Darragh told the footman to take the soup away. He was already feeling better. If anything was to make him nauseous, it would be Mr. Turnbull’s perfume.
Mr. Turnbull sat across from him. “Aye, but…” He looked around the room. “There’s a lady in yer keep. Miss Collins.”
Darragh stiffened.
“She was me pupil. The late Mr Boyd hired me to teach her the healing arts. I would like to pay me respects to her as well.”
If her name did not addle his brain, he would have sworn the man looked fidgety. He had not seen Talia since the day before, since she’d walked out on him with tears in her eyes. He understood it was best if he did not ambush her that afternoon.That was what he chose to believe. But in all honesty, he was terrified of what awaited him.
“Ah…”
He rose, intending to summon the footman again and order him to take Mr. Turnbull to Talia. He was a coward, after all.
Mr. Turnbull followed him as he made his way to the door, seeming too eager. Any other man would have waited for a signal or at least an assurance that he would return with her. Darragh quickened his pace, wondering just how much he should have trusted the man’s tale.
The footman stood outside the door, straight-backed and alert.
“Where’s Miss Collins?” Darragh asked.
“She’s in her workroom.”
He imagined her with her hair pinned atop her head, her lips pursed in concentration as she worked, then he realized he did want to see her.
He worked hard on steeling his nerves on the way. It was a good thing his study sat on the second floor in the west wing, so far from her workroom. It gave him enough time to think about what to do when he faced her.
First, he would have to introduce Mr. Turnbull. Obviously. The question was how to do that without betraying anything. He knew it would be more embarrassing in front of the man whose familiarity with Talia would mock the wedge between them.
Next, he would have to remember to breathe and step out of the way. How unfortunate that his feet were already failing him and his lungs barely seemed to work.
The trip was short, as he had been deep in thought. If Mr. Turnbull had made any comment, he would not have heard it. He looked over his shoulder, but the man’s face did not belie any contempt, fixed in an irrepressible smirk.
“Be sure to take care of yerself.”
Darragh sucked in a breath at the sound of her voice.
They were down the corridor, one door away, when a woman who was not Talia came out of the workroom, her hands wrapped around her swollen belly. A man, presumably her husband, followed her out and wrapped his arm around her intimately.
Then the cause of his turmoil stepped into the hallway.
Her grin was wide as she regarded the couple. Darragh only walked quicker because he did not want the man behind him to reach her first.
“Me Laird,” the pregnant woman greeted, while her husband nodded in acknowledgment.
Talia stiffened. Her smile was now replaced with a grimace.
There was the wedge he dreaded.
She bid the couple good day and stepped back into her workroom, leaving the door ajar. That was an olive branch.
Mr. Turnbull moved past him, and he could not find it in himself to protest. Just as he crossed the threshold, a delighted scream rent the air. Talia was grinning widely, wrapped in Mr. Turnbull’s arms.
Darragh’s heart clenched painfully. He counted the seconds she stayed in the man’s embrace—a whole fifteen seconds. He was about to step in when they broke apart.
Talia’s hands rested on the man’s shoulders, and his on her back, and they regarded one another with the joy of reuniting with an old friend.
“Ye’ve grown,” Mr. Turnbull remarked.
Darragh wanted to wrench her from his arms. The man was not facing him, but he could imagine his eyes raking up and down her body.
