gaze. “Fairies?”
“Aye,” he said. A lock of her silk strands slid across his cheek. “The wee folk who live in fairy hills scattered about Scotland.” He arched a surprised brow. “Do not tell me you have never heard of them?”
She paused as if trying to decide if she should believe him, then shook her head. “No . . . I . . .” Nichola looked down, but Alexander caught her chin with his finger and gently lifted her face toward him.
“Did your mother never tell you stories afore bed? Tales to fill your dreams as you slept?”
Her lower lip trembled. “She died when I was six.”
He gave her a gentle hug, remembering the loss of his own mother at the birthing of his youngest brother, Duncan. Of his inconsolable grief. And that of his family. “I am sorry.”
“My thanks, but many years have passed since.”
Maybe, but by the ache in her words she still grieved her mother’s death. “And your father?”
“They died together.”
Her quiet admission broke his heart. “You lost so much.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“But the emptiness within you still exists.” A lesson he’d learned first hand. Years eased the aches of your heart, but time never truly healed the grief. “Your brother raised you?”
“Yes.”
That would account for their close bond. “He is a man lauded by King Edward. A man that takes care of his own.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Wealthy you mean.” Suspicion coated her gaze. Though only a hand’s breadth apart, it may as well have been a league.
Mention of her brother had brought back the reality of how much separated them. Alexander released her and stepped back, ignoring the twinge of regret. ’Twas for the best.
She looked off into the distance. “When are you going to send the ransom demand to my brother?”
No reason existed to keep the information from her. “When we reach my home, Lochshire Castle.”
Nichola turned toward him. “And how long will that be?”
“Three, four days at most.”
“How long until we are on Scottish soil?”
“We crossed into my homeland late this morning.” He nodded. “The church we are in is Scottish. It was destroyed during a skirmish many years ago by the English.”
“I see.”
At her cold tone, he bristled. “I have made little secret of our destination.”
Nichola laid her hand upon a stone pillar etched with time-worn cracks; her fingers trembled. “No, you have been truthful from the start.”
Though she hadn’t declared it with words, she again viewed him as the enemy; a man she could never turn to, nor lean upon for strength.
“I will be retrieving food from the pack.” Alexander strode outside. Rain pelted his tunic and trews. In seconds his body was soaking wet and with each step his boots sank deeper into the mud. As if he bloody cared about his sodden state. Or Nichola’s opinion of him.
But he did.
Furious that she could make him care, he whirled to face the ruins of the church. Never before had a woman caused him to have doubts over a decision made. Never before had he needed a woman this much.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. But clearing his lungs did little to unclog the turmoil inside. Shaken, he stared at the rain, which continued to fall: heavy drops that offered no forgiveness.
Seated before Alexander as he guided his mount around a bog, Nichola chided herself at her actions yesterday within the ruins of the church. How could she have turned to Alexander, allowed him to hold her as if he was someone she could trust?
A tight ache built in her chest as she remembered leaning against his muscled frame, seeking support. And if she was honest, wanting more. To taste his kiss, to feel his hands gentle upon her skin. How with a mere touch, he could make her forget her fears and think only of her needs. She shivered. Thank Mary he’d spoken of her brother.
In a normal setting, she would have pushed him away. But lost within the tragic thoughts of her parents’ death,
“Aye,” he said. A lock of her silk strands slid across his cheek. “The wee folk who live in fairy hills scattered about Scotland.” He arched a surprised brow. “Do not tell me you have never heard of them?”
She paused as if trying to decide if she should believe him, then shook her head. “No . . . I . . .” Nichola looked down, but Alexander caught her chin with his finger and gently lifted her face toward him.
“Did your mother never tell you stories afore bed? Tales to fill your dreams as you slept?”
Her lower lip trembled. “She died when I was six.”
He gave her a gentle hug, remembering the loss of his own mother at the birthing of his youngest brother, Duncan. Of his inconsolable grief. And that of his family. “I am sorry.”
“My thanks, but many years have passed since.”
Maybe, but by the ache in her words she still grieved her mother’s death. “And your father?”
“They died together.”
Her quiet admission broke his heart. “You lost so much.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“But the emptiness within you still exists.” A lesson he’d learned first hand. Years eased the aches of your heart, but time never truly healed the grief. “Your brother raised you?”
“Yes.”
That would account for their close bond. “He is a man lauded by King Edward. A man that takes care of his own.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Wealthy you mean.” Suspicion coated her gaze. Though only a hand’s breadth apart, it may as well have been a league.
Mention of her brother had brought back the reality of how much separated them. Alexander released her and stepped back, ignoring the twinge of regret. ’Twas for the best.
She looked off into the distance. “When are you going to send the ransom demand to my brother?”
No reason existed to keep the information from her. “When we reach my home, Lochshire Castle.”
Nichola turned toward him. “And how long will that be?”
“Three, four days at most.”
“How long until we are on Scottish soil?”
“We crossed into my homeland late this morning.” He nodded. “The church we are in is Scottish. It was destroyed during a skirmish many years ago by the English.”
“I see.”
At her cold tone, he bristled. “I have made little secret of our destination.”
Nichola laid her hand upon a stone pillar etched with time-worn cracks; her fingers trembled. “No, you have been truthful from the start.”
Though she hadn’t declared it with words, she again viewed him as the enemy; a man she could never turn to, nor lean upon for strength.
“I will be retrieving food from the pack.” Alexander strode outside. Rain pelted his tunic and trews. In seconds his body was soaking wet and with each step his boots sank deeper into the mud. As if he bloody cared about his sodden state. Or Nichola’s opinion of him.
But he did.
Furious that she could make him care, he whirled to face the ruins of the church. Never before had a woman caused him to have doubts over a decision made. Never before had he needed a woman this much.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. But clearing his lungs did little to unclog the turmoil inside. Shaken, he stared at the rain, which continued to fall: heavy drops that offered no forgiveness.
Seated before Alexander as he guided his mount around a bog, Nichola chided herself at her actions yesterday within the ruins of the church. How could she have turned to Alexander, allowed him to hold her as if he was someone she could trust?
A tight ache built in her chest as she remembered leaning against his muscled frame, seeking support. And if she was honest, wanting more. To taste his kiss, to feel his hands gentle upon her skin. How with a mere touch, he could make her forget her fears and think only of her needs. She shivered. Thank Mary he’d spoken of her brother.
In a normal setting, she would have pushed him away. But lost within the tragic thoughts of her parents’ death,
Similar Books
