‘What does he do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ainsley’s mouth trembled on the brink of a smile. ‘He—he wants me.’
‘You know I already do.’
‘No, I mean he—he really wants me. He— No, it’s silly.’
‘He finds you irresistible,’ Innes said, charmed and aroused. ‘He wants you so much,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘that he carries you off, right in the middle of the day, and has his wicked way with you on the moor. Or would you prefer a cave?’
‘A cave. In the firelight.’
He was hard. Innes cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant this to happen. He edged away from her carefully. ‘You are a very apt pupil,’ he said.
‘Oh. I didn’t realise— Is that what that was, a lesson?’
‘It’s all it was meant to be,’ Innes said, ‘but you are a little too good at this. Another minute and I’d be rushing off to find a kilt.’
‘Oh.’
It was a different kind of ‘oh’ this time. She looked at him with the most delightful, pleased little smile on her face, and Innes simply could not resist her. He kissed her, briefly but deeply. ‘I am already looking forward to the next lesson,’ he said.
A week later, Innes stared down at the Celtic cross, at the bright lettering of the new inscription and the long empty space below that was left to fill. His own name would be next, but after that, it would be a distant cousin, if anyone. He dug his hands into the pockets of his leather breeches and hunched his shoulders against the squally breeze, steeling himself against the wall of emotions that threatened to engulf him. Until now, he’d been able to ignore what had happened, tell himself that this was a temporary thing, that he was not really the laird, that his life was not inextricably tangled up in Strone Bridge. He’d been able to contain and control whatever it was that was building inside him, fence it in with resentment and anger, let the waste and destruction he saw every day tack it down, the hurt and the suffering gnaw at his conscience and prevent him from thinking about the reason he was here at all.
He’d arranged to meet Eoin here, but had arrived early, wanting some time alone. He’d come here telling himself that fourteen years had bred indifference, but he was wrong. It was like one of those seventh waves, building from the swell, scooping up memories and guilt and remorse, hurtling them at him with an implacable force. Innes screwed his eyes so tightly shut he saw stars behind his lids.
‘It was all done properly, if that’s bothering you at all.’ He opened his eyes to find Eoin standing a few feet away. ‘Your father’s funeral. It was all done as he would have wanted it,’ he said. ‘Mhairi made sure of that.’
His father’s housekeeper had been the one to arrange his father’s funeral. Innes refused to feel guilty.
‘She had me play the chief mourner.’ Eoin came a few steps closer. ‘I didn’t want to, but she said someone with Drummond blood had to bear the laird’s standard, and bastard blood from two generations back was better than none.’
It had been a joke between them when they were boys, that bastard blood. Malcolm had traced the line once, working out that Eoin was their half cousin twice removed, or some such thing. Their father had a coat of arms made for Eoin, with the baton sinister prominently displayed. Malcolm had dreamed up a ceremony to hand it over, Innes remembered. The laird had given them all their first taste of whisky. They’d have been ten, maybe eleven. He had forgotten that there were days like those.
‘I didn’t get the letter in time to attend,’ Innes said tersely.
‘Would it have made any difference?’ Eoin demanded, and when Innes said nothing, he shook his head impatiently and turned away. ‘I meant it to be a comfort to you, knowing that all had been done as it ought. I wasn’t casting it up.’
‘Wait.’ Innes covered the short distance between them, grabbing the thick fisherman’s jumper Eoin wore. His friend shrugged him off, but made no further move to go. Blue eyes, the same colour as Innes’s, the same colour as Malcolm’s, the same colour as the dead laird’s, glowered at him. ‘I wrote to you,’ Innes said. ‘After—I wrote to you, and you did not reply.’
‘I live here, Innes, and unlike you, I’ve never wanted to leave. It was not only that I owed a duty to your father as the laird, I respected him. When you left, the way you left, you forced me to choose. What else was I to do?’
‘I was your friend.’
‘You were his son,’ Eoin said, nodding at the Celtic cross. ‘When Malcolm died, it broke his heart.’
‘What do you think it did to me?’ Innes struggled, eyes smarting, the sick feeling that had been lurking inside him since he’d arrived here growing, acrid, clogging his throat. He turned away, fists clenched, taking painful breaths, fighting for control, forcing back the images, the guilt, waiting desperately for the sound of Eoin’s footsteps disappearing, leaving him alone to deal with it, to make it go away.
Eoin didn’t move. When he spoke, his voice was raw, grating. ‘I could hardly look at you the other day. All these years, I’ve told myself it was the right thing to hold my peace. All these years, with the laird letting things go, letting the place wither, I’ve told myself that if that was what he wanted and— No, not just that. I’ve told myself you deserved it. If you did not care enough to look after your heritage...’
Innes had intended this as a reconciliation. It felt as though he was being tried, and found wanting, by the one person here on Strone Bridge he had thought might be on his side. The disappointment was crushing. ‘It was never meant for me,’ he roared. ‘It was never mine.’
His words echoed around the enclosed space, but still Eoin stood his ground, his face grim, his own fists clenched. ‘It is yours now. You’ve known for fourteen years that it would be yours.’
‘And by the looks of it, for fourteen years my father has done his damnedest to run the place into the ground. Don’t tell me I could have stopped him, Eoin. You of all people know he would never listen to me.’
There was silence. The two men glared at each other. Finally, as Innes was about to turn away, Eoin spoke. ‘It’s true,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I did blame you, and it was wrong of me. You’ve every bit as much right to choose your life as the next man, and it’s obvious from the look of you that the life you’ve chosen suits you well. You’re a rich man. A successful one.’
‘Much good my successes will do me here. I know nothing about sheep, and certainly not enough to go clearing my lands to bring them in.’
‘So you’ve heard that rumour, then?’
‘And I’d be happy if you’d deny it for me.’
‘I’ll be delighted to, if it’s the truth.’ Eoin kicked at the ground. ‘They do blame you, as I did. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. Your father never got over Malcolm, and you’re right, it was as if he was deliberately letting the place go to spite you. They think you should have put Strone Bridge first. They think if you’d have come back, you could have stopped him, so the longer you stayed away, and the worse it got, the more they blamed you.’
‘Eoin, he wouldn’t have listened to me. If I’d come back while he was alive I’d have ended up murdering him. Or more likely, he’d have murdered me.’ Innes looked grimly at the cross. ‘You know what he was like. I was the second son. He wanted me to study the law in Edinburgh, for goodness’ sake! I was to be the family lackey.’
Eoin gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ll admit, that was never on the cards.’
‘No, but you know how hard I tried to do things