But that wasn’t what Alistair was asking. “Since ye lost Flora, could ye imagine finding love again? Mayhap with Glynnis?”
Da snorted. “No’ with her. But then, I didnae expect to. Her da offered her as a political alliance, and I accepted, kenning I needed an heir. When she died without giving me a living son, I swore never again. I had ye and yer brothers, and Nessa, and I wouldnae risk tying myself to another bitch like Glynnis.”
“But”—Alistair’s gaze slid back toward Moira—“have ye found happiness again? Especially since ye’ve given up so many of the headaches of being laird?”
Da glanced at him, saw where he was looking, and smiled. A genuine smile, one bright enough to be seen through that bush of a beard he wore.
“Och. Well, lad…” He dropped his arms, then slammed a hand down on Alistair’s shoulder. “I’ve found a certain kind of happiness. Mayhap no’ the same as when I was young and in love, but there’s something to be said about a woman who makes ye laugh and smile and feel good inside, aye? One who wants to take care of ye and make ye the best man ye can be.”
Alistair considered his father’s words. “I think I ken what ye mean. ‘Tis a different kind of love.”
“Aye. But—and this is me aulder and wiser here, saying this—‘tis better. What I had with Flora, aye, that kind of love burned bright and hot.” His gaze crept back to Moira. “But the other kind—the caring, the learning to rely on each other and valuing one another’s thoughts—that kind of love can come with heat too, but ‘tis more. That’s the sort of love that will last for a verra, verra long time.”
Watching his father watch Moira, Alistair felt emotion clogging his throat. He’d never assumed his father had loved his mother—all his brothers knew Da had only been using their mothers in his grief. Finn and Dunc’s mam still lived in the village, married to the blacksmith, and her relationship with the laird was cordial, but naught more.
The only time he’d seen his father in a real relationship had been with that bitch, Glynnis, and the poor man had been pitied more than aught else.
But now…?
Da’s eyes followed Moira’s movements as the woman moved to teasing wee Liam, who was trying to grab at a tart. When she smiled, Da did too.
“Ye deserve to be happy, Da,” he murmured.
“Aye! I do. ‘Tis almost my birthday, ye ken.” The laird cleared his throat. “Now, enough of this imparting of my great wisdom! Let’s go eat.” He slapped a big hand on his son’s shoulder, then took off toward the laird’s chair.
While considering the bits of fatherly wisdom he’d just received, Alistair trailed after him.
The week following the disastrous encounter with Alistair, when he asked her to marry him, was one of the longest in Lara’s life.
Disastrous? Worst in yer life? Are ye no’ being a bit melodramatic?
Well, aright. The week she found out the Oliphant bastards—including Alistair—had to get married—that had been a horrible week.
And the week when she’d eaten those raw oysters, despite being suspicious they were no’ as fresh as the merchant had claimed, and had been unable to quit puking long enough to beg for mercy, that had been a horrible week.
Oh, or the week when she’d gotten her first menses, and had been certain the devil and all his little demons were playing a pipe-and-drum parade across her lower back, that had been a horrible week.
And let us not forget the week when Brohn had tricked her into rubbing nettles across her arms and shoulders, telling her ‘twould make her smell good to the lads, and she’d been inflamed and red and in pain for days—
Actually, that one wasn’t so bad, because she’d gotten back at her older brother by putting soap in his stew.
Heh.
Still, this week was among the worst she’d ever experienced. If she would’ve been able to just hide in her chamber, or the kitchens, or even the great hall, and avoid Alistair, it might’ve been one thing. But nay, she had to actually see the man; sit with him, talk to him…and not touch him.
Blessed Virgin, but the not touching part was the hardest of all.
She wasn’t certain how she made it through those meetings with him, discussing his father’s birthday celebration. She sat on that same stool, the stool she’d moved to his side of the desk the afternoon she’d helped him relax, and ‘twas impossible not to sit there and think of that day.
Or the evening they’d spent in her bed.
Or the afternoon he’d proposed marriage to her.
Or the myriad of heated glances and breathless—
Aye, impossible no’ to think of it apparently.
They didn’t speak of those times, the kisses nor the lovemaking nor his cock. They didn’t bring up his erroneous assumptions that she’d had other lovers besides Treenis, nor did he ask who the man was whom she’d given her heart to. And they most definitely didn’t bring up his ill-thought-out marriage proposal.
Instead, they talked about the birthday celebration. She was certain she could’ve handled the planning process alone, but she liked being with him. And she liked that—now that he’d turned the clan’s correspondence over to Kiergan—he had more time for rest.
Unfortunately, he didn’t look more relaxed. Whenever she was with him, he seemed…awkward. He kept looking at her as if he couldn’t figure her out.
As if he was confused.
And that made her heart ache.
She’d set out to make him laugh as often as possible, and oftentimes it worked. When he smiled or laughed, she felt as if she’d succeeded in taking care of him. He’d relax then, slumping back in his chair and asking her opinion or thoughts on something-or-other, and that gave them a chance to talk about all sorts of things.
But never love-making. Nor marriage. Nor his father’s contest to determine who would become the next laird.
Because bringing up any of that would likely cause her heart to break even further.
“Why are ye in such a snit?”
Lara jerked her attention away from her task—which she hadn’t been too successful at anyway—to glare over her shoulder at Nessa. “I’m no’ in a snit. Who says snit, honestly? And what in damnation is a snit anyhow?”
“Damnation!” roared little Liam, who was playing with carved soldiers on the rug by the hearth in the women’s solar. “Damnation!” He made the sound of an explosion, and knocked over five little figures, as Nanny—the large, hairy hound who was his nursemaid—lifted her head and whuffed inquisitively.
“Oh, excellent,” hissed Nessa, “ye taught him a new word!”
Shaking her head, Lara turned back to wee Tomas, who was sitting in the chair in front of her, propped up by pillows. She was trying to get him to eat some of the mashed peaches she’d made, so he’d have something besides his mother’s milk, which he was always spitting up.
“Liam,” she called over her shoulder, scooping up another small bite of the mashed baby food, “dinnae use that word. But if ye do, tell yer father ye learned it from Brohn, aright?”
“Damnation, Brohn!”
Nessa gasped, “Dinnae blame yer brother for yer own terrible vocabulary!”