“Evander?” She shook her head, happy to wrap her arm around his side as they faced each other. “He’s rarely on Oliphant land. He travels for the King.”
“Really?” Pherson seemed impressed. “‘Tis rare for a bastard son to reach such a level of importance.”
But she shook her head. “He belongs to an order of men sworn to the throne; they accept all who’ll wear the helm with righteousness and honor. He’s only in our area of the Highlands because he’s hunting a man—“
She would’ve told Pherson about the one-eyed man who apparently both Laird McClure and Evander hunted, but she didn’t get the chance. Pherson gathered his elbow under him and shot upright, his gaze intent and strangely frightened as he stared at her.
“He’s a Hunter?” he croaked, his face going pale against the dark hair which hung around his cheeks. “Yer brother is one of the King’s Hunters, and he’s come here hunting a man?”
She didn’t understand his fright, but slowly nodded as she sat upright as well, the blanket pooling around her waist. “Aye, he just arrived this afternoon, shortly afore I found ye. I believe he’s already here in the castle—I sent him to speak with Brodie McClure, Fen’s husband.” Realizing she was blathering, she shook her head. “Pherson, what is it?”
Now those gray eyes were tortured, full of regret, and she could feel her stomach knotting in response to his pain. “Pherson?” she whispered again.
His hand shot out abruptly, clamping around the back of her neck, pulling her toward him. His lips crushed against hers, the kiss harsh and desperate and full of pain—not hers, but his.
His eyes were closed when he pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank ye, Lady Wynda, for loving me. Nae matter what happens, I want ye to remember I have loved ye.”
Her heart was pounding against her ribs, her hands fisted in the blankets. “Aye,” she tried to joke, “ye have.”
Then his eyes flashed open, so close to hers. “Nay,” he rasped. “I mean, here in my heart. Ye love Wren, and that’ll be enough for me. She’ll love ye as well. Ye have to—“
His voice broke, and he inhaled sharply as she exhaled. Then he was pushing away, at the edge of the bed, then gathering up his clothes, throwing his kilt around him, reaching for his belt of daggers.
She watched, holding the blankets up to her chest, her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears.
At last, he whirled back to her, his face still pale, his eyes still filled with regret. “Ye have to make her understand, milady. Please. She—ye…” He shook his head and turned away. “I’ve loved ye both.”
And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
A fat, confused tear ran down her cheek as she stared at the oak panel.
Milady.
Ye’re mine, Wynda Oliphant.
They’d spoken of a future, a home together.
And now he called her milady again.
Another tear, and another.
Why had that felt like a goodbye?