from Shaw, she would get more than she wanted to hear and perhaps more than just words. He already looked most displeased with her.
She did not breathe easily until he had gone, shutting the door behind him and leaving her alone with Fin, who still stood quietly behind her at the hearth.
He had not said a word, so she turned slowly to face him, vaguely aware when a glowing ember in the fireplace cracked and shot sparks into the air. Her gaze sought his, but when they met, her sense of increasing ease shifted to wariness.
He did not look any more pleased with her than her father had. His expression was not as intimidating as Shaw’s had been, but neither did it give any hint of what Fin might say to her or what he was feeling.
“What did he say to you?” she asked with more force than she had intended.
He continued to hold her gaze, but his expression altered when she spoke, as if he were gauging her mood in much the same way that she was trying to judge his.
She felt herself begin to relax again. Something about Fin made it easy to be with him even when he was displeased. He might contradict her—sakes, contradiction was a habit with him—but he did not customarily dismiss what she said as James sometimes did, or tell her that she just ought to trust and obey him as Ivor far too often did. Fin talked to her as if she had wits of her own. In fact, if he became irked with her, it was usually because she was not using them.
At last, without moving toward her or suggesting that they sit but with his expression hardening as if he had resolved upon something, he said, “What you said out there to Rothesay… Was there even a grain of truth in it, Catriona?”
Remembering Ivor’s declaration that she had thrown Fin into the devil’s own fire with her words, she said ruefully, “I am sorry about that, sir. I’d meant to explain the whole thing to Father myself, although James said that it would do no good. But Father and Granddad can mend matters for you, I’m sure.”
“What were you going to tell your father?”
“Why, that I had said what I did only to make Rothesay leave me be, of course. I thought you realized that.”
“I did,” he said.
Reassured, she went on, “Sithee, you had kept silent for so long by then that I did not know what to think. After Rothesay declared that you wanted me for yourself, I did hope that you would not proclaim to the ceiling beams that you wanted none of me. But, in troth, I could not be sure of that because of your so strong sense of honor. I certainly expected you to tell Father straight out that I had lied. But Ivor said that you would not.”
“Ivor was right. Nor could I have reconciled it with my sense of honor to abandon an innocent maiden to Rothesay’s clutches.”
“I expect you mean that to call me a liar would be a sort of betrayal, but—”
“I do mean that,” he said. “Recall that I know Rothesay’s habits better than you do. But tell me something else. Why did you frown at me?”
“When?”
“Don’t try me further tonight, Cat. My patience is spent.”
“If you mean when you confronted him as you did—mercy, sir, you as much as challenged him! I could see that you were making him angry, and you had already annoyed him earlier, for he said that you had abandoned him.”
“To which I said…?”
“That he had commanded you.” She sighed, realizing that she had overstepped. “I expect the truth is that the two of you toe-to-toe like that frightened me witless, although you will say that I ought to have known you could manage him. Sakes, the plain truth is that I took umbrage when you told me to hush.”
Fin replied mildly, “You were not helping, but I’m glad you realize that anyone who tells Rothesay that he is behaving badly treads on dangerous ground.”
“Well, then—”
“Sithee, lass, your resistance to his advances merely spurred him on at first,” he said. “But I could see that you were getting angry enough with him to behave in a way that he would not tolerate. You have yet to give me a clear answer, though, to the most important part of my question. Was there any truth in what you said to him about your feelings for me,