When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(69)

He seemed to know something had changed.

“Callum,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, “does the word nah--tray--me mean anything to you?”

He tilted his head. “Na tréig mi, do you mean? ’Tis not a word, it’s a phrase.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘dinna leave me.’ Why do you ask?”

She tried to hide the sudden catch in her voice. “No reason.”

No reason. Except that everything makes sense now, and I realize I’ve been a complete and utter fool.

“I have to do something. Can you take him?” She turned to place the child in Callum’s arms.

“No, no. Hold a moment. Me?” He stepped back, waving his amputated arm. “I canna take him with one arm.”

“Of course you can. Mothers do it all the time.” She tucked the babe into the crook of his full arm, making sure his hand supported the infant’s bottom. “There now. Someday you’ll hold your own child the same way.”

On impulse, she kissed both Callum and baby on the forehead.

Then she turned back to look for Logan, searching the crowd.

He wasn’t there.



Chapter Twenty-three

Logan walked away from the bonfire with long, purposeful strides.

But he apparently didn’t walk fast enough.

“Logan, wait.”

He didn’t slow his pace. He couldn’t talk to her. Not right now, after watching her rock that babe in her arms and dance with Callum. After feeling her body against his, even for that short moment.

She’d made her choices, and so had he. He could bear to part ways with her tomorrow. But if she came anywhere near him tonight, he’d be sure to pull her close and do something they’d both regret.

“Go back to the fire,” he told her. “It’s too dark. No lights at the castle to guide your way. You’ll stumble. There might be bogs.”

“Na tréig mi.”

The words stopped him in his tracks. His heart stopped for a moment, too.

He kept his voice calm. “You’re learning Gaelic now?”

“I’m learning you now. Finally.”

What the devil did that mean?

She caught up with him. From what he could make out under the silver moonlight, she looked angry.

Good. It was safer that way.

“You lied to me, Logan.”

“I didna lie to you.”

“You let me continue under a false assumption. That luckenbooth. You didn’t have it made for another woman. Did you?”

“This again? I’ve told you, she means nothing to me. Not anymore.”

“Now that is a lie.” She drew nearer. “The baby I was holding by the fire had a luckenbooth pinned to his bunting. Callum explained everything. The L.M. on that brooch wasn’t yours, was it? They were your father’s initials. You were named for him. And A.D. . . . Oh, Logan. Your mother. What was her name?”

He exhaled slowly. “I dinna rightly know. I wasna old enough to remember.”

“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I would have been proud to wear it had I known. Did you just enjoy making me envious?”

Envious. The word made no sense to him.

“Why the devil would you be envious?”

“Because,” she cried, throwing up her hands, “I thought some bonny Scottish lass had stolen your heart and broken it. Of course I was eaten alive with envy. I wanted your heart for myself.”

“I told you, I can’t give you that.”

“Yes. You told me. And you lied then, too.”

She drew close enough to lay a touch to his arm. Just the lightest brush of her fingertips on his sleeve. It electrified him.

“I know how much you care for those men,” she said. “I know how tender you can be, how gentle and protective. I know how you tended to me in Inverness. How you stood up for me at the ball . . .”

He grabbed her by the arms and forced her away. “I know how you are. You’re overimaginative. You make too much of things. You lie to yourself. I should have thought you’d learned your lesson by now.”

He walked away, and once again, she followed.

“Are you ever going to stop punishing me? When I lied and wrote those letters, I was young and stupid and selfish and wrong. I deceived everyone. I unknowingly made you my accomplice. It was wrong of me. I know that, and I’m so sor—-” Her voice broke off. “I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m not sorry.”

“Of course you’re not sorry. Why should you be sorry? You were given a castle and an independent life.”

She hurried in front of him, blocking his path. “I found you.”

“You left me for dead.”

There it was. The seed of all his anger, raw and pulsing like an exposed wound.

“And it wasn’t the first time you were left for dead. Was it?”

He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t.

“Na tréig mi,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me. Do you know you say that in your sleep?”

“I don’t—-”

“You do. Na tréig mi, na tréig mi. Over and over, while shivering.” She slapped a hand to her brow. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. It explains everything. Your mother wrapped you in a plaid, pinned the luckenbooth on to keep evil away . . . and then she abandoned you.”