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“I had something of the same thought.”
I squeeze her fingers. “I was frightened for you,” I repeat, “not because I think you weak, but because I care what becomes of yer heart, and I didn’t know what yer father standin’ there like that might do to it.”
She says nothing, so I go on.
“But I want you to know this, too. I think ye’re the strongest woman in my life.” I swallow. “And I’m a stronger woman for havin’ met you.”
Her fingers only tighten round mine. For a moment I think she may cry, though Ellen is not one for tears when there’s any hope at all of swallowing them back down.
Instead, she looks toward the fire and lets out a slow breath through her nose.
“It wasn’t the slap itself,” she says at last. “Or not only that. Though I’d gladly never repeat the experience.” She touches her lip lightly, wincing. “It’s that my father looked more put out by the shame of it than by the thing itself.”
Her mouth tightens.
“For reasons I may never understand, my da’s never been fond of me.” Her laugh is small and bitter and gone almost as soon as it comes. “I wish I didnae care. The gods ken I wish it. But I do.” Her eyes flick to mine then, bright with a feeling she is trying hard not to let loose. “And I hate I do… and I hate him a wee bit for makin’ me this way.”
My hand tightens round hers.
I rest my head briefly against hers.
“Yer father’s a bloody fool… and a coward.”
That wins me the faintest smile. “Rosie.”
“No, let me have it. I’ve earned it.”
Ellen squeezes my hand. “Ye have.”
“You should have been his first thought.”
“I ken,” she says. “But I’ll never be worth the trouble.”
That hurts me more than if she’d cried.
“For what it’s worth, I’d’ve happily taken a frying pan to Ewan’s skull if given the chance.”
That earns a real laugh from her, the rare kind that slips past all her careful edges. It comes out bright and breathless, ending in a startled little snort that makes her clap a hand over her mouth while my grin breaks wide.
“Next time, then?” she manages, still laughing.
“With a great deal of enthusiasm.”
I let that settle a moment, then say, “James loves ya something fierce… makes me sick.”
Her whole face changes at that, though only by the smallest measure.
“I ken that too.”
Then she gives me a look that sharpens enough to make me nervous.
“Is this a clumsy attempt to turn my thoughts to my husband and away from yerself?”
I blink at her with what I hope passes for innocence, though it’s almost certainly the worst performance the gods ever laid eyes on.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
She lifts one brow, slow as moonrise.
