The fraught silence stretched onward, the initial uncomfortable sliver lengthening into an unspoken challenge. A challenge he knew for damned certain he’d lost. Shite. With a grumbled oath, Liam slouched against his chair.
He wouldn’t put it past the enigmatic Emeline LeClaire to set out on her own if he didn’t answer. And by damn, he hadn’t risked his life to have her break her dainty neck haring about these storm-ravaged woodlands. However, for this unwelcome conversation, he’d need something significantly stronger than tea.
He wrested his flask from his coat pocket, and after taking a long swallow—relishing the steady, bracing burn to his gut—he set the silver container atop the table. He didn’t bother putting the cap back on since he knew full well, he’d likely finish the contents. He also knew there were two bottles of whisky and another two of brandy at the back of the top shelf. After all, he’d seen the cottage supplied last.
If he were alone, he’d likely drink himself into oblivion. Something he’d done far too much of over these past few years. A habit he’d vowed nearly daily to stop; to cease giving Kristin that kind of power over him. But grief, hatred, bitterness, heartbreak, and despair were much easier to face with a dram or two of strong spirits dulling one’s senses.
So was the knowledge he’d never see his wee darlings again.
Schooling his features into a mask of indifference he was far from feeling as the fury yet fulminating in his veins testified, he regarded Emeline coolly.
She met his gaze straight on, her eyes bright and clear.
Again, he admired her pluck. He was accustomed to men cowing from him when he leveled his frigid glare upon them.
“My wife was English,” he said, the words bitter upon his tongue. “A Sassenach from Kent. The short story is that after trickin’ me into marryin’ her, and nearly four years of livin’ in the Highlands, she decided it wasna the life for her, after all. One day in early January, when I took several of my clansmen to deal with marauders on the northern border, she packed our children into a travelin’ coach, intent on returnin’ to her parents in England.”
He stared at the table, absently noting the many scratches and grooves from the fifteen plus years of him and his friends using the place. He ran his forefinger over a deep indentation, which, if he recalled correctly, was a result of Broden McGregor’s cutting a stag hide.
“I returned three days later, after havin’ chased the bandits from my lands. To my absolute dismay, I learned the coach carryin’ Kristin and our children had overturned on a particularly treacherous stretch of road less than ten miles from Eytone Hall. I have nae idea why she chose that circuitous route in the winter.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Unless to deliberately evade me.”
He’d never forced her to his bed. Never laid a hand upon her in anger. Never demanded she assume the duties of the lady of the house or visit the tenants or villagers. Kristin had been a pampered, self-indulgent termagant.
Dragging his gaze upward, he recognized his own misery reflected in Emeline’s incandescent eyes. A tear leaked from the corner of hers and dribbled down her cheek.
She made no effort to wipe it away. “And…they all died?”
Giving a terse nod, he swallowed against the boulder in his throat. “Aye. The coach rolled several times. All were lost, includin’ her maid, the coachmen, and the team.”
Lower lip clamped between her neat white teeth, she slanted her head, emphasizing the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders. She was all grace and loveliness, yet she seemed wholly unaware of her subtle appeal.
Emeline’s was a gentle beauty like that of a candle’s soft glow on a sleeping bairn’s face rather than the vibrant hues of a glorious sunset or sunrise upon a loch. One branded the heart, the other, the soul.
“Thank ye for tellin’ me, Liam, and please forgive me for insistin’ ye reveal somethin’ so terribly painful to a woman ye dinna ken.” She knuckled away the moisture from the corner of her eyes. “I ken my words dinna help ease yer pain, but I am verra sorry ye have suffered so. I’d have gone mad with the grief.”
He was still half-mad after five years. When would he heal? Would he ever? Was this to be his existence for the rest of his life, only half-alive?
Moody? Angry? Bitter?
“Thank ye,” he solemnly said. In some small way, it had helped to tell her. But he feared he might’ve uncorked a bottle, and now there’d be no way in hell of stopping the contents from gushing forth.
Her expression at once despondent and compassionate, she pushed her chair back. “I…I should check the bread.”
“And I’ll take care of the hares.” He stood as well. At the door he paused. “Emeline?”
“Aye?” Holding the bowl with the bread dough in one hand, she glanced over her slender shoulder.
Liam reached into his sporran and withdrew an embroidered velvet coin purse. As he did so, she straightened and faced him, wonderment softening her features.
“I collected this yesterday,” he said, crossing to her in three paces. “I placed yer aunt’s earrin’s inside, too.” The woman hadn’t been wearing any other jewelry but the simple pearl earrings. The pretty fallal was another reminder Emeline had lost everything, including any valuables she might’ve been traveling with.
Her expression a mélange of sanguinity and melancholy, she set the dough aside and accepted the small gold purse. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the clasp. What might’ve been relief flickered over her face.
She lifted a chatelain with keys from the copper-colored silk lining the purse. “I worried the keys to my home and the shop had been lost in the flood. I didna ken how I would open either. Thank ye for thinkin’ to grab this and my aunt’s earbobs, too. She wore them every day. They were a gift from her father.”
She gave him a fragile, watery smile.
Without conscious thought, Liam brushed the moisture from beneath her eye with his thumb pad and framed her jaw between his fingers with the other. “It pains me to see ye so sad.”
Her mouth parted on a silent, sharp inhalation, and his attention dropped to her lips. God and all the divine powers, how he wanted to kiss those soft, pink lips.
“Liam?” she whispered breathlessly. Achingly. Invitingly.
Nae. NAE!
Wrenching his hand away as if scorched, he spun on his heel and seized the hares before stomping from the cottage. If he wasn’t halfway to numpty before, spending several more days alone with Emeline would drive him to the brink.
Already, his whole body hummed, responding to her, and he’d revealed more about the deaths of his bairns to her than anyone. As if compelled by a force far more powerful than him, he speared a glance to the window, half-expecting to see her on the other side.
Instead, only the sun’s golden hues reflected on the dusty panes.
“Emeline,” he muttered ferociously beneath his breath. “I canna let ye past my guards. I canna.”
I willna.
*
An hour later, Liam reentered the cottage and gave an appreciative sniff. At his entrance, Emeline smiled a trifle tentatively and hopeful, as well. It seemed he’d put their encounter behind him and had returned to the coolly polite stranger she’d first met.