Page 122 of A Virgin for the Stone Highlander
There was no well on this side of the estate, but it did not matter. She only needed to breathe. To gather herself away from prying eyes, and relieve the ache of the conversation she had not been ready to have.
Ye kent this would happen, Edith. Ye kent ye would have to leave them all behind.
She simply had not understood until this moment how much leaving would cost her.
It would have made no difference a month ago. Even if Aaron had chosen to marry Laird MacFaris’s daughter, she would have had to leave the Highlands.
Why then did it feel even harder now when it should be easier? Why then did freedom taste bitter on her tongue even with her skills and money?
She found a secluded area and rested against a wall, pursing her lips as she drew in a long, unsteady breath.
Then, she heard a sound in the distance.
No one should be here.
She opened her eyes, her gaze falling on two horsemen as they made their way into the estate through the abandoned gate near the bushes.
Her brows drew slightly together.
They were dressed for celebration, but something about their presence felt off, as though they were not meant to be anywhere near Hallow.
Why have they come in through those gates?
She looked more closely at the men. One was older, his bearing carrying the particular stillness of a man accustomed to being obeyed, and the younger one beside him shifted restlessly in his saddle, his gaze flicking nervously toward the festival grounds and back again.
She did not recognize their tartan. Something about the way the younger man looked around sent a chill through her, and her instincts screamed at her to leave.
She moved, albeit too quickly, and the older man’s gaze landed on her.
CHAPTER FORTY
Edith’s heart hammered against her ribs as the two men steered their horses toward her.
They made their way across the grass, neither man showing the slightest urgency, as though they had all the time in the world.
Perhaps they are lost.
She straightened, forcing herself to remain where she stood despite every instinct urging her to go back to the festival.
Her gaze flicked to the older rider as he drew nearer, and only then did she notice the fine tailoring of his clothes.
’Tis finer than most travelers would wear.
Her brows knitted together.
His garments bore no clan colors, no crests, and no markings that might identify them properly. The young man behind him was dressed in a similar plain outfit, with a black tunic and a black kilt.
The absurdity of it unsettled her even as they reined in their horses, stopping a short distance from her.
The older man’s face was weathered with wrinkles and harsh lines, though nothing about him looked frail, especially not the strong set of his shoulders. His eyes raked over her with an assessing intensity that made her skin crawl.
Surely, he is a Laird.
“Well met, lass,” he greeted pleasantly, though his smile did not reach his eyes.
Edith dipped into a careful curtsy. “What brings ye this way, sir,” she said, forcing herself to return a polite smile. “The celebration is being held in the courtyard. Ye should have entered through the main gates.”
The man glanced briefly toward the distant sound of music before looking back at her. “Aye,” he said. “I am aware.”
