Page 52 of Highland Seduction

McGreghere smiled once again, as if he’d asked a question and Ainsley had answered correctly. “We spoke of him yesterday. Of Adair. And I could see it affected him. Tor is no’ yet come to terms with his brother’s death, I dinnae believe.”

We spoke of him.

She thought of his day. Waiting for Ian and Marta. Thinking of his brother. Wondering why she had not come when Ainsley would have gladly done so. She did what her sister had always preached: put herself in the position of another. Ainsley thought about it for so long, she nearly forgot about McGreghere until the serving girl came to their table.

“Two ales,” he said, giving the woman Ainsley’s coin and two of his own in payment.

“And since ye’re my new favorite client . . .” He smiled. “A nonlegal tip as well.”

“Sir,” she corrected him, “ye’ve given no legal advice at all. What sort of lawyer did I hire?” Ainsley jested.

“The kind who knows when his services are no’ needed. Tor loves ye, Ainsley. ’Tis plain enough to see. I would venture he is no’ asking the bishop for an annulment and would bet another round of ale on such a claim.”

Tor loves ye.

Was it true? Ainsley knew little of loving a man, or being loved by one. She had no experience with such a relationship, no advice about one, until now. Until McGreghere. A man who, admittedly, knew her husband well.

“Ye believe so?” she asked.

The ales arrived. McGreghere lifted his mug, and Ainsley followed his lead.

“I do. And would drink to no’ one but two happy Shaw and MacRob unions. I believe yer marriage will be annulled as much as I believe the king would have granted ye dispensation to do so.”

Their mugs clinked as a deep, familiar voice behind her asked, “To what, precisely, are we toasting?”

Chapter 30

Tor had not expected to find his wife this way, toasting to the end of their marriage with his old family friend.

“Come sit with yer wife and celebrate,” McGreghere said, standing. “I’ve a client to visit nearby.”

“Ahh, I wondered what brought ye here.”

By the glance he exchanged with Ainsley, it seemed there was more to his friend’s visit than a nearby client.

“She will tell ye. Sit.” McGreghere slapped him on the back and, leaning in as he did so, whispered, “I do no’ doubt ye, my friend.” To Ainsley, “My lady. Ye will no’ leave Berwick without bidding me farewell?”

“Of course we will no’.”

With that, McGreghere bowed and left.

Uncertain both why McGreghere whispered those words and what his wife was thinking, he sat. Immediately a serving maid asked if he wished for a meal and ale, which, of course he did. It had been a long morning, one he’d barely begun to unravel on his walk back from the chapel.

“What news did McGreghere bring?” Tor asked as the serving maid returned with his food and ale. He’d wanted to break the silence. To tell her about his meeting with the bishop. But Tor did not seem able to find the words.

“McGreghere,” she murmured, as if already forgetting him.

Say it, Tor. Tell her.

The words were there. The ramifications of them, though, so profound that Tor simply could not bring himself to do it. After this morn, he was as uncertain as ever how his wife might react.

“Aye, the lawyer who’d been sitting here before I arrived.”

Finally a smile. “I do believe I remember him now.”

He began to eat as she spoke.

“They are alive, Tor.”