He turned the instant she appeared, and though he said nothing at first, the look with which he received her went nearer to undoing her than any words might have done. There was no triumph in it and no expectation, only relief.
“Ye came,” he said and his voice betrayed the feeling he had tried to master.
“Aye.” Her own sounded far steadier than she felt. “I have come only tae hear ye out.”
He bowed his head slightly, as though even that small grace humbled him. For a brief moment, he seemed uncertain how to begin, then, without speaking further, he reached into his coat and drew something out with evident care.
It was a ribbon.
Even before he placed it in his hand for her to see, she knew it was no ordinary trifle. The silk, though softened by time, had been beautifully kept, and worked into it was the Grant crest, faintly glimmering in the amber light. It was simple, elegant, and so clearly cherished that Elaina felt, at the sight of it, a sudden ache in her throat.
“It belonged tae me maither,” Duncan revealed.
The quiet gravity of his tone made her lift her eyes to his at once.
He stepped nearer, but he was still not too near, not so much as to compel retreat, but enough that she could see how carefully he held it, as though the thing itself was precious beyond words.
“She wore it often,” he continued. “And after she died, I kept it. I thought…” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice wasrougher. “I thought if ever there came a day when I wished tae place any token of her in another’s keeping, it would mean that I had found the woman I could nae bear tae lose.”
Elaina’s breath caught. He extended the ribbon toward her.
“I want ye tae have it, Elaina.”
For one terrible moment she could not speak. She was moved, far more deeply than she wished him to see for all that it implied: the intimacy of being offered not some costly ornament or gallant flattery, but a piece of what he loved most and had mourned longest.
Yet the pain of all that had passed still lay too close upon her heart.
“I… cannae accept it, Duncan,” she whispered though the refusal cost her more than she had expected. “It is too much.”
Duncan’s hand did not falter.
“It is nae enough,” he replied.
She looked at him then and saw the truth in his eyes. This was not strategy, nor calculation, nor the logical reason of a laird securing advantage, but a man who had come to the end of all pride and all reserve, and stood before her with nothing but the truth he had once been too slow to speak.
“Elaina,” he said, and her name in his mouth seemed at once plea and declaration, “I want ye tae keep it until I can ask ye tae marry me properly. I want ye tae ken that I am nae daein’ it because I must and certainly nae because yer faither made an offer, or because the Council would have it so.” His voice deepened, and every word appeared drawn from the most earnest part of him. “I want tae marry ye because I love ye.”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if to steady herself against the force of it.
“When I asked ye,” he went on, “I asked as a man who had already lost his peace, his reason, and very nearly his heart tae ye. I asked because there has nae been a day since that tavern when ye have nae been in me thoughts. I asked because every hope I have fer the future now begins with ye in it.” He swallowed, and the next words came with painful honesty. “And though I was fool enough nae tae tell ye of yer faither’s offer, though I see now what hurt me silence has caused, I swear tae ye there was never a moment when I thought of ye as a means tae anything. I didn’t tell ye, because I wanted tae prove how little it mattered tae me.”
Elaina’s eyes had filled before she could prevent it. She hated herself for it and yet could not command the tears away, for all her resolution had been built upon anger, and anger was a feeble defense against such sincerity when one had already loved the speaker.
Still, she whispered. “Ye should have told me.”
“Aye,” he admitted at once. “I should have. And I will repent of that failure fer the rest of me life if it costs me ye.”
The sunset had deepened now, with the orange of the sky darkening toward crimson at its edges. The last rays poured over his face and shoulders, leaving one side of him in fire and the other in shadow, and there was in the sight of him such earnestness, such naked feeling, that Elaina could scarcely endure it.
He lowered the ribbon slightly, though he did not put it away.
“Ye dae have a say,” he told her the words she had never heard. “More than a say. Ye have the whole of it. If ye refuse me, I will nae hold it against ye. I will nae send word tae yer faither, I will nae speak of alliance, I will nae ask again unless ye wish it. But God help me, Elaina…” His voice broke on the last word, and with that break all the restraint she had known in him seemed to vanish. “It would kill me if ye did.”
There was no artifice in the confession. This was no laird carefully phrasing an offer. This was a truth so plain and so raw that it seemed to enter her very soul.
Elaina pressed a hand against her chest for an instant, as though to contain the feeling rising there. She had come resolved to leave, resolved to hear him and then go, to preserve at least the dignity of her wounded pride. But pride had no strength in the face of such love, and she knew then that whatever pain he had caused, whatever fear had driven her from him, none of it had lessened what lived in her heart.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, she lowered her hand.
