Page 69

“It did,” he says, voice going quiet. “And I think he hoped the same thing would come here too. To Scotland. To Ireland.”

Something in his voice shifts.

“I lost both my parents around my fifteenth year,” he continues. “Illness. Fever took my mother first. My father followed a winter later. By then, I was old enough to be sent to school, and I left America so I could be close to the man who had held my father’s truest loyalty.”

I let the fire crackle between us. Let the silence hold.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

He shrugs, but it’s an honest shrug. “I was blessed to have them as long as I did. Now, I gather he hopes I’ll live to see all of the Celtic Nations free since he can’t.”

I let out a slow breath. “Yer father set you a lofty task.”

Then, before the mood can tip too far into solemnity, I tilt my head.

“So that’s how you ended up in Dublin?” I ask. “Of all places.”

“Aye, because of our fathers—mine and James’s.” He breathes out. “My parents were from Wick. My dad and Taskill became close while the Sinclairs were without Castle Connemara.

“My parents left because they weren’t as fortunate as the Sinclairs. The past wasn’t coming back, and their clan home was gone for good. Taskill stayed because he believed they’d persevere. And it paid off for them in the end. My father always said that made him the bravest man he knew. Taskill was the greatest friend he ever made.”

Outside, the rain eases, but leaving isn’t something I’m prepared to do yet. For reasons I won’t name aloud, I’m glad we didn’t make it to the cabin dry.

“I was lucky,” he says finally. “After everything. To end up here, I mean.”

He shifts slightly, shoulder brushing mine. It’s not accidental, but it isn’t bold either. Just… comforting.

“I found a second family,” he goes on, quieter now. “People who don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am.”

He glances sideways at me then, with the firelight catching his eyes, softening them. There’s something earnest there. Unguarded.

“I suppose that includes present company.”

My chest tightens in a way that surprises me.

Without quite thinking about it, I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze.

When I try to withdraw, his fingers close gently around mine and keep me there—enough to say stay. We look at each other, the moment stretching as firelight flickers between us. It feels significant in a way I don’t yet have language for.

His thumb brushes once against my knuckles before he seems to realise he’s doing it.

He clears his throat, like he needs the second to compose himself.

“And what about you?” he asks at last.

“What about me?”

“You never speak of before.” His gaze searches my face with open curiosity rather than prying.

I tilt my head. “Before what?”

“Before here,” he says. “Before Castle Connemara.” A small, thoughtful smile crosses his face. “You’re not staff. Not really. And you’re not direct family, either.”

A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, then fades again.

“You stay,” he says. “The way I stay.”

I let out a slow breath and look back at the fire, still painfully aware of his hand around mine.