Page 35 of The Guardian's Bride
“What treason?” she asked.
“I am a MacDuff of Clan Duff,” he said, low as thunder. “I brought Isabella to Scone to crown the new king. I made sure she arrived. I am proud of my so-called treason. But I failed her otherwise.”
“You would never fail her.” Rowena felt certain of that.
“Bruce sent his kinswomen up to Kildrummy, planning to send them to safety in Norway. I was with Bruce in the southwest. We were not there when the women were captured. I failed my niece.”
Her heart surged at that, and she stood, wanting to go to him. Yet she sensed his pride would not accept it now. “Neither of you knew that would happen. I have heard that their release is being negotiated.”
He snorted. “No time soon. I have been part of the discussions. Our latest offer was refused. Edward does not want diplomacy. He wants to twist the knife in Bruce’s back and use these women as a warning to all Scots. Lady Mary is ill but holding on. Isabella, they say, is very weak. Even if Edward relents, she may not survive long enough to be released.”
“Aedan—” His name came so naturally then. “I am so sorry. Surely there is hope. You have a hopeful nature.”
“Sometimes. Not for this.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I cannot fail my clan or Fife. If you understand that, Rowena Keith, you understand me.” Thunder rolled again beyond the window. She barely heard it, focused on him.
“I want to,” she blurted. His words were stirring, his meaning rich with loyalty, honor, love for his kin. “You are doing all you can. All will be well.”
“Hold that hope, lady.” He sounded bitter.
A burst of wind and rain sounded then, and the shutters blew open. Startled, Rowena went to the window with Aedan, both grabbing the shutters. The window had no glass or parchment, so rain blew inside. They closed the shutters together, the wind pushing hard. Aedan pressed his hand over hers as they held them closed.
He looked down at her. “I am glad you are here.”
“You needed help closing the shutters.” She gave him a little teasing smile.
He laughed. “I seldom talk about these matters. But you already know some of my secrets. As my—nurse,” he said softly.
“I know you like being the strong one and the jester. Then you need not show much of your true self, your thoughts. Feelings.”
“Sometimes.” He was silent, fingers over hers damp with rain. The wind shoved, then quieted. He let go, and the shutters stayed closed. Leaning a shoulder against the window jamb, he gazed down at her. “I owe you another apology. You want to go home. I know that. But here we are. I am sorry to keep you from what you want.”
What she wanted, she realized in the moment, was this: standing here with him, listening, learning, growing closer. She had a few friends, Brother Gideon and others, but she had learned to keep distant because of the need in her work to keep apart from pain and emotion. Her widowing had wounded her in deep ways, but she had moved on by clinging to a natural inclination for caution and solitude.
Aedan had shared something close and important to him. She wanted to do the same, felt trust and safety growing. “I need to go home to be with my family,” she said. “King Edward has ordered us to relinquish some valuable things that belonged to Thomas the Rhymer. He will send men to Kincraig.”
“You can hardly help them face down the king’s men, lass.”
“I have been away too long.” She felt tears rise, sting, recede. “But you must reach Fife quickly. I understand that.”
“And I would never send you off alone to wander about with no map in your head.” His smile was rueful. “We have a bond, and I will honor it.”
“Fugitives, aye.”
“Cranky Edward is displeased with both of us. And there is the forgotten betrothal, and a healing with chants and stones and such.” His voice pulsed through her.
She looked away. “You said the stones and chants were a dream.”
“Did I?” He was silent, not the jester now, but the deeper man within, brilliant and thoughtful, guarding his secrets while discerning hers.
Rowena met his gaze, but as much as she wanted to know more about him, she could not open her guarded heart so easily. But she had to be honest with him. “I should tell you—I used a charm stone to help you at Holyoak.”
“I thought so. I thank you for it. Do not fret, I am not a superstitious sort.”
“It belonged to the Rhymer,” she said, surprising herself at sharing so readily.
“Not the usual wee stone, then.”
“Grandda gave it to me when I was studying with my aunt to learn about herbs and remedies, chants and charm stones too. Here, let me show you.” She went to the bed, where she had left her embroidered purse, and took out the Rhymer’s stone.
