Page 95 of The Forest Bride
He filled the cup with dark wine, offered the cup to her. She sipped. Tart yet sweet, heating her throat. She took a long gulp. He tipped a brow as she handed it back.
“Bracing for whatever news is to come?”
“You are being very mysterious.”
“Best have another sip. Let me brace myself as well.” He drank, slid the cup toward her.
“Good heavens,” she said, after another sip. “I cannot imagine what this news is if it needs good unwatered French wine and a secluded space.”
“It might be a shock, my lady. It was to me.” He sighed, set an arm on the table. “I spoke with your brother today about many things. And he told me what your father had planned to do—though he died he could tell you about it. Or me.”
She frowned. “You and me?”
“Henry found some papers. He discovered—” He paused. “Your father had heard a rumor that I had returned to Scotland, very much alive. He took a chance on that and sent a message to me at Innis Connell. But I was not there to receive it. It is possible only servants were there at the time. It was not passed on to me.”
“Did he want the dowry? He had decided not to take the repayment.”
“I know. Margaret.” He clenched his fist, spread his fingers. “Our betrothal was never dissolved.”
She stared, then reached for the cup at the same moment he did. It sloshed over both their hands. Duncan let it go to her. Sipping a little, she took the moment to think, to calm her fast-beating heart. Then she set it down. He took a sip.
“But how can that be?” she asked.
“This way.” He explained what Henry had told him. While he spoke, she watched his long fingers, the nimble grace and strength there. An urge to reach for his hand to feel his capable, reassuring strength overwhelmed her. She kept still.
“So,” he finished, and spread his open hands.
“So because the dowry was not repaid, the contract was never canceled?”
“In part. Because your father believed I was deceased, he forgave the debt. It was never sent to the abbot or a bishop to be finalized by the Church because it was thought my death dissolved it. But when Sir Robert heard that I had returned, he knew the agreement was still in place.”
“What does this mean?” Stunned and confused, she leaned her forehead in her hand, then looked up. “That we are still betrothed in fact?”
“It is still a binding agreement in this moment. But we can do what we want, Margaret. We could ignore it, with the small chance that a clerk somewhere might find a document and recognize a familiar name—and if one of us had married, it could be an issue with the Church. Or it can be dissolved, just as before—or fulfilled.”
She caught her breath. “What do you want to do?”
His glance was quick and keen, his brows tucked together. He ran his fingers through his dark, disheveled, too-long hair and stood, going to the window to peer out over the half shutters. Rain rattled against the glassed panel. His frowning profile was thoughtful, edged in watery twilight.
Though her thoughts whirled, she recognized how beautiful he was standing there. A quiet warrior, tall and handsome, a wise, kind, soulful man with a sharp intellect and a restrained nature that screened his thoughts.
But she could see through that reserve now. And she saw only the man she had loved for so long. Her ideals and dreamsstood there in his form, far more real and tangible, whole and compelling, than she could ever have imagined.
“Duncan.” She stood. “I do not want to lose you again.”
“Do you still fear that?” He shook his head. “Margaret. Whatever happened then is done. I have always loved you. Always.” He did not turn. “I felt—”
She stood, silent, resting a trembling hand on the table, listening.
“I felt so remorseful for hurting you. As if I had torn out my own heart.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
“I am the one who is sorry. I thought I was doing the honorable thing, sparing you the wait and uncertainty. But I learned soon that my pledge to a king was not nearly as significant as my promise to a lass I could not forget.” He glanced at her, then away, cloaked in that reserve, and she saw the effort he made to talk about his feelings. She stood silent.
“I thought of you all those years,” he went on, “knowing you were a woman grown by then, wondering about you. Hearing the rumors of the convent, I thought you must be the most beautiful and spirited of nuns.” He gave a hoarse laugh.
She laughed a little too. “That was Agatha, not me.” Her heart pounded. She wanted to run to him, but she stayed in place, feeling he needed time, the length of the room, the sound of rain, and her patience.
