He inclined his head, dropping his hand from her cheek. “Ye as well, Bridget.”
She waited until he was up the path a ways before making her way back inside, the heat from the fire warming where the cold had touched.
“Och, lass,” her father laughed, his eyes crinkling. “’Tis clear on yer face wot ye have been doing.”
Bridget ducked her head as she removed her coat. “Do ye think he will stay?”
“If he thinks he can have ye? I would wager the farm on it.”
After Bridget had settled in for the evening, she realized that Bruce never did respond to her question as to whether or not he would stay.
13
Irvine woke the next morning with a heavy heart and an aching head.
It wasn’t because of the whiskey that he and Malcolm had consumed after he had returned from Bridget’s hut. No, he hadn’t drunk far enough for his head to pound as it did now.
It was the lack of sleep he had found himself dealing with, tossing in the small bed until the wee hours of the morning, knowing that he would have to tell Bridget the truth today.
It was only fair that he do so. After their conversation last night, Irvine realized that she wanted him to stay.
No...she wantedBruceto stay, and if he were Bruce, he would. He would make her his wife, have a passel of bairns, and live the life of a farmer for the rest of his days.
But he wasn’t Bruce. He was Irvine McMillion, the son of a McPearson and future laird of the McPearson clan.
Well, he wasn’t so certain of that title any longer either. He didn’t know what awaited him back at the castle or if there was anything there at all. He wouldn’t be completing his quest, which meant he wouldn’t be named laird.
It would be his great-uncle that would take the position, and Irvine doubted he was thinking about what would be good for the clan. No, he was looking for the power, and Irvine had just handed it to him.
After dressing, he walked to the barn, intending to get his work done early. If Bridget didn’t see why he had not told her the truth, then the last thing he wished to do was leave his work undone before they were forced out.
When Malcolm arrived a few moments later, he eyed Irvine. “Wot are ye doing?”
“Working,” Irvine stated firmly, throwing the hay on his pitchfork into the stall. Because of the snow on the ground, the horses were in their stalls and Irvine was having to work around them.
“Nay,” Malcolm continued. “Wot are ye doing, Irvine? Tell me wot is going on.”
Irvine paused, leaning heavily on the pitchfork. “I need tae tell Bridget the truth.”
“Shite,” Malcolm swore. “Are ye certain? Ye know how they feel aboot the McPearsons.”
“Aye, I know,” Irvine replied angrily. “But I cannae lie tae her any longer. She deserves better.”
Malcolm eyed him, displeasure written all over his face. “Ye care for her, dinnae ye?”
Irvine sighed. “Aye.”
“I warned ye,” Malcolm said after a moment. “I warned ye that this wasnae going tae be good.”
Irvine clenched his jaw, but he didn’t answer. He knew that it had all been a bad idea, but what else could he have done? He had wanted to complete his quest and best his great-uncle, but not at the expense of the tenants, of Bridget’s obvious caring for him.
He was nothing more than a liar.
“I have tae tell her.”
“Fine, fine,” Malcolm stated. “I will have our horses readied then in case she comes after ye with her dagger.”
Irvine smirked as he thought of Bridget the evening that the bandits had attacked the farm and how she had wielded her dagger like it was a great sword. He hoped she wouldn’t gut him with it once he was done telling her the truth.
