CHAPTER 4
Evander glanced down at Skye,still hunched over on the stool, and fought back a hard swallow.
His hands shook, knocking against his thighs, and he curled his fingers into tight fists. Bile clawed up his throat, and he swallowed once more, trying to compose himself.
She’s alive. She’s alive.
Was it relief that made him so shaky, or was it fury?
Energy sparked through his veins, urging him to do something, to move, to punch a wall or a tree, to run—anything.
Sudden movements were not what Skye needed right now, however. She needed calm, stillness, and composure. He tightened his fists until the tremors stopped.
She’s terrified. And that glazed look in her eyes… where did that come from?
He dragged a clammy hand over his face.
Stay calm. She’s back, and that’s all that matters. We can get to the bottom of what happened soon. For now, she’s alive. She’s safe.
She didn’t seem to be hurt, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t been hurt.
Outside, a mizzling rain had begun to fall. It might deter a few of the festival-goers, but most of them would happily keep on dancing and shopping and laughing, careless of the rain.
Evander would not be one of them. He called to an attendant outside the tent.
“Start packing up the camp,” he ordered, his voice low. “Take down the tent last. We’re leaving soon.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
The woman turned to go, but Evander spoke again.
“And fetch some bread, cheese, and cold meat. Bring it to the tent.”
She nodded, curtsied, and hurried away.
Evander tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. Iron-gray and heavy, it hung low, so low one might imagine that clambering up on a hilltop would allow you to touch it. Rain fell on his face, the drops tickling as they ran past his temples and into his hair, or down the tangled mess of his beard.
When was the last time he had shaved?
I was clean-shaven on our wedding day,he thought, lifting a hand and pushing his fingers through his beard.She patted me cheek, laughed, and said that I would suit a beard. I just look like a madman now.
Oh, he’d caught a few glimpses of himself recently. He didn’t spend much time staring into mirrors, but now and then there’d be a reflective surface. A hard-eyed, wild-faced man stared back at him, tangled hair hanging around his face.
And now she was back. What now?
I have a month to find out what’s going on. A month to make this right. I must do this right. I cannae be like him.
The old anxiety rushed in.
There it was, the fear that despite it all, he was no better than the man who’d come before him. After all, even the smallest mistake could mean that he was likehim. His father. The man who hadruined it all and nearly dragged Clan Bryden into his grave with him.
And yet, despite how obvious it was that his father was a bad, cruel man who should be forgotten, whenever something happened, Evander couldn’t quite stop himself from thinking, just for a moment:What would Faither do?
“Evander.”
He flinched, blinking, startled out of his reverie. Straightening up and dropping his eyes from the watery sky, he glanced over to see Creighton returning, his gaze wary.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Creighton said crisply. “I’m sure ye ken how serious this matter is. Believe it or nae, I’m the easy problem here. The one who hates ye right now is Hunter.”
