Darragh’s body was a bundle of physical and emotional pain.
They tilted to the side as they passed through the door. Jenson’s voice was muffled, like an incoherent vibration through his ears. Darragh cringed, but could not move away.
“Lift with yer legs, and ye willnae feel a thing.”
“What excellent advice. If only I had thought of it. Darragh, help us a little and pick up yer goddamn feet.”
“Ye’re so cruel,” Cohen laughed.
“Ye would be too after experiencing this countless times.”
“Ye forget I have.”
Mutual understanding in the form of silence passed between them. Then, Jenson broke it. “What do ye think caused it this time?”
“Talia,” Cohen said quietly. “Me wife has told me about them.”
Darragh, who had fallen asleep at some point, felt the sharp jab of Jenson’s shoulder.
“Darragh, ye cunt, is this about her?”
He mumbled incoherent words, which would have been a plea if he were sober.
“If ye were havin’ trouble with the lady, ye should have come to us. Cohen is married, and I am quite popular with the ladies. So what’s the problem?”
The problem was that…
“I love her.”
Saying it out loud was like driving a pike into his chest. He could not love her. It was not the right time. They would never be right for each other. Yet his heart pounded so hard that he could almost ignore the common sense urging him to forget about her.
“Then tell her that.”
“I cannae distract her. I need to put the clan first.”
They turned into his bedroom. After they lowered him onto the bed, Cohen went to shut the curtains, and Jenson lit the hearth. Together, they tucked him beneath the tartan blanket.
“Ye’re an idiot,” Jenson had muttered at some point, but he didn’t believe Darragh heard him.
He stared at the ceiling, at the dark drapes framing the bed, and wondered how he could have let himself drift into ruination again. He felt shame as their disappointment bored holes into his skull.
The last thing he remembered before drifting off was Jenson cupping his face in his hands. “Ye have to learn to put yerself first sometimes.”
Then his weight lifted off the mattress.
Darragh’s head throbbed.
It was the sort of pain that had him believe he could find himself in the study after a full night of drinking and get on with his day as if nothing had occurred. But once he sank into the soft leather upholstery, hot pain splintered through him.
“Yer soup, me Laird.” A footman pushed a bowl across the desk.
The steam tickled his nostrils, and he forced himself up.
With a groan, he lifted his head, which felt heavier than he could handle, from his hands. Green and orange vegetables swirled in an unattractive yellow liquid—a cure for his hangover, presumably. The liquid burped up a brown ball of potato and coughed out a small drop of liquid that landed on his desk. The seasoning was a nauseating blend of pepper and garlic, which was not what was needed to cure his headache. Bile rose in his throat, and the bowl’s contents swirled as if to taunt him.
He would make sure to remember this before he went on another spiel.
He peeked out from slitted lids. The footman lingered, looking a tad amused, like someone who had just collected a nugget of gossip.
