Page 37

CHAPTER 37

The hammer came down hard on the glowing metal blade, sparks erupting like fiery salt spray, as sweat poured down Gordon’s back, dripping from his brow. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been holed up in his forge, but until he had hammered out all thoughts of Anna, he wouldn’t be leaving.

Thus far, he hadn’t managed to rid himself of a single memory.

It hasnae been more than a week. In time, I’ll forget her.

Picking up the smoldering blade with a thick glove, he took it to the water barrel and dunked it in. A splintering crack cut through the air, a sharp expletive hissing from his lips. A hundred times, he’d tried to forge this sword; a hundred times, it had cracked or shattered, forcing him to start again.

“Looks like it doesnae want to go together,” a voice said from the doorway.

Gordon watched the steam rise from the barrel, wondering if he ought to attach a bell to that door, so he wouldn’t be surprised by unwelcome visitors.

“Leave me be, David,” he muttered, grimacing as the water stilled and revealed his reflection.

“I’d love to,” his m an-at-a rms replied, “but ye’ve an uncle and a cousin upstairs who keep pesterin’ me about ye, askin’ if ye’ve eaten, if ye’ve slept, if ye’ve bathed. And as long as they’re pesterin’ me, I’m goin’ to keep pesterin’ ye. So, when was the last time ye did those things, so I can report back?”

Gordon didn’t reply, stalking over to the crate of sword pieces that he had collected over the years, tucked away in the corner of the forge. He crouched down, picking through the jagged fragments, certain that the next sword he attempted to make would stay whole.

“A letter came from Lady Anna this mornin’,” David said, and Gordon froze.

“Did she leave somethin’ behind?”

“It wasnae for ye,” David replied coolly. “It was for Sophia, apologizin’ for the hasty manner in which she departed. Ye should probably send a letter back, though, apologizin’ for nae even botherin’ to say goodbye to her when she left. She looked for ye, ye ken, right before she got in the carriage. She was pretendin’ nae to, but I could tell she was.”

Gordon clenched a fragment in his hand, the dulled edge biting into his palm. “I couldnae.”

“What? Did ye say somethin’?”

Floundering for a single sentence that could encompass the depth of his regret, Gordon let his actions speak for him. Anger and sorrow pummeled through his veins, his weary arms still possessing enough strength to flip the entire crate of sword fragments, sending them skittering across the worn floor in every direction.

“I couldnae!” he roared, grasping the hammer and slamming it down onto the anvil. “I couldnae watch her leave, for pity’s sake! I couldnae say goodbye because it would have ripped me withered heart right out of me chest! But I’d watch her leave a thousand times over, if it meant I dinnae have to see her shrivel and dim at me side, because I took away her freedom and her choice! She deserves love, David. She deserves a man she chooses, nae the best of a meager selection, all there for the same daft reason!”

“Idiot. Ye bloody idiot!” David shot back.

Gordon whirled around, hammer still in hand, glaring at his m an-at-a rms. It wasn’t wise to poke the bear when it was already hurting.

David seemed to realize that, as he bowed his head and apologized in a rush, lowering his voice as he said, “I’m sorry, M’Laird. I shouldnae have spoken to ye like that, but… ye are an idiot.” He cleared his throat, clearly nervous. “And if ye keep actin’ like this, hidin’ away, tryin’ to bash away yer feelings for her, then ye’ll lose her forever.”

“I cannae love her, David,” Gordon insisted, breathing hard.

Shaking his head, David smiled. “Aye, ye can. Ye can because ye already do. Ye as good as admitted it when ye said that sayin’ goodbye to her would have ripped yer heart from yer chest. And the fact ye were willin’ to let her go, to give her freedom, shows ye love her, even if ye could’ve just loved her here instead and nae been a prized fool. But it’s a mistake ye can remedy if ye’re quick.”

“What do ye mean?” Gordon faltered, his heart beating strangely, as though it was trying to let him know that it was there, and that it beat for Anna.

Is he right? Do I… love her?

The fact that he hadn’t slept or eaten or bathed or left his forge for the better part of a week suggested that, at the very least, he felt something for her. Felt a lot for her, if he dared to be honest with himself.

But to love is to lose… It didn’t matter that Beathan was dead and buried in an unmarked grave; there’d be others. He couldn’t allow himself to love Anna, because he had no doubt that it would make him insufferable and overbearing, keeping an eye on her all day and all night, terrified of the moment he would look away and she would be taken from him.

“I heard her faither is plannin’ another auction soon,” David replied, raising a pointed eyebrow. “So, it looks like ye were wrong about her havin’ her freedom to choose. If anythin’, what happened at yer almost-weddin’ seems to have made Laird MacTorrach more determined to get his daughter married off.”

Gordon gripped the handle of the hammer until his knuckles turned white, his teeth gritted as he rasped, “I daenae care. I’ve done me part. The rest is… up to her.”

“Aye, of course ye daenae care.” David rolled his eyes. “That’s why ye’re about to snap that handle in two. That’s why ye’re down here tryin’ to make an impossible sword.”

Gordon glared at his Man-at-Arms. “She willnae let the same thing happen to her twice. She’ll find a way to be free. I daenae have to care anymore; she’s nay longer me concern.”

It was all a lie; the very thought of Thomas Lane putting his daughter through yet another auction made Gordon’s blood boil. Yet, he didn’t know what to do.

If he went to her, what good would it do? It wasn’t as if he had a right to stop the auction. But if he left her to the ravenous wolves of the unwed Highland Lairds who wished to bid for her, she would never be free, or happy for that matter.

The irony wasn’t lost on him that Beathan would have offered sage advice on such matters, talking sense into him, helping him to see the clearest path.

“Fine, then ye willnae mind if I burn the drawin’ one of the maids found under her bed,” David said, removing something that had been tucked into his belt. Slowly, he unfolded the creased piece of paper, holding it out with a sly grin upon his face.

Gordon’s heart stuttered at the sight of that precious, painful drawing: him, horned and fanged and unnatural, holding his broken human bride in his arms, while an army of glinting-eyed child-demons swarmed behind.

At least, that was what he thought the drawing was, at first. But as he took a closer look, he saw that the original had been altered slightly, detailed additions made with a talented hand.

The bride in his arms had her eyes slightly opened, peering up at the monster with a slight, soft smile upon her lips, while the monster gazed back down at her with his one eye, no cruelty in the expression, only determination. And Gordon noticed that the monster’s shoulders were curved inward, as if to protect his bride, like he was carrying her away from danger, rather than being the source of it.

Or, perhaps, the drawing hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps, he was just looking at it in a different light.

David walked to the nearest candle and touched the edge of the drawing to it, a teardrop of flame licking the paper.

Before he knew it, Gordon was right there, snatching the drawing out of David’s hand, clamping his own hand down on the hungry flame to extinguish it. The burn stung his palm, but Gordon didn’t flinch, turning cold eyes on his m an-at-a rms.

“Leave,” he growled.

A flicker of true fear passed across David’s face, his head bowing. “Aye, M’Laird.”

He backed out of the forge without another word, leaving Gordon alone, staring down at the burnt drawing, seeing a few more details he hadn’t noticed before: that the bride’s hand was resting on her heart, and that a shard of light seemed to be coming down from the heavens, falling on the monster and his beloved.

I shall tear the last pages out of every single one of Faither’s books for this, so he never kens the endin’ of any.

Anna tucked herself into the slight hollow at the base of the huge ash tree that towered over the gardens of Castle MacTorrach, hiding in the shade between the castle wall and the trunk, praying no one would find her there.

I havenae hidden here since I was a lassie.

The thought saddened her, her hand reaching out to touch the thick limb of a root that grew toward the wall, before disappearing beneath it. Both had grown with the years, yet neither had changed their fate; the ash tree could never leave this corner of the gardens, and she would never get to choose which corner of the world she lived in, nor with whom.

“Are ye certain she came out here?” a male voice asked, making her cringe.

“She mustnae be,” another replied. “The wee minx obviously wants us to chase her.”

“I’d wager she’s in the library, like yesterday,” a third voice declared. “Probably pretendin’ to read, though there’ll be none of that when she’s me bride. She’ll nae have the time for readin’; I’ll make sure of that.”

Anger flared in Anna’s chest, almost boiling hot enough to make her emerge from her hiding place to give those vile men a piece of her mind, but sense prevailed, keeping her in that safe gap between the tree and the wall.

Soon enough, their voices faded, and she heard the slam of the door that led out into the gardens. Relaxing back against the tree, she tilted her head up to the boughs, sunlight dappling through the leaves and onto her face. It was a beautiful afternoon, the skies blue, the breeze mild, the gardens as perfect as they had ever been, but she could draw no joy from any of it.

I wish I was on the beach, in that secret cove, with him…

It would have been a lovely day for a picnic there, and she never did get to see the rockpools… or enjoy her wedding night with the man she couldn’t seem to stop loving.

More than a week had gone by since she’d departed Castle Lyall, all of her belongings returning with her, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d left something important behind. Two important things, in truth: her heart and her mind.

Morning, noon, and night, she thought of Gordon, daydreamed of Gordon, imagined what he might be doing, imagined what she might be doing if she was still there with him.

In the evenings, alone in her room, she poured her feelings onto the pages in her portfolio, cursing when her tears splashed onto the drawings, ruining parts of them.

At night, she dreamed vividly of him, so that awakening became a brutal, crushing disappointment: a harsh reminder of her renewed situation as ‘that eligible Lane lass with the blessed womb.’

Would I still feel this way if Faither hadnae organized another auction, the moment I came back? She frowned, quietly removing her portfolio from the bag she’d brought out into the gardens with her. If I was truly free, would I be grateful to Gordon for this? Happy, even?

She couldn’t find an answer the ordinary way, so she drew her feelings, letting her mind go blank as her thin stick of charcoal scratched and shaded and danced across the page.

By the time she was done, the dappled light coming through the branches had shifted slightly, letting her know that she’d been drawing for a fair while.

Hesitantly, she blew away some charcoal dust and wiped her darkened fingertips on her skirt, taking a look at her handiwork for the first time.

“Oh…” she gasped, forgetting that she was supposed to be quiet as a mouse. “Oh… oh, nay… that’s… oh…”

The drawing was an echo of the first one she had ever created of Gordon: he was a horned, fork-tailed, fanged, one-eyed devil, but rather than a snarl, there was a smirk upon his lips.

And the bride in his arms wasn’t lying limp and injured and helpless, but had her arms around the monster’s neck; her face was a picture of happiness, her mouth open and eyes creased in a merry laugh, while she appeared to be kicking her legs out happily. The monster gazed at her lovingly, his eyepatch removed, making it appear as if he was winking, for his one good eye seemed to twinkle with mirth and affection.

All at once, a sob seized her, raw and painful in her throat. Her arms curled around the portfolio, hugging the picture to her chest, as much to protect it from her tears as to feel closer to her beloved monster.

“Anna?” a familiar, male voice said, startling her. “Anna, what’s wrong?”