Page 49 of A Virgin for the Icy Laird
“If ye cannae make it before nightfall, daenae hesitate to shelter in an inn,” she said softly. There was no command in her voice, just care.
Then she smiled weakly at him and turned away, her steps light.
He stood there long after she disappeared around the corner. Nothing could have stopped him from looking up Rab Morrison an hour ago. Now, the thought of riding out felt wrong, like walking away mid-conversation.
Come hell or high water, he would return to the castle.
He took the reins of his horse from Fergus’s hands. The stallion neighed in recognition, and he petted its head affectionately.
“Are ye sure ye would like to journey unprotected?” Fergus’s eyes raked over him, as if it were the last time he would see him.
“I willnae go far.” Adair swung heavy legs over the saddle, and the stallion trotted until his weight was evenly distributed.
“At least let me ken where ye are headed.”
He looked out across the fields beyond the gates, in the direction of the village. He would have to brave the crowd, which would only draw attention to the lack of an escort. It was not safe to leave the castle unprotected.
He looked away from the sprawling land. One laird had ridden into that horizon and not returned, and another was now chasing after his ghost.
“History willnae repeat itself. Ye daenae have to worry.”
Adair hoped Morrison had not moved out.
He surveyed the modest cottage. A man who had made a fortune did not keep such humble lodgings. He led his horse over an overgrown bush, before they followed the cobblestone path to the front door.
He reached for the brass knocker and brought it down on the wood. If anything betrayed Morrison’s wealth, it was the knocker. It was freshly polished—a sign of its newness—and held by the hands of a bronze baby cherub. The cherubs he had seen before were not inlaid with gemstones, but this one was.
The courtyard did not look completely abandoned, but as if someone had begun the pruning and quickly stopped. In fact, the tools were propped against the bark of a yew tree that he noticed when he stepped back.
Morrison himself opened the door.
“Good evening,” Adair greeted.
He did not expect recognition, but to his surprise, the man’s face lit up
“Adair? Forgive me, ye’re the Laird now.” Morrison immediately ushered him inside, clamping his hand over his shoulder. “It has been so long.”
The inside was better than the outside: wax-polished floors covered with thick, plush carpets. Houses like his did not come with such wide foyers, which meant the man had to have done the expansion himself. A bouquet of flowers stood on the table in the foyer’s center, scenting the air with roses and fresh rain. Upon closer inspection, Adair noticed the dew on them.
“Eight years, to be precise.”
Morrison led him through the cottage with the casualness of leading a frequent caller, whistling merrily.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, me Laird?” He pushed open a door and stepped aside.
“I was in the area—” Adair entered the room. It was even more splendid than the foyer. He could not wait to rest his back on the center couch, which looked softer than anything he’d slept on in years. “When I remembered a longtime friend.”
“Ye are in luck; I only just returned to Scotland.”
He was right about the couch. He would need to get the details of Morrison’s carpenter. If everything went right, he would be leaving with more than one secret.
“I trust yer palette has matured over the years, has it nae?” Morrison held up a decanter by the side bar.
Adair nodded in response.
As he began pouring, Morrison said, “Ye cannae find this quality in London.”
“Ye mentioned just returning?” Adair asked.
