The glowing wood turned black, and he was reminded of Talia. On her first day in the castle, he had found her looking ghostly and discovered that the grate was empty. On his first day as her guardian, he had nearly caused her death.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to check on her. His fingers wrapped around the cold brass knob, which sent a jolt through him that sparked his common sense.
It would be better if he didn’t show up at her door or anywhere they would be alone, especially at night.
The smoking logs sparked, and the red glow returned. It ignited with a hiss, wrapping the room in its warmth.
He moved to lock the windows before the fire went out again. At that moment, a flash of lightning split the dark sky, and he saw his reflection in the square windowpane, naked from chest to waist, pinched skin running from his navel to his shoulder.
The scar throbbed then. It usually did during heavy rains, as if to serve as a reminder. He ran his hand across the healed flesh.
It was on a day like this that he had acquired the scar. He had been nineteen then, and he had had his second angry spiel, the worst one of all, leading to his shoulder being torn open. It took Cohen and Jenson holding him down, and hold him down they did as his blood mixed with the muddy earth. His mother had come out before they were able to drag him into the castle.
He has not changed much since, only grown bigger, colder, and become Laird.
That was the part of himself he wanted to protect Talia from. When he was powerless, he became a beast of a man who solved his problems with his fists, rage, and blood. He never wanted her to become his mother, watching him writhing in the middle of a thunderstorm. He did not want her feeding him tonics while nursing the vestiges of his stupidity.
Talia deserved a normal, peaceful life with a husband not saddled by darkness or a position that required him to commit atrocious acts. As Laird, he would need to cheat and steal if he ever intended to get rich. He could not come home to his good wife and pretend to be a good person. People would curse themand their children. Their children did not deserve to be punished for his sins.
For now, he would stay away from her. When he had accomplished everything he needed to, he would build a surgery in her honor and invite her and her family. Even if it took a decade, he promised to bring her back.
Darragh splayed out his bound fingers, stretching them as much as he could.
The footman’s wrapping skills were yet to improve even after years of practice. The bands were too tight, and he could feel the blood drain from them. Slowly, he undid the bandages, flexing his joints as he did.
It was as he suspected. If he had waited a moment later, his fingers would have fallen off. Other than the raw redness, they had turned a bluish hue, pinched where the gauze began and ended.
What he didn’t realize, as he undid the bandages with eyes so narrowed he seemed to be glaring, was that the man opposite him had misinterpreted his actions. He choked on his next sentence, stumbling over “loan” and “next five years.”
“Ye daenae have to worry about bankruptcy,” he continued.
Darragh looked up absentmindedly, and the man swallowed. He went on to unwrap the other hand.
While he thought that his once-majestic hands were now a pitiful, shrunken thing, the man assumed he was one boring story from reconstructing his face. It did not help when he started massaging the blood back into his fingers, not breaking eye contact with the man.
Mr. Rooney rose. “It seems I have come at the wrong time.”
Darragh quirked an eyebrow.
Mr. Rooney was a suitor who intended to call on Talia. Even though Darragh wanted to delegate the search for a husband to his mother until his mind was clear, he had to screen the man first. He was a businessman who had opened a textile factory with a loan maturing in five years.
“The time is perfect. Go on.”
Cohen and Amber had gone into the village, Amber to assess the aftermath of the storm, and Cohen to lend his strength when needed.
Jenson was also preoccupied. The minister liked to have him in the parish, taking advantage of everything. His daughter, a blonde, bonny thing, was nearing spinsterhood at the age of three-and-twenty, and Jenson was the only bachelor he considered eligible.
“I have… I have business to attend to.” Mr. Rooney made a hasty retreat before Darragh could react.
As Darragh watched the doors swing shut, he understood that his only chance at a distraction had, figuratively and literally, walked out the door.
His gaze fell on the papers he had put away just before Mr. Rooney’s arrival. The starched stacks were letters from his tenants complaining about one thing or another, budgets he had set aside to hire stonemasons and laborers, and a copy of Jonathan’s will.
The will peeked out from the bottom, highlighting the last two lines on the first page. He did not need to read them to know what they said.
Marry.
One month.
