Page 92 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

“Nothing is resolved.” He turned then, taking in the sight of her. “Everything I told ye at the start still stands true, Skye. I’m a monster, whatever mask I wear tonight, whatever face I show the world. I daenae want a bride to care for. And yet here ye are, under me roof, and I—” He broke off, his jaw tightening.

He made himself say it plainly, without softening it, though every part of him ached to take the words back the instant they had left his mouth.

“Ye what?” She stepped closer despite everything, refusing as always to let him retreat into silence the way he had for the better part of a decade. “Finish it, Dougal. Daenae stop there.”

He looked at her, really looked. The moonlight caught the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce glint in her eyes. And he knew, with a certainty that terrified him more than Angus ever had, that he had no answer left in him that wouldn’t be a lie.

So he said nothing at all. He only crossed the last of the distance between them and kissed her, letting that be the answer he couldn’t find the words for.

He kissed her slowly, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her lips, the way she went still for half a second before her hands found his jacket and held on. Not desperate, just certain, like she had been waiting for this exact moment to prove something to herself.

When he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers for one more breath. Neither of them said anything. There wasn’t anything else to be said, not really. Not after that.

He took a step back. Made himself do it before he lost the will to. Slowly, he removed the mask, showing the scarred side of his face—something he had never dared show before. No one had seen it for years.

Skye stepped forward, reaching out to touch it, but before she could, he captured her wrist and pressed his lips against hers, making her gasp softly. He pulled back, his jaw tight, already regretting how far he’d let himself go.

“I wish things were different,” he said quietly. “But I cannae give ye love, Skye. Only this. And me friendship, for what it’s worth.”

Skye let out a short laugh, devoid of warmth. “And the ending to me story, of course. Ye cannae forget that.” She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. “I should go.”

“Skye—”

“I’m fine.” The words came too fast, too clipped. “I just need to sleep. It’s late, and I’m tired. That’s all this is.”

“If I’ve offended ye?—”

“Ye havenae.” She was already moving past him toward the door, refusing to meet his eyes. “Goodnight, Dougal.”

She was gone before he could answer.

33

Skye touched her lips.

Me first kiss…

Before agreeing to their arrangement, she had set a rule that Dougal was never to kiss her. It was what he had promised when they spoke beneath the tree in her brother’s gardens.

He had adhered to it until now.

And she had not pushed him away. She had responded to the kiss as if it were everything she had been waiting for. And the truth was, she had.

In that brief moment, she had been able to pretend that everything was all right, that Dougal did not intend to send her away, therefore breaking her heart.

He had broken the kiss, and she had reached for him, but he kept out of reach, refusing to allow her to touch him. He was struggling against his own desires. He might say that he couldn’t love her and it was better off if she went home with Freya, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. She could see it in his eyes. But the man was stubborn and would not budge.

Her heart felt like it had broken in two. She had never fallen in love before, choosing to immerse herself in her books and the stories she wrote. Then she followed Dougal outside that day after he walked out to get some air.

He was nothing like the man in her story. He was captivating. Frustrating. And she loved him so.

She had realized it sometime ago but had not been willing to put a name to the feeling. First, she had wondered what would happen if he didn’t return from seeing Angus. Then she had feared he might not feel the same way.

But now she was sure that he felt something when he kissed her. When he looked her in the eyes and told her that he could only be her friend. He could deny his feelings for her all he wanted, but the fact was that he did love her.

A strangled sob escaped her, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, refusing to break. She needed to get to the safety of her bedroom. Only then would she be able to grieve.

But how did one grieve for something that had never been?