Devils Highlander (Clan MacAlpin 1)

Her face fell, and he regretted his words at once.

“I'd thought you could forgive me,” she said quietly. “But I was wrong. You blamed me then, and you blame me still. ”

She turned to leave. He'd spoken without thought, and she'd badly misunderstood. Cormac wanted to take back his words, to tell her this had naught to do with Aidan nor Davie nor any boy, but with her own safety. But by the time an apology came to him, all he saw was the slow swing of the door.

Marjorie had slipped from the room.

Hours passed, and finally Cormac could bear it no longer. He'd been a boor, and he sought out Marjorie to apologize. He didn't for a minute regret punching Archie, but damned if that fool lordling didn't made him feel like less than a gentleman in comparison.

And so Cormac had been to the library, the solar, the gardens, and now the sitting room, but the woman had simply disappeared.

It made him angry. He'd been back in her life for less than a week, and it seemed all he did was chase after the lass. She was always scampering one step ahead, and it was driving him mad.

It'd been that way as children, too. Though he'd been enthralled then. Now he just found this… absorption…

galling. He slammed his fist against the doorway and then, scowling, shook it out. He'd not punched anything in some time. How was it he found himself two for two by noontime?

He'd simply go to her rooms. He nodded and headed to the stairs. Surely he'd find her there. It was improper, but the woman had gotten under his skin. He felt the clumsy brute, and the urge to make his peace with her had grown maddening.

He knocked. Silence.

Banging harder, he cursed under his breath. If she wasn't in her room, it meant she'd left the house altogether.

He frowned, instandy angry that yet again she'd risk her safety and leave the house unchaperoned. Assuring himself it was for her own good, he decided he'd simply go out, find her, and retrieve her.

And then Cormac frowned some more, scolding himself that she was an adult who likely spent much time on her own.

Marjorie was a grown woman, for some reason still unwed, living very nearly independently.

The thought gave him pause.

He found he was suddenly curious for a glimpse of her world.

He told himself he needed some idea as to her whereabouts. All he really needed to do was ask one of the household staff where she might have gotten off to, but still, he told himself it was her bedroom that held the best clue.

He turned the knob, and the door opened to reveal a modest, airy room, with walls painted a cheery butter-yellow. Though it was a simple space with only a bed, side table, and small desk, it didn't feel austere. Small personal touches were scattered about the room: a handful of books, knots of dried flowers, a smattering of seashells.

Cormac stepped inside, fascinated. He sat on her bed and knew a moment's guilty thrill, which he dismissed at once. He was a man grown now, no longer a smitten ten-year-old. There was a task at hand, and he would concentrate on it. He would be logical, impervious, like the scout he'd been trained to be.

A strange starburst pattern on her bedside table drew his eye. It was a collection of shells, arranged so

deliberately. He realized it was of more import to her than he'd originally thought.

He picked up a shell. He'd had no idea she was so fascinated by the seashore. The notion sent a peculiar thrill through his belly. He thought on his own affinity for the sea, of his love for the gray, blustering, lonely promise of it.

He carefully fingered each one. There were limpets the color of sand. A top shell with a flawlessly smooth mother-of-pearl lining. Black periwinkles. The long, twirling white shells they'd called twisties as children.

And in the center, a perfect mermaid's purse. He picked it up, rocked by the rush of memories. Smooth and black, it was nearly the size of his palm. He traced his finger along the straight edges to the curls at its top. Until that moment, he'd forgotten that they'd always been her favorite. Though merely the seed sac of some creature, it'd been the stuff of magic to young Ree. She'd swear selkie brides carried them with their grandest finery. Cormac remembered now how he'd comb the beach, proud when he found one perfectly intact to give her.

He carefully set it back in its place. Astonished, he wondered what it all meant. What the strange tug in his chest meant.

The door swung open, and a woman's gasp tore him from his reverie. Guilt twisted his stomach, and he quickly submerged his errant feelings in the familiar cold, hard exterior he wore as comfortably as his plaid.

“What are you doing?” the woman exclaimed. “Who are you?”

“Me?” He rose from the bed to glare down at her. “Who are you?”

Chapter 12