was his before setting out. Now he wondered over the wisdom of his course of action.
And still she cried. The sound of it was filled with despair and grief, and it shook him in a way he did not wish to acknowledge. At least not the part he played in it. Standing, he sought out the basket of food and took out the broth and bread from Brita’s mother. He poured some in a cup and placed it to warm near the flames. A glance over his shoulder told him that her weeping eased a bit.
He carried on preparing the food, not ignoring her, God, there was no way to do that, but just trying to allow her some time. Finding the meat pie wrapped in cloth, he placed it in a bowl and broke it apart with a spoon. It took its place next to her broth, warming slowly there. Soon, the enticing aroma of the food wafted through the cottage. His own stomach growled in anticipation of the taste, for Brita’s mother, Helga, was a superb cook.
Testing the heat of both the cup and bowl, Rob removed them and placed them on the small stool he’d been using as a table next to her. He tore two chunks of bread from the loaf and put them there, too. After watering some ale for her, he filled his cup with the stronger spirits from his flask. And then he sat down, cross-legged, waiting for her own hunger and thirst to bring her there.
It did not take long.
He tried to focus on his food, but he could not help but watch her. First she leaned up and found the damp rag and used it on her eyes and face. Using the edge of the plaid to dry herself, she pushed up to sit, her breathing yet ragged and loud. Rob sensed that helping her now would cause her to crumble again, so he waited for her to move or to ask for help.
She would not meet his gaze. Even when she managed to sit up and lean against the wall, she would not look at him. He did not force her to, he only slid the table closer so she could reach the cup, if she wanted it. And, after a few minutes of laboured breathing, she did. Rob tore the chunks of bread into smaller pieces and moved them closer.
They ate in an awkward and yet somehow companionable silence. It took her some time to finish just the cup of broth, but she did, dipping some of the bread in it to sop up the liquid. He did the same with the meat pasty—a hearty mix of chunks of beef and root vegetables and broth. Helga was unsurpassed in her dishes, no matter that he’d eaten at palaces and castles of the noble and the royal kind over the last few months.
The lady placed her empty cup on the stool and leaned back, tugging the plaid higher and holding it against her. As he watched, her eyes closed and he knew she was almost asleep. A shiver brought her to wakefulness.
‘Your tunic is dry now, if you are chilled,’ he offered.
‘The furs keep me warm enough,’ she whispered back.
He jutted his chin. ‘Then go to sleep. My sister says it’s the best thing for most illnesses.’
‘You have a sister?’ she asked, leaning away from the wall and sliding herself down under the blankets.
‘You do not have to say it with such disbelief in your voice. Aye, I have a sister. Margaret. She serves the clan as a healer at Glenlui.’
‘I meant no disrespect, sir,’ she offered. ‘I know nothing about you or the Mackintoshes.’ She spoke with closed eyes and each word came out slower than the one before it. She was falling asleep in the middle of a conversation.
‘Then none is taken. Sleep, lady. We will have time to talk.’
And she was gone, deeply asleep in moments.
Rob stood and cleaned up from their meal, going out to wash the cups, bowl and spoons with water from the bucket outside. The sun had set and the air grew chilled. He closed the door tightly and dropped the latch and then did the same thing with the wooden shutters to keep out the winds.
Soon, the cottage was prepared for the night...but he was not. After adding some more peat to the fire, he lit a few candles and picked up her sack. Surely, there must be more inside than just the few items he’d seen when he opened it at the cave.
Sitting on the floor near her, he turned the sack inside out and watched as the few things fell before him.
A small sgian dubh, more suited for eating or mending tasks than for defence or attack. And she did not wear it in her boot where she could reach it quickly.
A leather purse holding some gold and silver coins. Not enough to live on for long, but enough to present a temptation to any thief along the road.
Another shift.
A set of prayer beads, carved out of some black stones. Well, she might appreciate the book he’d brought for her if she was a godly woman. But a godly woman knew her place and obeyed her father and then her husband. Eva MacKay did not know the first thing about obedience or her proper place if what she’d done so far was the measure used.
Rob laid the things aside and shook his head, watching her sleep there. What kind of woman would run away when given the news of an impending marriage? Especially a marriage that would hold benefits for both families involved.
She shifted on the furs and mumbled some words in her sleep. Though he could blame some of her restlessness in sleep on her illness and fever, she never seemed to be at peace when she slept. She called out names, mostly the one, throughout the time when sleep claimed her.
Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
If she did not know him or the Mackintoshes, then they could not be the reason for her refusal to accept the marriage. Yet, she did the unthinkable and left the safety and protection of her father’s keep to avoid it. Was it just maidenly fear or something more? Though clearly fear was not something that seemed to rule her life if she was brave enough to do what she’d done.
Rob stared at her, trying to decipher her actions and her intentions. If she did not want to marry him and had a good reason for her objections—one that would satisfy Brodie and Arabella—he would see that the betrothal was broken. He’d not expected a love match at all, but he would be damned before he married an unwilling woman.
If she would only explain herself...
The winds howled then, rattling the wooden walls of the cottage and sending cool air through the cracks. The low flames of the peat fire danced in the current. It would grow much colder before the sun rose in the morn.
Eva shivered then, curling herself into a tight ball under the blankets. He was tempted to wake her and give her the tunic she’d refused earlier, but he would not disturb whatever rest she could get. On the morrow, he would send word to her father that he’d found her, and they would begin the journey back to Castle Varrich a day or two after that.
For now, he did what he’d done these last three nights—he took off his boots and tunic and lay down next to her, sharing his body’s warmth with her. She startled a moment and then moved back nearer to him, as she did each time he shared the pallet with her. Then he pulled the extra blanket over both of them.
Although she sank into a deep sleep, it evaded him for hours. The riddle that Eva MacKay was haunted him all night. At some moment, he realised that she was awake next to him. So, he decided to ask her for her reasons.
‘Have you need of anything, lady?’ he asked first. ‘Do you thirst?’ Helga had told him he should give her as much to drink as possible.
‘Nay,’ she whispered back.
Silence reigned for a long minute or two before she spoke again.
‘You have slept like this each night, then?’ she asked.
‘Aye.’ Then he explained further, ‘At first there was no sleeping, you were that ill with fever. Then, I found that you were cold more than hot, so lying this way seemed to keep you warm.’
‘And you knew of the betrothal, so there was nothing wrong in the eyes of God or the law in doing that.’ Her words were more a declaration than a question, but there was something buried within them.
‘Just so.’
The lady began to say something