Alan’s eyebrows flew up without his intention. By God, could she be Evan’s match?
Nay, not while she retained any measure of sense.
Lord MacRowan also stepped forward. “Neilan, ye canna expect my daughter to stand and tak’ an insult—”
Annista turned on him. “Och, ye will defend me, will ye, Father? But ye did no’ defend Robena when the brute spoke ill o’ her.”
Lord MacRowan spread his hands. “’Twas no’ the moment,” he told her placatingly, “to do any such thing.”
“And when it comes to protecting yer sister,” said Alan’s father, very gravely indeed, and much to Alan’s astonishment, “we failed in that duty.”
“Let us calm ourselves,” Mother pled, looking desperate. “We ha’ a lovely breakfast waiting.”
She shepherded them to the table which, as Alan could see, was laid with all their best plate.
A farce, indeed.
Mother did her best to foster a pleasant conversation while they ate, asking Annista what she liked to do to pass the time and whether she enjoyed embroidery.
“If ye do, I sit in the solar most mornings where the light is clear. Ye are most welcome to join me.”
“My sister liked to sew. I do not.” Annista did no more than push her food around on her plate. “Did Robena sit in the solar wi’ ye?”
“Upon occasion,” Mother said, her expression shutting down.
Alan thought about that. Had he seen Mistress Robena often in Mother’s company? At the beginning, mayhap. But later?
He had absented himself from the manor and the woman’s plight as much as possible, busying himself with work out on the land. His absence had seemed to antagonize Evan less.
He would have to do better this time. That truth came to him as he choked down his excellent meal and the reality of what he had just done settled in.
Like it or not—like her or not—the woman seated beside him was his wife, a fact from which he could not turn away.
His not to love but, och aye, his to defend.
Chapter Eight
For the third night in a row, Annista slept but poorly and woke feeling as if she’d been dragged backward through a keyhole. It was barely light when she fought her way up out of bed, clawed the tumbled hair from her face, and went to the window.
She opened the casement and shivered as cold air poured through. Winter yet hung on to the edges of spring here so far in the north. But she would not back away, for the window offered her a glimpse of freedom.
Just as she would not back away from what she’d come here to do.
She’d slept with Mother’s dirk beneath her pillow. She wasn’t sure why, or what she’d expected to happen during the night. That Evan would somehow break in through the door to attack her, perhaps.
She should welcome that. An opportunity to accomplish her intention.
No one had disturbed her—naught but her own thoughts. She’d relived her wedding and the ugly scene that followed a score of times. Dread lay in her stomach like a ball of lead.
But leaning out into the cold air, she had to admit the world was beautiful. As was this place—Kallan. Despite the fact that her room overlooked the front of the house, being located in one wing with the drive and the wood beyond, it retained an air of wildness to which her heart could not help but respond.
She would not be happy here, could not be. But she might well come to appreciate the place itself.
The wind caught her hair and tugged at her nightcap, so she drew it from her head. Cold fingers blew her hair out in streamers.
A movement below caught her eye. Around the side of the house came a man leading a horse—someone up and about as early as she. He went bareheaded, and even in the uncertain, predawn light his hair shone black.
Alan.
