“Yes, he was.” There was no use denying it.
“What do ye think he’ll do?”
Mena stared at the adorable little creature biting at some itch on her rump and falling over in her exuberance. Her heart squeezed with dread and not a little bit of hope. “He might feel differently about Rune in the light of day. He’s quick-tempered, to be sure, but he’s a reasonable man. There is hope…”
“Nay.” Andrew hurried forward. “I mean, do ye think he’ll send ye away?”
“Oh.” Mena wondered that herself. Perhaps she’d gone too far. Perhaps she’d wake to Jani at her door offering to pack her things and go.
She should have been more careful. Just what had gotten into her? Why had she found her voice, her courage, and the strength to stand up for herself at perhaps the worst moment ever?
Touched by the worry glimmering in Andrew’s eyes, Mena reached for him, squeezing his shoulder. “I really don’t know, darling. I hope not.”
The boy’s features hardened. “I’ll never forgive him if he does.” He visibly fought angry tears so hard he shook with them. “I swear it. I’ll hate him until the day he dies, no matter what ye said, if he sends ye away.”
Aching, Mena pulled him to her, resting his head on her shoulder, her own eyes brimming with tears. “That would be a tragedy, Andrew,” she said, wondering why she still had an instinct to defend his father. “Trust was broken by me. He’d be well within his rights to send me packing. This is why lying is so dreadful. Do you understand now?” Wonderful, now she was not only a liar, but a hypocrite. Lord, what a mess she’d made.
“Aye.” Andrew nodded against her shoulder.
“Crawl into bed,” she soothed, drawing back. She scooped Rune up from the floor and set the little creature into his arms where the pup promptly went to work licking his neck. “Everything will look better in the morning. We’ll sort it out. Don’t worry.”
Tears still leaked into Andrew’s hair as he put his head on the pillow and allowed her to tuck him in. She stroked his silky hair. “No matter what, know that I’m on your side, all right, darling? And that, in the end, your father is, too. We both want what’s best for you.”
Andrew’s jaw was still set in a stubborn line, but he nodded.
She turned down the lantern before sweeping to the threshold.
“Good night, Miss Lockhart.”
“Good night, Andrew.” She stopped herself from saying she loved him, though she felt as though she really did. What a dear boy Ravencroft had made.
Closing the door softly behind her, Mena released a bone-weary sigh as she peered through the flickering light down the hallway. Finding it empty of both demons and marquesses, she padded toward her room.
Andrew wasn’t the only one anxious regarding her fate on the morrow. The evening’s wait would be torture. She already knew sleep would elude her like a wary thief. Perhaps she should steal to the library and find some book or other to distract her.
Mena decided against that course immediately, as she knew that no book would keep her attention. Besides, the room still unsettled her, after her … encounter? Hallucination? Waking dream?
She didn’t have to turn her knob, as the door to her room stood slightly ajar, the latch splintered from the wood.
She pushed it closed behind her, and did what she could to secure it, trying to forget the suspicious accusations Ravencroft had hurled at her earlier. She’d been such a fool to allow Andrew to talk her into this folly. Blinded by the kinship blossoming between her and the boy, she’d lied to her employer. Again. It seemed that once she’d agreed to live this ruse of a life, it was easier to compound it with more secrets, more fraud. She was most frightened of losing her integrity altogether.
In truth, she couldn’t blame the marquess one bit for his displeasure. For being suspicious of her and the Earl of Thorne. Unlike her, he was no fool, and he knew that she’d been keeping something from him.
Lord save her if Ravencroft ever truly found out the depths of her deception.
The candle had gone out, somehow. Only silvery moonlight streamed into her bedroom from the large window, painting a crooked cross from the windowpane on the carpets.
Mena drifted over to gaze up at the glowing orb that hung low in the sky, mesmerized by the iridescent gray clouds as they allowed the autumn wind to toss them in front of the waxing moon. The wisps fragmented its glow to illuminate the lush landscape of Wester Ross and the sea beyond.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Mena pondered her situation with a melancholy desperation.
What a mire she’d become trapped in. She’d thought, initially, that her lies were victimless, that they served no purpose but to keep her safe. That she would hide here in this gothic Highland stronghold until the danger had somehow passed. When she’d been lost in the fear and pain of the aftermath of Belle Glen, the future had been this miasma of gloom and uncertainty. She’d run as fast as she could, headlong toward whatever sanctuary had been offered her.
Never would she have expected to become so attached to this wild, wonderful place. And—she could only admit this to herself here in the dark—to its wild, willful laird. To his children, his staff, and even the cold stones of this castle. Now, perhaps, she’d be forced to leave because of her idiocy.
Maybe she’d won a personal victory tonight, standing up to the marquess’s unreasonable temper; but the cost of such a victory might well be regrettably high.
“Ye were wrong.” The pain and shame in the deep voice ripped through the stillness of the night with enough force to leave a wound.