for her.”
Connell nodded. “Of course. I will get the truth from her. Now, please,” Connell forced a smile as he gestured toward the door, “enjoy yer evening. Ye should all celebrate yer success.”
Logan snatched the pitcher from Scott’s hands as he trudged toward the door, leading the way for the others to follow. Brann gave a nod to Connell as he left but Glenton remained behind, staring up at Connell with a knowing look. With the click of the door, Glenton’s lips tugged into a smug grin.
“What is it?” Connell asked, his voice laced with irritation.
“Tell me the real reason why ye refuse to harm the lass,” Glenton said while stepping forward. He leaned against Connell’s desk, his hand brushing against the letters.
“I told ye all I could.”
Glenton chuckled as his hand found the handkerchief. “I don’t believe ye.” He flashed Connell another knowing look as he held up the cloth, dangling it before him.
Connell grimaced. “Am I so easy to read?” he asked with a sigh. He turned away from Glenton, not knowing if he could control his feelings any longer in front of the man.
“Very.” He heard Glenton drag a chair from behind.
Connell glanced over his shoulder, watching Glenton sweep off the dust before plopping himself on the edge. He pressed his elbows on his knees, leaning closer as if he was waiting for a long story.
Connell cleared his throat, feeling his face flush and his stomach flutter with embarrassment. “I’ve known Elsy—"
“Elsy?” Glenton interrupted, his eyebrows rising.
Connell winced. With that one name, he had given too much away. It was difficult speaking about his past, knowing he could never go back to that time when everything had seemed so new and wonderful. It was even more difficult to speak about Elsy, knowing she could never be his.
“Aye, Elsy,” he rasped. “There was a time I wanted to marry her.”
“A lass was able to capture yer dark heart?” Glenton asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “How intriguing indeed.”
“That was long ago.” Connell scowled. He busied his hands with the letters covering his desk, picking them up and shoving them into the drawers, needing to do something to keep himself from lunging toward Glenton and tearing the handkerchief from his grasp. “She means naething to me now.”
“I don’t believe ye, Connell.”
Glenton’s voice was soft, filled with pity Connell didn’t want to hear. He felt his friend’s hand on his back and whirled around, batting his hand away. Glenton frowned, and Connell sharply turned away from him, needing ale to push the memories away, or a long bout of training. Perhaps, he could ask Brann if the boy was willing.
“Be careful, Connell,” said Glenton as he threw the handkerchief onto the table. Connell watched as it floated onto the wood, his body trembling with need, wanting to feel the cloth in his hands once more. “Be careful around her. Ye must harden yerself to her. She is nae longer that lass ye once knew. Think of her as McCormick’s widow.”
Connell nodded. “I know.” He heard Glenton striding toward the door. His walking stick clacked against the wood. Even after the door clicked closed, he remained, staring at the handkerchief on his desk, fighting the need to grasp it once more. With a sigh, his shoulders slumped, and he forced himself toward the door, leaving the cloth behind.It was time to let go,he told himself.
“I know people change. I can attest to that,” he whispered as he reached for the door.
