It had been three weeks since he had read the will. In those three weeks, he had managed to accomplish nothing but ruin an innocent life. He would count his own if he did not consider himself reprehensible. It seemed too late to back out, but it was never too late when someone else’s future was on the line.
As he rose, the object of his confusion walked into the room, leaving a trail of lavender and honey in her wake.
His heart stopped, or maybe it beat so fast that he had no proper recollection of their meeting. If he hadn’t survived after that day, he would have believed he had stopped breathing. Maybe he did for a moment. Who knows.
Her auburn hair was pulled in a knot atop her head. But even that did not stop him from imagining copper tresses flowing down her back. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and a plain white shirt. Another sprig of hawthorn was pinned above her breast, resembling the dried bouquet he had placed atop his dresser days ago.
She looked at him as if she didn’t want to. She usually stood so tall and proud. Now, she looked meek and humble.
She was uncomfortable.
She lingered by the door, as if frightened of being alone with him, and swept her gaze across the room. The way she hesitated was enough for him to understand.
Guilt drew his gaze to her hands. She held a sheet of paper to her stomach that seemed to have been folded many times. At some point, he had risen. He extended his hands towards her, not taking his eyes off the sheet. She placed it on his desk and kept a safe distance.
“This is a list of the suitors who have impressed me so far.” Her voice did not betray a thing. Her eyes, on the other hand, told many stories, and Darragh imagined himself the villain in every one of them. “I thought I should let ye ken.”
So she has decided she wants to marry.
He folded the corner as he perused the list.
Ewen Brodie.His name was first, obviously her first choice. Presumably her favorite. It was not written as hastily as the others.
Darragh did not read the rest. He took a deep, steadying breath and placed the list in front of her. Without looking at her, he said, “Ye should reconsider Mr. Brodie.”
And then he left before he did something as stupid as falling to his knees and begging her to choose anyone but that man.
He did not know the other two men, and it was hard to hate someone he did not know.
No, it was very easy when Talia came into the picture. The difference between the hatred he harbored for all three men was that he could put a face to one, and it happened to be the same man who had put his hands on Talia.
In his nightmares, Ewen Brodie stood in a pristine white suit and a depraved gaze. They sealed their vows with a kiss, and Darragh followed them into their wedding night, unable to do anything as the man touched her, kissed her, pleasured her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Like a madman, he stood in the corridor, pulling his hair. He wanted to turn back, tell her howhe felt. Confess he hadn’t meant it when he called kissing her a mistake, tell her he loved her.
His legs moved, but in the opposite direction. The further he went, the harder he fought himself. His heart pounded hard, as if it wanted to explode, but his body obeyed the command of his brain and propelled him onward.
By the time he burst into the courtyard, he had convinced himself that he was doing what was best for her. He did not deserve her, and he never would.
Two days too late, Darragh found himself staring at where she had stood, a glass of rich whiskey in hand as he tried to steady himself against the memory of Talia. The shadow of her remained, a dark lavender scented mist. Honey that did not sour had rotten and become a curse, clawing at him.
Even though he knew he wouldn’t have found her waiting, he had opted not to enter the study. Her list had caused his spiral, and he was scared to find it where he had left it. It was gone now, but it had left a dark residue as proof of its existence.
He watched it now, wanting to wipe it. In the dark room, the rectangular spot appeared darker than the shadows. He wondered if his eyes had deceived him, and it was actually waiting to jump out at him.
To test his theory, he reached for it. His drink sloshed and stained his hand. The warm liquid seeped into his kilt and rolled down his leg, disappearing into his boot. He watched it intently as if he could see it.
The ominous thing must have caused it, he decided, and let his hand drop to his side.
He only saw her, the will-o’-the-wisp version of her. Her red hair bounced around her face, her green eyes darkened by shadows, and she stood as she had stood, away from him. Her mouth moved, forming the same words over and over. Whatever she said was in silence or a light voice that did not carry to him. When she drifted near, he realized that it did not have a voice. He should have been terrified then, but he welcomed every version of Talia, even a spirit that could have come to seize his soul.
She knelt in front of him. The faint light from the open door lit half of her face, and he could read the word her lips formed.
“Darragh, Darragh, Darragh!”
Until a hand squeezed his thigh, he did not realize the mirage was actually a real person.
He jerked away.
