Page 48 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Perhaps we're both more damaged than we care to admit," he said quietly.
"Perhaps. But maybe that's what makes us understand each other."
She settled back against him, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, their fishing lines forgotten in the water. For the first time since his father's death, Lachlan allowed himself to hope that someone could see past the scars—both visible and hidden—to the man beneath.
Then, quietly, she asked, "Did ye ken about our betrothal? Before I told ye about it?"
"Nay." His voice was flat. "It was never mentioned to me."
"Never? But surely yer parents would have?—"
"Me parents told me nothin' that might give me any sense of power or plannin' for the future." There was old bitterness in his voice. "Knowin' them, the betrothal was likely arranged as some kind of power move, a way to strengthen their position. But they'd never have told me about it."
Erica turned slightly to look at him. "What do ye mean?"
"Me father never taught me clan strategies, never explained alliances or trade agreements. Nothin' that would prepare me to actually rule." Lachlan's jaw tightened. "He wanted me dependent, uncertain. Knowledge was power, and he wasnae about to share any with the son who'd eventually replace him."
The pain underneath his controlled words made her chest ache. "So ye learned everythin' after..."
"After he died, aye. Had to rely on councilmen to teach me what I should have known from childhood." He was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps that's why the betrothal was never mentioned. Dead brides cannae strengthen yer position."
The casual way he said it—as if his parents had simply written off her survival—made her shiver.
"If ye never kent about the betrothal," she said carefully, "then why did ye never marry? Surely there were women..."
Something shifted in his posture, a subtle withdrawal that she felt rather than saw.
"There were women," he said finally.
"But?"
"But they wanted the ladyship of Kinnaird, nae the man who came with it." His voice was matter-of-fact, but she caught the hurt underneath. "They could stomach the title, the wealth, the protection of bein' married to a laird. But nae this."
His hand moved unconsciously to his scar.
"Nae me scars. Nae me touch." The words came out quietly, as if he'd never voiced them before. "They'd flinch when I came near. Oh, they were polite about it—ladylike. But I could see it in their eyes."
"See what?"
"Fear. Revulsion. The knowledge that they were settlin' for damaged goods because the alternative was bein' unmarried." His laugh was harsh. "At least ye're honest about yer reasons for flinchin'."
Erica felt something crack open in her chest at the raw pain in his voice. All this time, she'd been so focused on her own fears that she hadn't considered his. Here was a man who'd been rejected not for his character or his actions, but for the physical reminder of what he'd endured.
"Lachlan..."
"Daenae." His voice was sharp. "I daenae need yer pity."
"It's nae pity." She turned in his arms until she was facing him fully. "It's understandin'."
She reached up, tracing the scar again with gentle fingers. This time, he didn't wonder why she wasn't repulsed. This time, he just closed his eyes and let her touch him.
"They were fools," she said softly.
His eyes opened, meeting hers with naked vulnerability. "Were they?"
"Aye. Because this—" her finger followed the line of damaged skin "—this tells a story of survival. Of strength. Any woman who couldnae see that wasnae worthy of ye in the first place."
For a moment, something raw and desperate flickered across his features. Then Lachlan leaned closer.
