This was not Alison.
He looked at Miss Drummond’s bent head. One of her pins was dangling over her ear. He lifted his fingers to it, then, without thinking, he slipped his hand around her shoulder, bypassing the pin, and pulled her a little closer.
He sat that way with her in the mist, on the ground in the hills, unseen by anyone else while she wept for her father.
Finally, she wiped her eyes then her nose, and sat up straight. The gratitude in her smile warmed his blood.
“Shall we go?” he asked, looking past her smile before he lost more than his logic.
Her gaze spread over the hilt of his sword, his dirk, and his boots, where more knives were hidden. She knew where everything was.
“But ye havena polished yer blades yet, Chief.”
He chuckled softly. “Ye would rather sit here while I do such a tedious task then return and sew something pretty?”
“Aye,” she said without hesitation. “I used to sit with my father while he polished his sword. I found it verra peaceful.”
That was what she wanted, Constantine told himself.Peace. But there was something she was keeping from him. Something that haunted her.
He repositioned himself on a rock and produced a cloth from his belt. He started with his sword, wiping it clean of any dried MacKintosh blood.
She kept her word and remained quiet, watching him.
She tempted him to smile back at her—or get up and run for his sanity. He did neither but ran the rag down the soon-shining blade.
When he finished with his dirk, he found her bending to a patch of blooming thistles. She looked at him at the same moment. Her smile widened, along with her eyes.
“Look! Are they no’ pretty?”
He slipped his gaze to the thistles. He never noticed them before. “Aye, they are,” he said, returning his gaze to her.
“I have only seen thistle twice before, when I traveled with my father. ’Twas late summer. And they were dying. But these are blooming so late,” she marveled. “I willna pick them, since this is not my land, but—”
He put down the knife from his boot and rose to go to her. When he reached her, he bent and plucked one thistle from the bunch and held it before her. “As long as ye stay here, this is yer land as well as mine.”
She offered him a beguiling smile in exchange for the thistle, making him both thankful he gave it to her, and angry with himself for the same reason.
He stepped back, afraid that if he didn’t move, he might go forward. She held the aromatic thistle to her nose and looked up at him. He almost reversed his tracks. He didn’t want anything save to be a little closer to her. He told himself it meant nothing. He didn’t have to fret over it or feel guilty.
“Lochiel—” she began.
“Constantine,” he corrected. His voice sounded deeper in his earsthan he intended.
Her fading smile shone to life again for a moment, but she did not speak his name. “What ye offer is tempting, indeed. Nae man but one has ever invited me to share his home and his land. I would venture to say that I could nae doubt be happy here, mayhap bloom like these thistles if my life had been different. But I canna risk being found and dragged—”
“Do ye think I would let anyone drag ye anywhere, lass?” he asked with a darkening expression.
Severing her gaze from his, she laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Why do ye think I would let ye fight fer me?” She turned back to him and looked him straight in the eye when she spoke again. “We are nothing to each other, Chief. I didna agree to stay here. I have thought about it and decided to keep moving and get as far away as I can from my past. I will find a convent and spend the rest of my days there.”
He wanted to say something. His jaw clenched with the need. But he fought it and won. He did not know what to say anyway.
“I will never ferget ye, Constantine.”
His heart lurched within him, making him involuntarily reach his hand to his chest. He looked down at it and then raised his gaze to her. “Let us head back. I have things to see to.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and started back. It was good that she was not staying. The sooner she was gone, the better. He didn’t like that something about her attracted him. He hated how out of control his reason and emotions felt around her. Let some convent have her. He scoffed in front of her. She would never master meekness or obedience.
He had the mad urge to turn to her and tell her to never change.
