He wanted to say no, just to annoy his oldest friend. But he had to admit that pinning all his hopes on Aaron was not the prudent path. “If you’ll sell my whisky honestly—”
“You know I will.”
He did. His friend might be ham-handed when dealing with Mairi, but he was honest to the bone. “But you can’t go just with Mairi. Haven’t you a female cousin to bring along as chaperone? Someone who might also want an English husband?”
“I do. I’ve already spoken with her.”
“Then I’ll see if Mairi will consider helping with the job.” The relief on his friend’s face was enough to make him chuckle. Connall had a way with every woman but Mairi. Whatever happened between them, he was sure the trip to London would be a fine tale one day.
But now he had to finish his own story. Two days away from Clara had told him how much he wanted her. He hadn’t chuckled at a clever turn of phrase since he’d left her side. He hadn’t marveled at anyone’s education or been astounded by her lack of practical knowledge. Just last week, the woman had been shocked to learn that the Scots could make fine soaps. Sweeter ones, indeed, than she had used in London. The memory of her expression—so excited by the discovery—had him smiling a week later.
That’s what she did for him. She made him smile. When all felt heavy in his soul, she would say or do something that made everything in him settle.
And now, two days away from her, he was very much unsettled.
He kicked his weary horse to a faster trot. They were nearly home, and he wanted to gallop to her side. She’d likely be eating more of that terrible stew while making notes on a new way to mix soap for laundry.
Except the nearer they came to his home, the more he saw that he’d been away too long. His father had returned. He saw it in the blazing lights, in the horses that were still being tended near the barn, and the many souls dashing about the courtyard. They were children, mostly, set to one task or another. Which meant—
“Your father has killed his wolf,” Connall said.
“More likely, Beitidh grew tired of the camp and convinced him to come home.” He looked at the bright stars. “The weather is fine. He should have stayed away for a week more.”
“Unless he killed the wolves and has come home triumphant.”
It was possible, he supposed. His father had once been a good hunter. His stamina might fail him, but his tracking skills could still be sharp. But if that were true, then Liam faced an early power struggle against his father. Neither he nor Clara had established themselves here. Hell, he’d only now returned with coin.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed as he kicked his horse. “I need to get there now.”
Connall matched his pace, his keen eyes scanning the castle for clues. Neither of them found any, and so when they clattered into the bailey, the man grabbed Liam’s reins.
“I’ll take care of the horses. You go see to your wife.”
