Page 48 of Highland Seduction

“Take as many as ye wish,” the merchant said. “They are a gift.”

Ainsley would take the raisins, but she’d not accept them as a gift. Instead, she gave the man four times what the raisins were worth. “I enjoy Spanish raisins very much,” she said. “Good day to ye, sir. And to ye both,” she bid the boy and her wee Ivy farewell.

When Ainsley was far enough from the merchant he could not see her, she stopped. It was foolish to cry over a kitten that was not hers, but tears threatened. She’d imagined bringing it home. Nay, bringing it to a new home, one she shared with Tor. More often of late, Ainsley thought of what the future might hold if she and her husband remained married. How much she would miss her family, knowing she would be forced to return with him to Castle MacRob.

The alternative, though, was equally unbearable. Not waking to Tor each morning?

She looked down into her satchel, and sighed. At least she had raisins.

Chapter 28

Ainsley had been sleeping when he arrived back in the room last eve.

Unwilling to disturb her, he instead slipped into the bed. And even though he woke this morning with his wife nestled against him, he could not shake the feeling of something being . . . amiss.

Other than the fact that he’d spent the entire day, and well into the night, at the saddler’s. Or rather, outside the saddler’s shop. The man had initially allowed him to stay within the shop, but later claimed he was glaring at his customers. Which, of course, he had been.

Tor hadn’t meant to do so, but his typical good humor was gone. Unwilling to leave even to find a meal, he had not eaten all day. Ainsley never came as he expected she would. And worse, when the woman and her husband finally came to claim the saddle not long before dusk, it was decidedly not Ian and Marta. He could understand the confusion. She had the right hair color, but no limp.

Worse, he had been thinking all day about his conversation with McGreghere. Thinking about Adair. What Tor was about to have—second to his brother and their clan, a beautiful wife he was in love with, because aye, Tor loved Ainsley . . .

That should have been his brother’s. He’d earned it, trained his whole life for it. Was the best man in their entire clan, and all who knew him knew it as a fact.

Now, as he watched Ainsley sleep, he wondered if she would feel out of sorts amidst people who were, in truth, her enemies. This feud had run deep enough for the damn king to involve himself. To use a tactic almost unheard of to bring their clans together. The MacRobs would welcome Ainsley as well as the Shaws had his sister, and though Catlin claimed not to care, it was not possible that either woman could dismiss the animosity around them so easily.

He’d already gotten dressed by the candlelight when a knock at the door finally woke Ainsley. The woman did sleep as if she might never wake. Her eyes sought Tor as he called out, “Who knocks so early?”

A voice on the other side of the door answered. “A messenger. From the bishop.”

Tor’s head whipped back to the bed. She had heard it as well. As he opened the door a crack, a young man handed him a sealed missive. “Bishop Timlin has granted ye an audience this morn.”

“This morn?”

With a bow, the man said naught but, “Good day, my lord,” as he ambled away. Tor tore open the seal and read the few words quickly. They said little more than the messenger already relayed.

Silently, he handed it to Ainsley and made his way to the wooden shutters. Opening them to find the sun just barely showing its face, he turned back just as she’d finished reading.

“What occurred yesterday?”

“Why did ye no’ come to the saddler’s yerself?”

“Ye didnae ask.”

“I didnae believe I would have needed to do so.” Tor, knowing he was angry at the wrong person, still could not seem to hold himself back. “I searched for ye. For Marta and Ian. All day I did naught but look around the corner and wait.”

If he’d wanted a fight, Tor had been granted his wish. His wife now appeared as annoyed as Tor felt.

“And I waited here for word. Except when I visited the marketplace, where I met a merchant’s young son and learned Ivy was his and no’ my own.”

It had not occurred to him until now, but as he looked around the room, Ivy was, indeed, gone. “Ye gave her to a merchant’s son?”

“Gave her? Ye speak as if I wanted to do so. The kitten was his.”

He raised his chin. “How do ye know ’twas the boy’s?”

Her jaw dropped. And then closed. “Ye’re angry we didnae find them. And that the bishop calls ye to him. But certainly ye’re no’ angry with me for giving Ivy to her rightful owner? Knowing it was difficult for me to do?”

Tor did not know what he was angry about, truth be told.