The information didn’t settle well with Alyse. In fact, the information sank like rocks in her stomach. The awful sensation was unfamiliar . . . but suddenly she didn’t feel so kindly disposed toward the other female. It was uncharitable of her. Inexplicable. She owed the woman a debt for taking such good care of her during her illness.
“As I said, it’s a long and complicated story,” he began. “Struan is my father’s illegitimate son.” He cleared his throat as though it were difficult to admit that. She could imagine how such a thing might be complicated . . . how that might bring a whole host of issues. “It took me some time to accept that. To even recognize it as truth.” He grunted. “I believe I was the last one in my family to accept it. I suppose that makes me a stubborn ass.”
“You think?” she managed to tease.
He cast her an uncomfortable glance. “Yes, we have a history of . . . tension. I suppose I proposed to Poppy because I knew he wanted her. It was spiteful. I did it to nettle him.”
“Oh,” she replied, rather surprised he would resort to such a low thing. “You would have married her out of . . . vindictiveness?”
“Yes. I suppose I would have. I was led by different emotions then. And once I offered for her, I was bound to honor the proposal. Thankfully, she broke it off with me.”
“For Mackenzie?”
“Of course. Her heart was as bound to him as his was to her. It was inevitable. They were inevitable.”
Inevitable. She marveled at that and felt a twinge of jealousy. What must it be like? Feel like? To be inevitable with another person? For your love to be that unavoidable?
“She is a good soul,” he added. “Poppy, like the rest of my family, hopes we can put aside our differences.”
“Do you want to do that?”
He was quiet for some time before answering, “Yes. I do. I’m not the same person I was when I first learned of his existence.”
“Well. You should make peace. Family is important.” She knew that better than anyone since she lost hers. Since she didn’t have anyone to call kin. Since she knew the ache of loneliness. “And your brother seems . . . nice.” It was all she could offer on the subject of Struan Mackenzie. She’d met him only briefly. He was handsome and fair-haired. Even bigger than Marcus. They hardly spoke beyond the obligatory greeting. The brief exchange was hardly enough to pass any kind of judgment, but she felt compelled to say something positive about Marcus’s brother to encourage the solidifying of their relationship.
“Struan Mackenzie is many things, but nice is not a descriptor that pops to mind.” He didn’t say anything more beyond that as they left the Mackenzies’ lavish neighborhood behind and clattered down the cobbled streets between shops and buildings. It was quite the largest city she had ever been in. Considering she had been insentient the first time she passed through it, she took it all in with avid interest.
She thought about Struan and his brother as they rode through the streets of Glasgow. She always wished for siblings and here he had a brother . . . along with the sisters back in London. A brother he didn’t like and yet he brought her to his home for tending. Struan Mackenzie had been there for Marcus. For her. As a brother ought to be.
She was still thinking about that as they left the city behind and continued north. “I suppose it is lucky your brother lived in Glasgow so that you could prevail upon him during my illness.”
He was ahead of her on the road as usual thanks to Little Bit’s plodding pace. He stopped and turned sideways, staring at her. “Aye. Lucky indeed. His home was near and despite the shakiness of our relationship it seemed the obvious thing to do at the time. The only recourse, really.”
“Perhaps not that obvious.” He had characterized the relationship with his brother as complicated, but he had put that aside and ignored their differences. For her sake. For her. “You could have taken me somewhere else. Found lodgings and sent for a physician.”
“First, I don’t hate Struan. Perhaps once I did. But this was good for us . . .” His voice faded. “Regardless of what I felt for him before I carried you into his house, you needed—”
“Saving,” she finished. “It seems you are always saving me.”
Yes. It was a good thing. Of course. She was glad to have him. Of all the men who could have bought her in that market, she was fortunate to have ended up with him.
And yet she just wanted to be somewhere in life where she didn’t need rescuing. Or at least in a place where she could save herself. Or even better yet . . . be with someone she didn’t feel so beholden to for every gesture, every act of kindness.
He stared at her across the distance, so strong and solemn atop his gelding. Because he was that. Noble and strong atop a beautiful fairy tale horse whilst she was a peasant girl on a mule.
She willed him to say something. To say he cared about her even a little. That helping her wasn’t about pity or simply because he was a good man and it was the honorable thing to do.
Honorable. Like both times now that he had stopped himself from consummating their sham of a union. Stopping himself just as he compelled her into wanting him with a desperate fervor.
Again and again he had proved himself honorable. And she was sick of it. She wanted him to be a little bad. With her.
Staring at her, he didn’t say anything. He simply turned his horse around and continued on.
They continued north and managed to avoid any proximity to beds. Although she felt the strain of it. Not avoiding beds, but avoiding his touch, avoiding his gaze for any significant length of time. His rejection stung and she vowed not to endure it again.
The villages became smaller. The lodgings less like inns and more like boardinghouses with only a few rooms, but fortunately there was no risk of not securing two rooms. Travelers this far north this time of year were not in abundance.
For the next few days, she stared at the back of him, wondering at the unfeelingness of him.
How could he have touched her, done those things with her, and now he scarcely looked or talked to her? Was that the way of all men? Was it so easy to go from hot to cold?
Admittedly, her experience was limited. The one man she thought she could rely upon, the man that had said all the right things, had let her down when she needed him the most. Whereas Marcus Weatherton had been there for her every single time. So what if she longed for his touch, his kiss, his body to take her over that precipice they toyed upon . . . he was not obligated to give her those things.
On their fourth day out of Glasgow, they stopped midday to eat and stretch their legs. They moved off the road into a small copse. A stream burbled nearby as he removed food out of a pack. Poppy had sent some fresh bread, cheese and apple pasties. They’d finished the cheese days ago, but the bread was still tasty as were the apple pasties.
Their fingers brushed as he handed her a portion of crusty bread and some dried meat. She tried not to notice. They were both wearing gloves. It shouldn’t have produced a spark, but heat traveled up her arm and spread throughout her chest contrary to that.
Locating a rock, she brushed the snow off it with a gloved hand and sank down, trying to pretend the ice-cold was not a shock to her derriere. The warmth triggered by his hand brushing hers quickly dissipated.
What she wouldn’t do for that comfortable bedchamber in the Mackenzie household. Warm beds. Warm baths. Warm sofa chairs before the fireplace.
She lifted her face to the sunlight as she ate, imagining it helped warm her up a little. Her gaze drifted to where he sat. He took a swig from a bottle.
“What are you drinking?”
He pulled back the flask and squinted at it. “My dear brother was good enough to pack this as a parting gift. Care for a draw? It might warm you until we stop for the night.”
She thought about it for a moment and then said, “All right then.”
He stood and brought her the flask. She accepted it, careful not to touch him this time. The container felt lighter than expected. She gave it a slight shake. “Had more than a few nips, have you?”