The door opened again, and Duncan slipped out into the corridor, followed by Jamie.
A lock of golden hair fell over Jamie’s forehead, partially obscuring his red-rimmed eyes. It had been only a day since I’d last seen him, but it felt like a thousand years of miserable separation. I had to fight back the urge to run and embrace him.
“Lairds, I will escort the lassie. No need ta concern yer-selves.” Fergus’s posture was rigid, his words uncharacteristically formal.
“Thank you, Fergus,” Jamie said, his voice sounding strained. “I have need to see to a few judicial matters. Duncan shall attend Father after h—” Jamie’s voice cut off, and he cleared his throat with a rough cough before continuing. “His meeting.”
Jamie’s eyes darted to mine and then away so fast, the supportive smile I started to give him died on my lips. But I couldn’t leave things like this—not after what had happened between us on the cliffs.
As he turned to go, I followed on his heels. “Jamie, wait!”
Stopping abruptly, he turned. His pale face void of emotion, he stared down at me. And I had no idea what to say.
“Are you okay?” Mentally kicking myself for being an insensitive jerk, I watched every feature of his face tighten. Of course he wasn’t okay; his dad was dying. “I mean … Is there anything I can do?”
A sardonic smile twisted the corner of his mouth as his eyes shifted to hard ebony. “Aye. You can leave me alone.”
Without waiting for my reply, he turned and walked away, his swift footsteps echoing through the corridor. Feeling as if I’d just taken a blow to the gut, I wrapped my arms around my waist in an attempt to keep myself from collapsing onto the stone floor.
Catching my eye, Duncan flashed an apologetic smile before turning and following his brother.
“We should no’ keep the laird waitin’,” Fergus said gently.
Hoping I could keep myself together, I turned to follow him, clasping my hands tightly in front of me as we entered the dark chamber. A single candle on the nightstand illuminated a massive bed draped in burgundy velvet and shadow.
“My laird, I have brought Miss Veronica Welling, as ye requested.” Fergus stood in front of me, his large frame blocking my view of the king. I checked the urge to twist my hair behind my head, knowing Fiona’d spent considerable time that morning braiding the sides and neatly tying them back with a ribbon that matched my royal blue skirt.
“Well, let me see her then, man.” The voice sounded stronger than I’d expected for a dying man.
“Aye, sire.” Fergus stepped out of my way.
The king sat propped up by large pillows behind his back and under his arms. His long silver hair rested loose on his shoulders.
“Have a seat, my dear.” His kind, dark eyes helped relax the knots in my chest.
Fergus moved a chair to the side of the bed and I sat. The king tilted his head, studying me for several seconds. Then he focused his regard on Fergus, whom I could feel hovering close behind. “Tha’ shall be all, Fergus.”
With a furtive glance in my direction, Fergus let himself out of the room.
I turned back to face the king, and he appeared to shrink before my eyes. Falling back into the pillows, he closed his eyes. Just when I started to ask him if I could get him anything, he said, “Authority can be quite exhausting.” His eyes opened then and he stared at me intently.
Sitting straight, my hands folded in my lap, I wasn’t sure if I should agree or remain silent. But before I could make up my mind, the king continued, “Veronica—may I call ye Veronica?”
“Of course.”
“Veronica, dear, why have ye come ta Doon?”