makes me think of you as a wean. And what I wish for us is decidedly not what I would do with a girl.”
Laurel nodded, but her brow furrowed. “Why would you marry someone so young? Do you wish for a young bride?”
“Hardly. What I needed was a chatelaine since my mother passed. What my clan needs is the access to the waterways the MacMillans would have given us.”
“You say was. Did your wife pass?”
Brodie sighed. “I struggle to think of her as such. I couldn’t imagine consummating the marriage, let alone bringing myself to do it. I intended to wait at least two years. Saying our vows in a kirk was the only thing that made it a marriage rather than a betrothal. We were on our way to Kilchurn when our party was attacked, and they murdered Eliza.”
“Oh! Brodie, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Laurel said as she squeezed his hand. Perhaps he hadn’t married the girl out of love, but he’d intended to spend his life with her. When she caught his pained expression, she wrapped her arm as best she could around his shoulders. Brodie inhaled Laurel’s lavender scent and nearly licked her neck. His hand rested on her ribs as he turned his head for a kiss, but she reeled back.
“You tell me your wife died a fortnight ago, you clearly still grieve her, and yet you would kiss me again. Ugh,” Laurel tried to pull away, and Brodie let her. She stood and moved beyond his reach. She watched as Brodie closed his eyes, and she assumed he didn’t wish for her to see his guilty eyes.
“I don’t grieve her, Laurel. Not even the moment it happened. And it makes me a wretched, heartless bastard.”
“What?”
Laurel didn’t realize she drifted forward until she cupped his jaw in her hands. She caught the relief in his expression. When he opened his legs, she stepped between them. The gentleness of her touch was a balm to Brodie’s troubled mind. Neither moved for a long moment before Laurel reached out her hand and caressed Brodie’s chestnut-brown hair. She kept the movement light, but she felt as much as heard his shuddering sigh. Laurel realized it was a moment when she could offer him comfort, just as he had done for her earlier. She draped her other arm over his shoulders, and with a tiny nudge, Brodie laid his head against her middle. He wrapped his arms around her, and they merely held one another.
With a long sigh, Brodie resumed his story. “I know I should, but I didn’t know the lass. She barely spoke enough to say her vows. I’m certain I terrified her despite me reassuring her several times before the wedding and during the journey that I would leave her untouched for years. I wish she wasn’t dead. But that’s only because she was innocent, not because I long for her to still be my wife. I just can’t muster any grief over her death. The guilt I feel is for not feeling enough aboot her. I ken I should, but I don’t.”
“Och, Brodie. If she were but a stranger to you, then how can you blame yourself? You didn’t know her well enough to have aught to miss or regret losing. You can grieve that they killed an innocent woman, but you can’t grieve for something—or someone—you never had. You are not a bad mon for this. That you feel remorse at all tells me more than you or anyone else could put into words. And before you fash, it tells me what I already kenned. You are not a bad mon.” She repeated her final words, praying the emphasis would get through Brodie’s guilt.
“What aboot how I am drawn to you in an inexplicable way, and I have no wish to stop? Not even knowing that I should be in mourning. What aboot how I haven’t thought of Eliza since I last spoke to the king? That was before we even met.”
“Brodie, she wasn’t part of your life. She didn’t have time to be. I have family who I rarely think aboot. I think aboot Balnagown and the Highlands. But I don’t miss my family, and I’ve kenned them my entire life. They’re not part of the life I have now, so there is naught for me to miss. I confess I cannot let go of my anger, but I don’t miss them.”
“But did you grieve their loss when you moved here?”
Laurel paused