The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

“But I hurt you.”

His smile conveyed the piercing tenderness that should have warned her long ago that he felt more for her than mere physical attraction. “This time, I dinna have a handkerchief on me. But dry your eyes. We’ll work something out.”

Fiona fumbled in her pocket and found a useless scrap of lace. Masculine handkerchiefs were much more practical. With shaking hands, she wiped her eyes. “Do you want me to leave you?”

“Now?”

“No. Forever.”

“Do ye want to go?”

“You might come to hate me because I can’t love you.”

“Never.” Diarmid sounded so sure, she couldn’t doubt he meant it.

“I’d like to stay with you,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I’d like Christina to grow up at Invertavey. I’d like her to have the example of a good man in her life.”

“In that case, stay.” He squeezed her fingers. “I promise I willnae annoy ye with endless pleas for your love. In fact, ye have my word, I’ll never mention the word again.”

She studied him, knowing yet again he was acting with a pure-hearted benevolence that put her to shame. “Won’t that be difficult?”

“Not as difficult as going on without ye. But you need to know the truth before ye commit to your new life. I love ye, Fiona, and that will never change.”

“I wish things could be different,” she said, hating that she started to cry again.

“We’ve got Christina back. The Grants are no longer a threat.” He looked strained and defeated, although she saw he did his best to pretend he was at peace with a lifetime of unrequited love. “We’ve come through our travails.”

“Except Allan shot you.”

“I’ll heal. We’ll stay together, and we’ll build a good life. Dinna cry anymore. We still have plenty to celebrate.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” she said thickly.

“It will in time. You’re just tired and overwrought right now.”

“You’re the one who was shot. You’re meant to be resting, and all I’ve done is upset you.”

“I’d rest better, if you lay down beside me,” he said softly. “Never fear, we’ll find a way forward. After all, we mightnae have love, but we have so much else. And I miss sleeping with my bonny lassie beside me.”

She summoned a shaky smile and slid into the bed to curl up at his side. Despite everything, when she twined her arm around his waist, a fugitive peace filled her heart.

Diarmid was right. They’d already achieved so much together, more than she’d ever imagined they would. Who knew what else the coming years would bring them?

Chapter 35

Invertavey House, August 1820

“I won! I won!” Crowing over her convincing victory, Christina flung her cards down on the baize table.

Diarmid laughed at her childish delight and folded his hand. “Aye, you did, ye canny brat. I’m beginning to be sorry I taught you piquet.”

“So that means I can have a kitten from the litter that Mags’s cat had last week? I know just the one I want. The wee black and white girl.”

“It does. Serves me right for making such a reckless bet against a card sharp like ye. Ye should run and tell her now, before she gives your kitten away to someone else.”

The prospect of losing out on her choice had Christina scampering out the library door. Diarmid found himself smiling as he watched her go. What a difference a year had made in the lassie.

The Christina who first came to live at Invertavey had been quiet and subdued, and inclined to start at her own shadow. She’d accepted her mother’s second marriage as she accepted everything—too placidly for a nine-year-old girl. Diarmid read a lifetime of fear into the way she shied from his presence. She’d suffered months of bad dreams, too, filled with the dramatic events of that day near Glen Lyon, but also featuring other, older miseries.