She took a fortifying breath. Little Bit couldn’t keep up with Bucky’s pace and she soon fell behind again. She rocked on the contrary beast’s back, staring hard at Weatherton ahead of her, sitting so stiffly in his saddle. He was a cold man. She was foolish to let such a man rouse emotions in her.
Alyse was never one to despair. It was not her way. Even when life had been the hardest. When everything felt like a rock to break herself against. The last few years with her father, when he was sick and suffering and it became clear she would be left on her own, she had not given in to despair. Not even then.
When Papa died and she had moved into Mr. Beard’s small gable room she still clung to hope. She’d grown up reading fairy tales. Papa had filled her head with them. His romantic nature had been infectious. He’d gifted her with the ability to dream. Perhaps that’s why she so readily believed in Yardley.
In Papa’s stories, the peasant girl always found love. Good always prevailed. The witch always died and princes never failed. Never abandoned you when you most needed them.
She had always believed in these ideas.
Except riding in this dark wood, following a dark figure, she knew her story was not written yet. She couldn’t see into the darkness ahead. She couldn’t know for certain if her happily ever after would come.
But she had a plan.
She would make the best of her time at Kilmarkie House, even if she hadn’t counted on these confusing feelings for the man who held a deed declaring her his property.
She wouldn’t get too comfortable. She wouldn’t grow to like him. That would be foolish. Her future was elsewhere.
The wind blew and her teeth chattered in response. The hills above the tree line were growing more craggy—turning into steep, snow-blanketed shapes against the graying sky.
It was getting darker. They’d have to stop soon. Maybe then she’d feel warm again.
Chapter 16
He was a wolf without a pack, but that didn’t mean he needed anyone.
The next few days passed without incident. Thankfully, there were no more problems with overcrowded inns. Marcus was able to acquire separate rooms every night they stopped. The relief reflected in her eyes wounded his ego more than he cared to admit. She really didn’t like him.
For three nights, they stabled their mounts.
For three nights, he walked her to her door, seeing her safely to her chamber.
He ordered their meals to be delivered each to their separate rooms. They did not have to endure one another’s company once the sun went down and that seemed for the best. He needed the respite . . . and to avoid further temptation.
She chattered unflaggingly during the day, her words flowing in an endless stream as they rode along.
And yet when he was alone in his room every night he actually found himself fidgeting. Tapping fingers. Pausing every time he heard footsteps near his door. He could still hear her voice in his head and he actually longed for it in the humming silence of his room. He came to resent that silence.
He would idly pace until his dinner tray arrived, always grateful when it did so he could eat and fall into bed and sleep. In sleep, he could forget her. Escape.
For three nights this was their pattern.
The fourth morning continued as the others had. Even her mule seemed to know the routine and trotted along at a more obliging pace. They were nearing Glasgow now. He tried not to think about that . . . or the man he knew who lived there. He planned to bypass the city.
Except every time he managed to put thoughts of Glasgow and Struan Mackenzie from his mind, a sign would appear alongside the road in a cruel twist of humor, announcing the distance to the city. The signs seemed to taunt him to confront his half brother. He wasn’t certain what he would say or do in such an instance. Past confrontations between them had never gone well. After all, this feud between them had nearly killed him.
As the noon hour approached, he noticed that Alyse was not as garrulous as usual. In fact, she was quiet.
He glanced over his shoulder. She was lagging behind again. The mule, contrary beast, had reverted to his old crawling pace. She sat on his back rather listlessly, not even bothering to prod him forward as she usually did.
Marcus wheeled his horse around and galloped back to where she plodded along, determined to nudge the mule ahead for her. Her head drooped. It almost appeared as though she were dozing.
“Alyse?” Concern pricked at him as he reached for her reins, dipping his head to better view her face.
At the sound of her name she gave a small start and lifted her gaze. Whatever else he was going to say died a swift death in his throat.
Her eyes were bloodshot and glazed like she wasn’t in full comprehension.
“Alyse?”
She swayed in her saddle.
With a sharp oath, he leaned between their two animals and caught her the moment she toppled. He swept her atop his lap, cursing a fury.
Her head lolled limply as though too heavy for her neck to support. He tapped her cheek with his fingers, hoping to rouse her. Her eyes remained closed. Her skin felt hot. She was raging with fever. He expected cold in this freezing air, but she was hot to the touch.
“Bloody hell. Alyse!” He glanced around as though he would see salvation somewhere near, perhaps lurking in the trees crowding the road. Except there was no help to be had. Wind blew through creaking and brittle limbs stripped bare of leaves. Never had the world felt so desolate. Never had he felt so helpless.
There was no one and nothing about. It was just the two of them on this wild stretch of road separating one village from the next. He glanced down at her face again. Eyes closed, a soft rattling rasp escaped her parted lips. She was dead to the world.
“Ah, sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell me you were ailing?” he muttered as he adjusted her in his arms. He didn’t expect her to answer, but he couldn’t stop talking to her. As long as he talked to her it was as if she were still here. Still with him. Not gone. Not lost.
“You’re going to be fine.” He was responsible for her. No one else. It fell to him. Shaking his head, he whispered close to her ear, feeling the heat radiate from her like a burning grate. “Everything will be fine.” She would be fine.
He looked away from her and sent one last desperate look around.
He knew what he had to do. There was only one hope for her.
She needed the very best of care and she had one chance of that.
She floated like a bird, her wings sailing with nary a flap on the air. There was no cage. No locked door barring her escape, but she didn’t quite feel free yet. She felt every bit as trapped, as penned, as she always did.
She wandered through the fog blindly, unable to see anything save rolling gray.
It was hot. Then cold. Then hot again.
Time suspended as she drifted, floated. Aimless wandering.
She whimpered and called out. For anyone. For someone. For him. Marcus.
At one point she felt him there. Knew it was him before she felt his hand on her. Gentle as wind on her skin. Soothing her ruffled feathers, touching her almost tenderly as though careful not to crush her feathers.
His voice eased over her. Deep, dark, luxurious satin closing over her, promising her that everything was going to be fine.
She knew that voice. She felt it deep in her soul. And she believed it. She believed him.
Everything was going to be fine. She was going to be fine.
Somehow these words had the power to make her muscles soften and relax. His voice made the fog seem less dense, less suffocating . . . and it pushed her to keep going, keep searching for a way out.
A way back to him.