But would they ever have enough time to learn all there was to know? he wondered. Did anyone ever have enough time? Life was fragile and unpredictable, and he could not seem to push Raonaid’s prophecy from his mind.
Gwendolen laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
He covered her hand with his own and pondered the unexpected feelings he had for her, as well as the nature of this place. He had come here as a lad, always alone, never finding the peace and contentment he longed for, but always searching for it.
He felt it now, with Gwendolen expressing her grief and regrets—and her foolish petty jealousies.
On top of that, she was carrying his child. There was something very profound about that. It changed everything. It changed how he felt about the world and his purpose in it, as both a warrior and a common man.
All his life, he had believed himself to be disposable. Unessential. All he ever did was chase the sort of death that would bestow honor upon him—and perhaps drag a few vile redcoats down into the hot, fiery flames of hell. But everything was different now.
“I must confess something to you,” he said, wrapping his fingers around Gwendolen’s tiny hand.
“I’m listening.”
He paused. “You should not feel guilty about your brother. Thoughts are one thing, but actions are another. Give all your guilt to me. I will shoulder it for you.”
“Why?”
His blue eyes clung to hers as he braced himself for her reaction to his next confession. “Because I sent men with orders to kill your brother if he did not accept me as Laird of Kinloch.” He bowed his head. “I am not proud of it, because I would never want to see you hurt, but Kinloch is my home. I couldn’t risk losing it again.” He swallowed hard. “So you see, I am no better than the English officers who ordered the massacre at Glencoe. I am a brutal and heartless man. I am like that lion in your dream, and you should be wary of me. Always.”
She pulled her hand away. “When did you order this?”
“The night of the invasion,” he replied. “At the triumphal feast.”
She swallowed uneasily. “Why didn’t you tell me? You let me hope that my brother would return.”
“I had hoped he would return as well. If he had agreed to accept me as laird, I would have treated him like a brother. But if not…”
“You would have had him executed.”
“Aye.”
She rose and walked to the edge of the rocks, where she stood for quite some time with her back to him.
He deserved her loathing, he knew it, and he wondered what had ever compelled him to confess his actions when he had just escaped the responsibility for her brother’s death. It had been God’s will in the end, and yet he had put himself forward to undertake the blame and the heat of her censure.
Gwendolen faced him. “I do not believe he would have pledged loyalty to you. I know my brother. He is ambitious, and he would not have accepted your offer of land and position. He would have come with an army, and he would have killed you if you did not kill him first.”
Angus did not speak. He merely waited for her to express all her thoughts and feelings on the matter.
She strode closer and sat down again. “Raonaid suggested that if Murdoch came here, I would choose him over you, and that you would die because of my betrayal.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “I told her that I would never be disloyal to you, but I must now confess something as well.” She met his gaze directly. “I was not absolutely certain of that commitment. I had doubts. Terrible doubts. I was afraid that if I was forced to choose, I would do whatever I must to save his life, for he was my own flesh and blood. So I must forgive you for the order you gave on the day you claimed me as your bride-to-be. You did what any chief would do to protect his clan and castle. By the same token, I will ask that you forgive me also for any hint of disloyalty that may have existed in my heart before today, even after I promised my fidelity on our wedding day.” She took hold of his hand. “I cannot condemn you or hate you, Angus, and I believe that God has intervened to prevent such a dispute between us. My brother is dead through no action of yours. Neither you, nor I, were forced to choose one over the other and betray our marriage vows. I believe that we have just been liberated from any treachery that might have occurred, had my brother lived. It was God’s will. Just as it was God’s will to provide Kinloch with an heir with the blood of both the MacDonalds and MacEwens running in his veins.”
Angus’s heart lurched with something remote and forceful and mystifying. He reached out and pulled Gwendolen into his arms. All he wanted to do was hold her, protect her, care for her—and celebrate the fact that their quarrels were behind them now. There were no more secrets. She knew all his sins, and still, she was willing to forgive.
As was he.
He took her face in his hands and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother. I know you cared for him and imagined that he would be your protector. I would have preferred to give him land and welcome him as a brother, if he had been willing to accept me. This is not what I wanted.”
She nodded and sat back, wiping a tear from her eye. “Thank you. But there is one last thing I must ask of you, Angus. A favor.” She swallowed hard and spoke decisively. “Please send Raonaid away.”
He lowered his hand to his side and sat back.
“I realize that you value her gifts as an oracle, but clearly she was wrong about the future, because I will no longer have any cause to betray you. We do not need her, and I don’t want her here. She was your lover. You must understand. She will only tear us apart. I believe she wants you for herself and means to sabotage our marriage.”
“She wants no such thing,” he told her. “Raonaid is not sentimental. She cares for no one. You are imagining things.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it when he saw the color rush to her cheeks.
