“Constantine.”
He opened his eyes to the sound of twinkling bells in his ears and looked into Ismay’s eyes.
“Lady, I must have dozed.” He sat up straighter.
“Were ye having a bad dream?”
His gaze found hers again. She marred her brow and concern narrowed her eyes as if seeing a glimpse of the truth in his gaze.
He quirked one side of his mouth to reassure her. Also because seeing her made him want to smile. She was like sunshine in the gloom. “Yer concern is unnecessary.”
“Is it?” she asked him, staring into his eyes. “I have never seen ye look so afraid before.”
He thought he should toss a mocking laugh into the air. But he could not deny that she was correct.
“Who or what is it that brings such fear to ye?”
How could he tell her that he was so afraid of the truths pouring from Alison’s parents’ mouths? Truths he hated. It had indeed come to a point that he loved the glory he brought to the Camerons. He poured all of himself into studying battlefields and the routes that reached them. He had planned off the field and polishedhis sword at dawn, hoping his enemies’ allies arrived to aid them and give him more to kill.
“I was a monster and I’m haunted by the joy I took in it.” He blinked. Did he just speak out loud?
Who was this woman who he was confessing his sins to?
“Ferget I spoke,” he said with more command than he intended. “Just push it from yer thoughts. Aye? I spoke a feelin’ rather than a fact.”
“Why avoid speaking what ye are feeling?” she asked him, slipping into the chair on his right. “I speak about what I am feeling many times. It cleanses ye.”
“What?”
“Ye feel better when ye speak about yer feelings.”
He chuckled. Good. If she wanted to fixate on speaking her feelings, rather than focusing on his, that was fine with him.
“Chief,” she said in her soft, sorceress voice. “Is it possible that two monsters have found each other and have stopped long enough to help the other heal?”
His heart shuddered in his chest. Could they heal each other?
“Perhaps ’tis,” he responded with tenderness toward her. “But ye are no’ a monster, lass. Ye were a child, battered by a clan chief—a man above reproach. Ye killed to live.”
He reached out slowly and wiped the pad of his thumb across a tear pausing on her cheek.
“And ye, Constantine, the past is over. No amount of regret will change anything.” She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “A monster doesna grieve. It doesna feel anything. ’Tis clear that ye feel much.”
He heard the footsteps of men entering the Hall. He looked around Ismay’s shoulder and saw the elders. The first few wore looks of stunned apprehension, their eyes fastened on the couple sitting at the table.
Had they heard her declaring that he was not a monster? That he grieved?
Had the elders, or anyone in Lochaber considered the great weight that infected his confidence? They saw a hero, a protector, but his wife and child saw nothing, and his enemies saw the ravenous beast that lived off praise.
But he grieved. She was correct in that. In everything she said about him. Was he so transparent?
“Will she be here fer the meetin’, then?” asked old George Cameron, Constantine’s second great-uncle.
“Nae,” Ismay answered with a warm smile, saving Constantine from having a word with his uncle later about his manners. “I was just leaving.”
With one last smile, she moved in close enough to whisper into the Lochiel’s ear, “Dinna take any of their heads.” Then, she bid him a swift farewell and was gone.
He almost laughed out loud while she walked away. Hearing such a thing would likely cause at least three of the elders to fall down dead.
