“Not Mags. She was the soul of discretion. But the younger lassies were a wee bit more forthcoming when I asked about you.”
“I suppose ye wanted to know what manner of man had taken you in,” he said with a hint of grimness. Diarmid wasn’t used to people questioning his character.
“I knew what manner of man you were,” she said in a level voice. “Or at least I soon did.”
“Then why didnae ye trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
Her lips turned down. “I’d learned the hard way that I was better off relying only on myself.”
He hid a wince at “the hard way.” He’d seen and heard enough since he’d met the Grants to guess what that meant. Hell, what he’d give for a chance to smash Allan Grant’s smug smile back behind his yellow teeth. “If you’d told me ye were in trouble, I’d have offered to help, instead of handed ye over to those bastards.”
“By the time I’d worked that out, I was too deeply mired in deception to fight my way out.” Her gaze settled on his face. “I owe you my gratitude and an apology.”
He made a dismissive
gesture. “I dinna want either. What I want is the full story.”
Diarmid crossed to pull her chair out for her. What he really wanted to do was take her hand and offer some physical comfort. He knew better than to risk the contact. Not with only the two of them in this cottage and a bed waiting against the wall behind him.
The last thing she needed was his desire. Now he looked more closely, he saw the marks of a hunted animal in her demeanor. Vulnerability flashed in those winter blue eyes and as she faced him down, she looked both alone and lonely.
“Thank you,” she whispered, sitting with that instinctive grace that always made his heart lurch. “After all my lies, I can’t blame you for being suspicious of me.”
“Och, the time for keeping secrets is well and truly past. Tell me everything, Fiona.” Wanting to reassure her, he dredged up a smile as he took his seat. “I cannae help ye, until I ken just what we’re up against.”
***
We …
Fiona stared at this remarkable man who proclaimed himself so unconditionally her defender. Since her father’s death ten years ago, nobody had championed her. Hearing someone declare they were on her side was overwhelming. After being alone and powerless for so long, the change was too much to take in.
As she stared into that dark, intense face, something told her that she was safe to trust Diarmid Mactavish. Her gaze dwelled on the strong bones of his face. The wide forehead. The marked black brows, currently drawn together in a frown of concern—for her. The high Celtic cheekbones. The lordly nose. The determined jaw.
He’d taken her in and asked nothing in return for his kindness. Even after she’d repaid his hospitality with lies and theft, he’d defied the Grants to save her. And believed he was risking arrest by doing so.
Over and over, he’d proven himself worthy. She owed him the truth, even if the habit of hiding away from questions had become so ingrained, it was part of her.
“My father was a Grant,” she said, steadying her voice and laying her hands flat on the rough pine tabletop.
Fiona waited for Diarmid to question the odd beginning to the tale. But he leaned back in his chair with every sign that he was happy for her to proceed as she wished. That was something else she liked about the Laird of Invertavey. His patience.
Her constant fear fluttered down to rest, as she sucked in a deep breath. She’d spent the last weeks feeling like an iron vise tightened around her ribs. Now she felt free as she hadn’t felt free since she’d lived in Edinburgh as a child.
“He was Allan Grant’s cousin and given all sorts of privileges because he was his mother’s favorite and the child of his father’s old age.” She glanced down at the table again. Something about Diarmid’s unwavering attention made her feel strange, unlike herself. It set up a strange wobble inside her, like butterflies beating their wings against the walls of her stomach. “Because of this, he was the only Grant ever allowed to leave Bancavan to get an education. Not just that, he was clever. He ended up teaching at Edinburgh University, which was where he met my mother and married her. She was the daughter of one of the masters.”
As ever when she spoke of her parents, grief gnawed at her. Both had been good people. Both had passed away far too early.
“What did he teach?” Diarmid asked gently.
Her eyes swept up to his face, and she saw he’d heard both the love and sorrow in her voice. Yet again, she noted what a perceptive man he was.
At his house, that perception had scared the life out of her. It still did, but not because she feared he might see through her lies. Now she feared that he might see the dangerous confusion she felt when she looked at him. She’d never found a man attractive. Ten years of abuse had killed any yen she might feel for a handsome face. Or at least so she’d believed, until she met the Laird of Invertavey.
“Mathematics.” Despite everything, a fond smile curved her lips. “If that implies a certain unworldliness, you’re right. You’d have liked him. Most people did.” All urge to smile faded away. “When I was nine, my mother died giving birth to a baby boy.”
“You have a brother?”
“No. He never took a breath.”