She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, but then turned to face him, smoothing down the front of her skirts slightly as she did so.
“Aye, my Laird?”
“Have you seen Amelia?”
The maid hesitated before she responded, and Arran could tell at once that she was holding something back. He strode towards her, and she recoiled slightly as he approached, like she was preparing for him to strike her.
“Aye, my Laird. This morning, she was in your study…”
“When?”
“Shortly after you left.”
He eyed her, not certain he believed her. He’d never had reason to doubt Effie before, but he was seeing everything through a new lens now, forced to consider the possibility that someone close to him may have betrayed him.
“And how did she seem to you?”
She bit her lip. Taking a step towards him, she lowered her voice.
“In truth, my Laird, she seemed… distracted. As though her mind was somewhere else entirely. As though it was not within the walls of the Keep at all.”
His jaw clenched. Could she really have taken off and left him like that, with no warning? He was sure the two of them had grown closer in the weeks that had preceded this strange vanishing, but perhaps he had been wrong…
Effie glanced around, as though fearful they might be overheard, then took a step towards him.
“May I speak frankly?”
“You may.”
“I saw her tacking up her horse this morning,” she admitted. “She asked me to lay out clothes for her, something that would keep the chill off her during a ride.”
He closed his eyes. Just as he had feared. He had prayed, hoped against hope, that somehow she was still here. But she had waited, she had lulled him into a false sense of security, and then she had taken the first chance she had gotten to flee. His mind flew back to all the nights they had spent together, and he wondered if all of that had been an act. Could she have faked her way through what they had shared? More to the point, could he have fallen for it?
He stalked down to the kitchen without another word to Effie, and poured himself a large flagon of whiskey. Normally, he would never have allowed himself to drink so early into theday, but the shock of everything that had happened was enough to make him ache for the balm of drunkenness. He would speak to Gregory when he got back. However, had Gregory not tried to assure him that she was nothing like her? Nothing like the woman who had left him all those years ago? He let out a derisive snort at the thought, as he gulped down another few mouthfuls of his drink.Aye, that’ll be the day…
Making his way back to his study, he could not bring himself to so much as look upon the bookcase that she had loved so much. Or, at least, that she had told him she loved so much. Perhaps that had been a lie, too. He could still recall, with an almost painful clarity, the way her eyes had lit up when she had first seen the rows of books he kept in there. It was hard to believe she could have invented such a reaction, but perhaps he just did not know her as he thought he did.
He slumped into the bench that he had first taken her upon. The memory of it was so vivid, he could have sworn that he could smell her scent, still clinging to the fabric. She must have been here recently. But why would she have come to his study, if all she had intended was to flee this place? Had she been looking for something? Planning to steal something from him? As though she had not taken enough…
The day drew on towards night. Gregory stopped by briefly, but Arran sent him away, not ready for the conversation he was sure they’d have to have about what had happened and how they would go on. Arran could already imagine how people would look at him, if they found that his young wife had taken off into the night of her own accord. Perhaps she had just been waiting to learn how to ride well enough that she was sure she could put distance between them before he’d come after her. An irony, to him, that the very wedding gift he had purchased for her could have been the thing that carried her away from the Keep.
He was starting to grow heavy with the whiskey now, even his strong constitution beginning to waver in the face of all that had happened. He loathed himself in that moment, loathed himself for believing that she could ever truly have cared for him, loathed himself for thinking that a woman like her would ever have been able to satisfy herself with a man like him. He could see now how laughable it was, but he had convinced himself, for long enough that it had started to feel real, and now…
Now, he had to face life without her. And he didn’t know how he could do that.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Gregory, I told ye, I told want to talk…”
But, when the door swung open, he saw not his old friend but Effie. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her gaze lowered demurely to the ground.
“May I enter, my Laird?”
He shrugged. He didn’t have the energy to turn her away. And besides, perhaps she might be able to cast some more light on what had happened with Amelia. He would cling to anything he could get, anything that might allow him to make sense of it, because as it stood now, it felt to him as though a chunk of his chest had been torn straight from his body.
Effie stepped inside, and made her way over to the bench. He shifted up slightly, allowing her room to sit, and she did so. She eyed him for a long moment before she spoke, and, when she did, she seemed to choose her words carefully.
“I’m sorry about yer wife, my Laird,” she murmured. “I truly am. I thought, just as I’m sure you did, that she could make a home for herself here, but…”
