Page 52

“ Bon soir, mon fils ,” she greeted him, though her attention drifted back to her basket. “Where did I put the autumn crocus?” she muttered in French.

He scanned the camp. The usual hum of activity had quieted, and her granddaughter was nowhere in sight. “Where is Veronique?”

Amice sighed, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of weariness.

“The child’s been up to mischief again. I’m too old to keep scolding and chasing after her, yet she insists on acting like a wild thing.

” She shook her head, but her expression betrayed her worry, the lines around her eyes deepened by concern.

“It troubles ye more than ye let on,” Broderick said, his gaze steady, reading the shadows in her features.

Amice hesitated, then her facade cracked, just a little. “Aye, it does. She’s too much like her mother. I fear she’ll follow the same path if she does not change.”

“She won’t,” Broderick said firmly. “I’ve been stern with her. She knows I dinnae love her the way she wishes me tae. ”

Amice gave a mirthless chuckle, the sound brittle as dry leaves. “Your rejections only fuel her determination. She’s as stubborn as Monique ever was. What am I to do with her, then?”

Broderick frowned but refused to accept the comparison. “She’ll grow out of it. As soon as she finds a lad closer tae her age, ye’ll see.”

Amice shook her head, her expression heavy with doubt. “ Non, mon fils . There, you are wrong.”

She returned to searching her basket, her gnarled fingers moving with restless precision.

The sound of music drifted toward them, lilting and warm.

It drew Broderick’s attention to the bonfire at the center of the camp.

A slow, sweet melody floated through the air, and he saw Rosselyn and Nicabar dancing, the firelight casting their figures in a golden glow, like silhouettes carved from flame.

Broderick lingered for a moment, watching as Nicabar twirled Rosselyn before pulling her close, his grin wide and infectious. When Nicabar caught sight of him, he waved Broderick over with a laugh.

“ Mi hermano !” Nicabar called, his voice bright with joy. “Come, come! I would have you meet my future wife!”

Broderick’s brows shot up. “Wife?”

Amice nodded, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Broderick kissed her furrowed brow. “All will be well, my friend.” He patted her gently, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance, then strode to the bonfire where villagers danced, their shadows weaving between the firelight and darkness.

“What is this about a wife?” Broderick asked with a crooked grin as he and Nicabar clasped forearms in greeting.

“You think you are the only one permitted to be happy?” Nicabar teased, his grin wide.

Broderick rolled his eyes, though the words stirred a hollow ache within him.

Happy wasn’t exactly how he’d describe his tangled arrangement with Davina.

Still, he offered a polite smile. “Congratulations,” he said, though unease coiled tight in his chest, the memory of his dream gnawing at him like a festering wound.

“Tell me—how has Davina taken the news?”

Rosselyn’s smile faltered, the light in her eyes dimming, and sorrow filled the air around her like a shroud. She bowed her head, her voice tight with unshed tears. “She…she didn’t take it well,” she admitted, her voice trembling like a brittle leaf in the wind. “She made my mither and I leave.”

“I’m sorry.” Broderick frowned, concern shadowing his features. “Is she all right? Are you all right?”

Rosselyn hesitated, her unease palpable. “Thanks to Nicabar, we are fine. As for Davina, I don’t know, but what’s done is done. I have a new life now.” She clung to Nicabar, as if drawing strength from his solid presence. “Will you be staying in Stewart Glen?”

“Only for a few days,” Broderick replied, keeping his tone neutral. “I dinnae think Davina wants me around anymore, either.”

With that, he bid them good night and turned from the camp, the weight of unanswered questions heavy on his heart.

When Broderick reached the castle, the gates creaked open at his approach. “Lord MacDougal,” the guards greeted him, their voices laced with deference.

God’s blood, he hadn’t been called that in decades. The title settled uneasily on his shoulders, like a cloak he’d long since outgrown. Memories clawed at him, but he shoved them aside as he entered the castle and ascended the stone steps to his chamber.

The scent of rose oil lingered in the air, bittersweet and haunting. It clung to the disheveled sheets, a ghost of Davina’s presence. His gaze drifted to the nursery door that connected their rooms.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.

From the other side, he heard her hurried footsteps, followed by the faint snick of the lock turning.

Brows furrowing, he strode into the hallway and around to the main door of her chamber. Just as he reached for the handle, he heard the lock click into place.

A low growl fluttered up his throat.

Wide-eyed, Davina stood in the middle of her room, nibbling on her thumbnail. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, each beat sounding louder than the last. She stared at the door, willing it to remain closed, even though she knew it wouldn’t hold.

“Davina,” came Broderick’s deep, commanding voice from the other side. “Open the door.”

She didn’t move, her breath catching in her throat. Her pulse galloped wildly, and all she could hear was the deafening rush of blood in her ears.

The sound of metal clinking against metal reached her, and her stomach twisted. Damn Uncle Tammus! Of course, Broderick had a key. But it didn’t seem to work—not at first. She heard him curse softly under his breath, then the scrape of the key trying again.

This time, the lock turned with an audible click.

Bloody hell !

She bolted for the nursery door.

Broderick crossed the room, his long legs devouring the distance, his larger frame casting a dark shadow across her path. He blocked her escape, a living wall between her and freedom. She froze, her hand still gripping the nursery door handle as if it were her only lifeline.

“Blossom,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “What’s going on?”

She couldn’t look at him. Refused to. If she met his gaze, he’d see too much. He’d see everything.

Her knuckles whitened on the handle, her breath shallow and quick, but his hand rose, calloused fingertips brushing beneath her chin. He tilted her face toward him with gentle insistence.

She kept her eyes downcast, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. The harshness in his expression softened, shadows chased away by something deeper—concern, perhaps, or something far more dangerous.

Her chest tightened painfully, as if a band had been cinched around her ribs, and she could barely draw breath beneath its crushing hold.

His jaw clenched, as if he were fighting something inside himself, and before she could react, he pulled her into his arms.

The warmth of his chest, the steady strength of his heartbeat against her ear, and the soothing stroke of his palm up and down her spine unraveled her completely.

She broke, sobbing against him as if the floodgates had burst, clinging to him with desperate hands.

He held her tighter, cradling her head against his chest.

Bending forward, Broderick swept her legs out from under her, and sat on the bed, settling her in his lap.

She buried her face in his neck, where she felt the faint scratch of his beard against her temple.

The subtle scent of leather and earth clung to him, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected.

His hands stroked her hair, his voice a low murmur against her ear. “What happened, Blossom?”

The tenderness in his words, the warmth of his touch—it was all too much. She wanted to believe he cared. Wanted to believe he was different. But the shame of her vulnerability wrapped around her like iron chains, and she shoved away from him, sliding off his lap and onto her feet.

“Why does it matter to you?” she snapped, her voice raw with emotion. “Why are you pretending to care? You’re just like every other man who’s only interested in one thing—pleasing that offending member between your damn legs!”

Broderick blinked, then smirked, leaning back on the bed with infuriating ease. He planted his hands on the mattress behind him, propping himself up, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “I see.” he drawled, his tone laced with amusement.

Her hands balled into fists, and she began to pace, her frustration spilling out in a flurry of words. “You’re all the same. Every last one of you. My father, my husband, every man I’ve ever known. Including you.”

His eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and for a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback. But then his expression shifted, his smirk returning as if it were permanently etched onto his face. “I beg tae differ on that point,” he said smoothly. “I know plenty o’ men far worse than me.”

She snorted. “I doubt that.”

His grin faltered, replaced by a slight frown. “Well, tha’ was a whack in the bullocks,” he muttered under his breath. He sat up straighter, his tone more serious now. “I can think of one man right now who fits that description—yer late husband. ”

Her breath caught, and her pacing stilled. She realized the cruelty of her words. He was right. Ian had been a monster. A cruel, heartless man who had taken far more than he’d ever given. Broderick was nothing like Ian. She nodded stiffly, unable to argue.

Broderick pushed off the bed, towering over her as he closed the distance between them. “I’m not like other men,” he said, his voice deep and firm. “And I’ll prove it tae ye.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Sorry, but last night proved my previous statement. You have only been interested in getting me into bed.”

“That doesnae mean ye cannae trust me.” With an arched brow, he turned and strode toward her wardrobe. He rifled inside for a moment before pulling out one of her sashes. The boldness of his actions left her speechless, and she stared as he stretched the sash between his hands.

“That is one thing ye can do,” he said, his voice softer now.

“I trust no man.” She jutted her chin forward “That’s why I wanted to live without one.”

He moved behind her, his footsteps calculated, and she stiffened as he lifted the sash over her head. The fabric came toward her face. She grabbed his wrists, her voice trembling. “What are you doing?”

“Opening yer eyes, Blossom.” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Trust me.”