Page 122 of Rogue of My Heart

“I’m so sorry, Lord Garvagh, Lady Aoife,” she blurted. “Christian and I trapped you in the springhouse deliberately in an effort to get you to admit your feelings for each other. I knew you couldn’t possibly marry Christian,” she told Lady Aoife, her words fast and breathless. It was as if Marie suddenly needed to confess absolutely everything as penance after her brush with death. “I know you love Lord Garvagh, and I love Christian.” She leaned into Christian, grasping his hand. “None of us would have been happy if we’d gone through with what the idiots who arranged our betrothals wanted.”

“But…but how did you know?” Lady Aoife blinked rapidly, blushing harder than Christian had ever seen a woman blush.

“I saw you with Lord Garvagh right here the other day,” Marie confessed. “But I’d noticed the way the two of you look at each other before that.”

“You are observant, Lady Marie,” Ned said, continuing to look as though he might want to smile, but didn’t dare to.

Lady Aoife gasped suddenly, clasping a hand to her chest. “Dear God, you heard me confess to…to….” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so could block out everything they’d heard her say to Ned in the springhouse.

“You’re not the only one,” Christian told Ned, hoping the man would catch which way the wind was blowing so that further explanations weren’t necessary.

“That was the reason my brother was so adamant about engaging me to whatever gentleman he could,” Lady Aoife said. “He knew I’d sinned, and he feared the consequences. He…he demanded I reveal my lover’s name, and when I refused to incriminate Ned, he arranged a marriage he believed would be suitable. But Ned is the man I love.”

“Lord Kilrea,” Ned said with exaggerated formality, standing straighter. “I would humbly request that you break your engagement to Lady Aoife.” He stepped closer to the woman’s side, slipping an arm around her waist. “I believe Lady Marie is correct in that we would all be happier if we were able to follow our hearts and not our misguided senses of duty.”

“I agree,” Christian said. The spark of a thought kept him from shaking hands on everything yet, though. “I agree on one condition,” he went on.

“Condition?” Marie gaped at him, looking ready to browbeat him if she didn’t like what he said next.

A grin pulled at the corner of Christian’s mouth. “As I understand it, in medieval times, brides were traded for land.” He peeked at Marie. “A wise scholar suggested that the practice could be renewed.”

Ned’s back stiffened, and he narrowed his eyes at Christian. “Are you saying you’ll only release Lady Aoife to marry me if I give over this disputed property to you?”

Christian could see at once that driving that hard of a bargain would hurt him in the long run instead of helping. “No,” he said with a laugh. “I was just teasing. But I do think the two of us should be able to come out to some sort of agreement that will allow for shared rights to the spring and its benefits. Are you willing to compromise for a deal that will benefit all?”

Ned smiled, extending his hand. “I am,” he said. When Christian shook the offered hand, Ned went on with, “You’re a far better negotiator than your father ever was. I have a feeling we’ve entered a new era of cooperation between our estates.”

His words were meant as a compliment, but they squeezed Christian’s heart with almost unimaginable sorrow. “My father,” he said, glancing off into the distance. The grief that had held him in its grip threatened to drag him under again, like the flow of the stream had almost dragged Marie to a watery death.

Before those thoughts could truly take hold, though, he spotted one of his footmen racing down the hill toward them. “My lord!” the young man called, his voice as urgent as his running. “My lord, you must come now. Your mother!”

Christian didn’t wait to ask what the man meant by his words. He shot into motion. Marie ran with him, in spite of her sodden clothes. Even Ned and Lady Aoife raced up the hillside toward the house with him.

“My lord, she’s awake,” the footman gasped as Christian and Marie reached him.

“Awake?” Marie panted.

“Yes, my lady.” The footman glanced briefly to Marie as they all dashed for the house. He went on with, “And she’s asking for you, my lord.”

Christian was wet from his thighs down, caked with mud, and smelled of sweat and stagnant water, but he didn’t care. He tore through the house—Marie keeping close to his side, even though she was more of a sloppy, dripping mess than he was—and up the stairs to his mother’s bedchamber.

A cry of joy nearly ripped from his lungs as he burst into her doorway, only to find his mother sitting up in bed. The sling encasing her broken left arm was more visible with her sitting up. Dozens of pillows were propped behind her, and she still looked as weak as a baby bird as a nurse fed her broth, but she was clearly awake.

“Christian,” she choked out, raising her shaky hands to him.

The nurse pulled away as Christian charged to his mother’s side.

“Mama,” he groaned, practically throwing himself into her arms, as though he were still a lad of five. She was and always would be his mother, and he needed her right then more than he’d ever needed anyone. “Oh, Mama, you’re back.” He wept against her shoulder, not caring who saw him so unmanned.

“There, there, dear,” she said in a wisp of a voice. “You’re all right, my darling.”

Christian poured his heart out in weeping for a few more seconds before the fullness of the situation hit him. He jerked straight, grasping his mother’s thin, cool hands, and looked guiltily into her eyes. “Mama, did they tell you what happened?” he asked, his voice cracking.

His mother nodded, her face pinching and tears forming in her eyes. The way her soft lips quivered and grief filled her face was too much for Christian to bear. But he had to bear it. Responsibility wasn’t only about solving property disputes and marrying the right woman, it was about being the rock that the people he loved needed in their darkest moments. Marie had taught him that.

“I’m so sorry, Mama,” he said, trying to be strong. Tears streamed across his cheeks all the same. “It was my fault. The accident was all my fault. I…I killed them.”

His mother’s eyes widened, and her mouth quivered for a moment before she could ask, “What do you mean?”