Page 71 of The Guardian's Bride
“Aye, Bruce is still excommunicated for his actions last year. Edward should be excommunicated too, if you ask me. But Edward is facing his mortality now, as he is very ill, they say. He is not one to change his mind, but he had to release Lamberton and Wishart, the other bishop he had in custody, or hear from the Pope. Not even the King of England can ignore the authority of the Church.”
“How does this bode for the Scotswomen in his keeping? My niece and others.”
“I asked Lamberton if he knew more about their situation. He heard that only the two bishops, not the women, would be released.”
Aedan blew out a frustrated breath. “I am not surprised.”
“Nor was I.” Patrick walked beside him as they crossed the yard toward the keep. “Is Lady Marjorie in the hall?”
“She and Lady Jennet are there, packing for their journey.” Aedan smiled. “Colban too. He broke his arm yesterday, and will be pleased to show you his bandages.”
“Och,poor lad. I will make a fuss over it.”
“He would enjoy that.” Aedan clapped Sir Patrick on the shoulder.
The door opened as they approached the wooden stairs leading to the keep’s high-set entrance, and Marjorie stepped out.
Sir Patrick paused, and Aedan followed his gaze as he looked up the steps. The sun brightened, slipping out from behind a cloud, and suddenly Aedan saw his sister as if in a new light. She was lovely, though he rarely noticed it. Now, her cheeks were flushed, her smile shy and rosy, her large eyes dark blue. A smattering of freckles over her nose gave her a sweet, youthful innocence, though she was near thirty. The thick red-gold braid that peeked out beneath her widow’s kerchief shone like rose gold.
“Sir Patrick!” She folded her hands as she looked down the height of the stairs.
“Lady Marjorie,” he replied. “So good to see you again.”
“Aye so. Will you stay and visit, and share our midday meal?”
“If you like, I will.”
They stared at each other, went still, both smiling. Aedan looked from one to the other. Marjorie was a widow, but she glowed like a girl. Patrick was her senior by fifteen years or more, long widowed, with grown daughters and small grandchildren.
Always protective of his sister, Aedan looked from one to the other. Just a moment in time, yet he saw the gaze that lingered between them, saw the smiles they tried to hide.
She is in love,he realized. Surely this had happened while he was away. They had known Patrick Wemyss for most of their lives, but Aedan had not seen a connection between his sister and their neighboring laird until now—or was he simply unobservant? Glancing at Patrick, he saw a change in the man hehad known for years—a calmness, a new warmth in his eyes that sparkled when he looked at Marjorie MacDuff.
Just then, Lady Jennet appeared in the doorway behind Marjorie. Catching Aedan’s eye, her slight, meaningful nod said she knew and was pleased.
All in an instant, longer to say than see, yet he knew it as clearly as if they had announced it. The air around them seemed filled with sunbeams.
His widowed sister, devoted to caring for his son, dedicated to her weaving art, had fallen in love with a steadfast and worthy gentleman who returned the feeling. Marjorie deserved happiness, peace, and contentment, and had finally found it—or perhaps it had found her.
Watching them, Aedan felt a tug within. After lonely years as a widower following a quiet, even tepid marriage, he was ready for something more, something lasting and strong—ready for himself and for his son too. He wanted to claim that with Rowena, if she wanted that as well.
In that swift moment, he felt a powerful urge to be the one in Rowena’s life who made her feel loved, treasured, and safe. He wanted to protect her, provide for her, encourage her in her work. He wanted to join his life to hers if she would have him.
That was the source of the tug he felt in his chest and abdomen—the insistence of truth, the love burgeoning in his life, as if his soul knew already and he was waking to it.
Drawing a breath, he clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Come up to the hall, my friend. Colban will be delighted to see you. And there is someone I want you to meet.”
Supper was aquiet hour of good food and conversation as Aedan, Patrick, and Michael discussed the cause of Scotland and Bruce, while his sister, aunt, and Rowena talked of herbal remedies, weaving, and household difficulties, while now andthen directing Colban’s developing table manners. He had been permitted to have supper with the adults, since his father was there on a rare visit. Amused and pleased by his son’s charming spirit, Aedan also found that the slightest gesture or frown from him put the lad on his best behavior quickly. Colban might be a natural jester, but he was smart and eager to learn.
Talking with Patrick and Michael, Aedan told them what he knew about English plans and Bruce’s whereabouts, though some information could not be shared without Bruce’s approval. His thoughts went to his mission regarding the regalia entrusted to him last year. He needed to be sure it was still safe where he had hidden it, and then decide what to do with it. That could wait until the castle was asleep.
Throughout the meal, Aedan noticed the glances exchanged between his sister and the Fife sheriff—polite murmured comments, voices warm with laughter or gentle praise, looks that seemed casual but held meaning. He saw subtle blushes, eyes quickly lowered, and smiles pressed away.
Rowena saw too, once giving Aedan a wide-eyed stare, silently eloquent. He held her gaze, and her answering nod was clear. She saw the love the pair thought they kept to themselves. Yet it was no secret to those near them.
He wondered if his growing feelings for Rowena were that clear to others. Brian Lauder suspected it; Erik Ogilvie assumed they were married. Covering a private smile, he sipped from his goblet of watered wine. The mixture was more potent than he liked, so he reached for a jug of water beside his bowl—the stew of lamb and vegetables had been especially good that night—to pour a slosh of water into the wine and drank again.
Perhaps the dilution came too late, for a pesky headache was beginning. He rubbed his temple, but seeing Rowena’s glance, reached for an oatcake instead, not keen to bring attention to his aversion to wine. Scraping the thick, crisp cake through a pot ofsoft butter, he nibbled. Perhaps a bit more food would diminish the ache, he thought, as he turned to Patrick.
