Page 55 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
“Ye could have warned me,” she said at last.
Duncan’s mouth curved slowly. “And miss the surprise?”
Elaina opened her mouth, clearly ready to deliver a very sharp reply. But the words never quite came. Now that she stood in front of him again, far too close, he felt the same pull he had been fighting all morning return with renewed strength.
He had held her only moments ago. His hands had closed around her waist so easily, lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all. He could still feel the warmth of her through the fabric of her gown and the quick intake of her breath when the ground had disappeared beneath her feet.
And to his own surprise, he wanted to touch her again. The realization struck him like cold water.
Duncan went very still. His gaze dropped briefly to the hawthorn blossoms in her hands, to the soft white petals she had gathered, before returning to her face. For one dangerous moment he considered reaching out, just to brush away one of the petals caught in the fabric of her sleeve, just to feel…
Nay.
Duncan stepped back. The movement was abrupt enough that Elaina blinked in surprise. He turned slightly away from her, dragging a hand across the back of his neck as he forced himself to breathe steadily again.
The forest seemed suddenly very quiet around them. A distant bird called somewhere deeper among the trees, and the horse shifted softly behind him.
Without quite meaning to, the words slipped out.
“Me maither loved fresh flowers.”
Elaina didn’t say anything. Duncan did not look at her as he continued.
“She used tae keep them in every room of the castle.” His voice had lowered slightly now. “Wildflowers, mostly. Whatever grew nearby.”
He glanced briefly toward the hawthorn tree.
“Hawthorn sometimes. Heather when it was in bloom.”
Elaina listened without interrupting.
“I used tae gather them fer her,” he revealed. “When I was younger.”
The memory surfaced with surprising clarity: the early mornings, the damp grass beneath his boots, his mother’s laughter when he returned with his arms full of uneven, tangled bouquets.
“She always pretended they were the finest flowers she had ever seen.”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“She had a remarkable talent fer that.”
“She sounds like a kind woman,” Elaina spoke softly.
Duncan nodded once. “She was.”
A brief silence settled between them. The breeze stirred through the hawthorn branches above, sending a few pale petals drifting slowly toward the forest floor. Somewhere deeper among the trees a bird called once, sharp and distant, before the woods grew quiet again.
Duncan expected the moment to pass. Instead, Elaina lowered her gaze to the small cluster of blossoms still in her hands.
“Me maither died as well,” she confessed quietly.
Duncan looked at her. The words had been spoken simply, without ceremony, yet something in her voice made them feel heavier.
“She died some years ago,” Elaina continued, her fingers turning the delicate hawthorn stem absentmindedly. “And afterward…the world feltdifferent.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Emptier.”
He understood that feeling too well, the way a place could remain the same, with the same walls, the same rooms and the same people moving through their daily routines, and yet everything within it felt altered beyond recognition.
Duncan cleared his throat softly. “Aye.”
