Mr. Turnbull’s face contorted in anger, but he mounted his horse wordlessly and rode out of the courtyard.
Darragh waited until he disappeared from view. The fading silhouette did not manage to calm his nerves. He had delayed the man for now, but he still had a place in Talia’s life. He still had a minuscule hold over her.
When Mr. Turnbull returned, there would be nothing Darragh could do to stop it. At the moment, Mr. Turnbull had more right to her than he did.
He could not return to the castle in his state. His knuckles had turned white, and his palms itched to hit something. He headed down to the village, to the spot he knew he could take out his hatred without any restraint.
Night was falling when Darragh returned to the keep.
The orange horizon faded into a purple and blue sky, winking behind growing dark clouds. He enjoyed sunsets when he could almost imagine he was anyone other than a laird, with free time to appraise the avant-garde work of a venerated French artist,with velvet coats and bright-colored cravats, sipping brandy or cider in an English parlor.
Not that if he were ever reborn, he would choose the life of a stuffy Englishman. It was sometimes fun to be in their heads, as they seemed to always speak with a script and act without an audience.
He stood in the corridor overlooking the alder tree and watched the sunset, the smell of medicinal herbs wafting around him. He suddenly remembered the pain in his raw knuckles. His footman had taken one look at him and immediately requested that he wait for him in his study.
It was unlike his servants to give him orders, but when they did, it was usually for the best.
His clothes were a disheveled, sweat-soaked mess, his hair was matted and clung to his head, and his fists were bloody and bruised. It had been a long time since he had shown up in such a state, almost a year since he had become a beast, pounding away at a sandbag until his fingers throbbed, until the emotions he was trying to bury could no longer be named, dissipating into a smoke of insubstantiality and obsolescence.
When the footman returned, he was positively disappointed. He tended to his knuckles, pulling and cutting, rubbing and wrapping.
Darragh wanted to feign indifference, let the man work, then soak his bones in a warm, relaxing bath. But he kept thinkingabout the gauze and ointment. Talia must have prepared them for him. He imagined her hunched as she worked frantically. He could not fight back a smile.
The footman had noticed, and like the wiseacre he was, he asked, “Is the ointment working? I fished it out from the reserve.”
Darragh’s smile instantly dropped.
“And the gauze?” The footman could not hide the eagerness in his voice. If Talia’s fingers had touched the fabric, it would all be good. “Thankfully, we had some lying about, or I would have had to disturb Miss Collins.”
It took everything for Darragh not to wretch his hand away.
A pleasant scent suddenly mixed with the herbal one. His mother’s footsteps were light until the scent of her perfume wrapped around him. He hadn’t realized she had turned into the corridor. He hid his hand behind him, wanting to spare her the sight.
She did not say anything for a moment, watching his face with an expression he could not decipher. Love? Adoration?
Impossible, he was not something a mother should be proud of.
When she came to his side, his spine instinctively straightened.
“Let’s take a walk to the stream.” She wrapped a hand around his bicep. Her touch eased the tension in his muscles. He suddenly didn’t feel like a laird, but a son escorting his mother into the open air.
Fog crept up to the castle, shrouding the green grass in a white, ominous haze. It hovered over the stream as it rippled serenely, slithering in its own silent waves. It drifted around their feet, parting as they passed.
He had been enamored by the phenomenon as a boy. As a man, he thought it somber and sad.
“Ye can barely see the stream now, but even when it’s hidden, it still flows just fine. A little fog is fine as long as it doesnae stop the flow of things.”
He understood his mother’s unnatural perceptiveness, but he was stunned when she guessed his inner turmoil. He thought to remove her hand from his bicep, which betrayed too much.
“Do ye remember when ye were twelve, and ye pulled a drownin’ kitten from it?”
How could he forget? The alder tree had grown bigger, taller, but he still remembered the prick of its branches and the cold swathe beneath it.
He did not respond. Instead, he followed her gaze to the low recess beneath the dense branches.
Her smile was fixed, as though she recalled a fond memory but remembered it was the coldest day of his life. He had been so small and yet so brave, soaked from head to toe, holding a shivering kitten to his chest, sharing heat he could not afford to lose.
“Ye could have easily gone into the kitchen for warmth and a meal for the little thing.”
