Mary wasin the kitchen discussing the evening meal with the cook when a lad ran in, calling for her. She turned to the lad, heart in her throat. Was her father worse? “What’s amiss?”
“Visitors at the gate. The guard told me to fetch ye,” the lad replied, then ran out again.
Mary took a breath and traded a look with the cook.
“That lad canna stand still,” the cook reminded her. “Everything is urgent around him. But what I’d give to have his energy!” She laughed, then sobered. “So, ye will send the lad back to tell me how many more mouths I’ll have to feed, aye?”
“Of course.” Mary smiled and took a breath of air thick with the comforting scents of baking bread and bubbling stew. Cook had been trimming a venison roast when Mary entered. That would go on the fire soon. Despite the cook’s concern, they would have plenty to feed unexpected guests. “Perhaps some apple tarts, as well, then?”
“I’ll check the larder. I believe the lads brought in a basket of new-picked apples this morning.”
“Thank ye.” Mary took her leave and headed outside. It wouldn’t do to leave visitors waiting at the gate. Unless they were Irish gallowglass men. But the lad’s summons didn’t include any hint of concern from the guard. Likely he just needed her approval to allow the visitors into the bailey.
“Who is it?” she asked when she got the guard’s attention.
“MacBeans, my lady. Asking for ye.”
Mary’s breath froze in her chest. MacBeans? For a wild moment, she imagined Dougal, her former hoped-for betrothed, at the gate. But surely not. Dougal had abandoned her and married another. So why would MacBeans be at Rose gates now?
“Let them in,” she commanded, then returned to the steps leading into the keep to await their arrival.
The gate swung open and four men rode in, Dougal in the lead.
The ground tilted below Mary’s feet and she dragged in a breath to steady herself.
He dismounted and approached the steps where she stood rooted. He stared up at her but stopped before he reached the lowest step. “Mary Elizabeth Rose, I’m so pleased to see ye.”
Mary studied him, surprised at how much he’d changed. Glints of silver shot through his hair, and lines creased the skin around his eyes. He looked tired. “I am surprised to see ye, Dougal. What brings ye to Rose?”
“As ever, ye do.”
Mary’s head jerked back and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She’d given up on Dougal long ago. Seeing him now—how could he think she would welcome his return?
Dougal gestured toward the door behind her. “Can we talk inside? And perhaps get some food and drink for my men?”
“Of course,” Mary replied. “I’m forgetting my manners. The lads will care for your horses in the stable. Come inside and get warm.” She ascended the last few steps and entered the great hall. Stopping the first serving lass she reached, she requested ale, bread and cheese for the MacBeans, then led the men to the hearth.
“Ye have ridden a long way,” she said as she gestured them to pull a bench over and place it near the fire. “Ye must stay the night.”
“Thank ye,” Dougal answered. “We will have more time to talk. Is there somewhere we could be private?”
A frisson tingled along Mary’s nerves. “Follow me.” Reluctant, she led him to a room off the hall and gestured to a seat by the small hearth. “Why are ye here, Dougal?”
For a moment, he looked flustered, then he straightened and met her gaze. “I’m here to see if there’s still anything between us. If ye have forgiven my youthful impatience. I was younger then and frustrated with yer father. I married in haste.”
Mary stiffened, not liking the implication, and needing to confirm the rumor she’d once heard that he was widowed. “Ye are nay longer wed?”
“She died in childbed a year ago. It took so long for her to get with child, we were elated, but in the end…” He shook his head. “I never loved her as I loved ye, but she was good to me, and she died trying to give me a son. I do miss her.”
Mary supposed his sentiment spoke well of him, despite what he’d done to her. Tragedy sometimes matured men. Dougal, it seemed, had seen his share of sorrow. “But now that a year has passed, ye are ready to wed again, is that it?”
“I wouldna put it so baldly, but aye. I’ve held ye in my heart all these years, Mary. I never heard ye had wed, and given yer father, I believed ye might still be an unwed maiden, so—here I am. Can ye forgive me? Can we try again?”
Mary’s head felt light. Could she? Cameron had gone to Sutherland, perhaps never to return. They’d become close, and while more attraction seemed to sizzle between them than she’d ever felt for Dougal, they’d done little toact on it. He’d never asked her father for her hand. He was accustomed to going where his father sent him, gathering information. He probably considered marriage something for his distant future, if at all. While he’d been determined to defend her claim to be the Rose heir, which they both knew might become hers someday, he’d never even suggested he might want to stand at her side as her consort if it ever came to pass. If Seona failed to produce a son.
“I dinna ken,” Mary finally said. “A lot has happened since then.”
“Did ye wed after all? Are ye a widow?”
