“I thank ye for the kindness, Miss Graham, but it is imperative that we depart within the hour.”
“The hour?” Mrs. Graham’s echo of his words was the loudest sound in the room. Alasdair turned to see the matron wringing her hands.
“Within the hour?” Mr. Graham appeared to be scandalized by the suggestion. “Surely my daughter requires time…”
“An hour is generous.” Alasdair’s eyes darted between the three Grahams before landing decidedly upon Miss Graham. “If ye will lend us a carriage, we might make it to Dunalasdair in three days’ time.” He tore his gaze away from Miss Graham long enough to take a quick peek out the window. Grey clouds gathered on the horizon. “But that is only if the weather holds.” He returned his focused to his betrothed once more. “You’ll need warm clothin’. The rest can be provided.”
A flare of indignation sparked in Miss Graham’s eyes, causing Alasdair’s blood to sing once more. He took two steps away from her, unnerved by the involuntary reactions he was experiencing, and wishing to put some space between them.
“I cannot leave without…without…” Even though Miss Graham’s voice faltered, her chin did not quiver nor did tears appear at the corners of her eyes.
Show courage, Lass. That’s it. Be brave.
Alasdair was not sure why he felt inclined to silently support this lady who was just as likely to pierce him with a withering stare as she was to accept his hospitality, but he found himself cheering for her, wanting to test her mettle, and watch her succeed.
“Without what?” he prompted when none of the others rose to her aid.
“I shall pack my belongings and meet you in the courtyard shortly.” Miss Graham squared her shoulders and without waiting for Alasdair to give so much as a nod of approval, hurried toward the door.
He could not resist calling after her, “I’ll grant ye one hour…no more.”
Miss Graham halted abruptly and spun on the spot, causing her frock to fan out as she twirled. He could see the indecision flickering in her eyes.
Will she challenge me here and now or acquiesce?
The corners of Alasdair’s lips turned up, and it was then that Miss Graham said, upon seeing his smile, “I hardly think you will leave without me, Laird MacReah.”
He felt the playfulness in this taunt, so Alasdair replied, “I will not leave ye, but the carriage might.”
A flash of defiance darted through Miss Graham’s eyes. Alasdair felt the nonsense of his words. He knew that a carriage would no sooner leave Miss Graham behind than he would, but he had not been able to produce a sharper quip with such immediacy.
“If the carriage leaves, I will simply go to Dunalasdair on foot.”
Alasdair grunted. “Are ye an accomplished walker then, Miss Graham?”
“No,” she replied, “but I run faster than a hare.”
With that, she turned away from him once more and sashayed out of the room. He stared after her. Alasdair could not peel his eyes away from her retreating form.
It had been years since Alasdair had felt so disarmed by anyone, especially a lass, that he had to fight the urge to laugh loudly.
“Laird MacRaeh.” He pivoted to look at Mrs. Graham, who was addressing him once more.
“Aye?”
“Me daughter…she is distraught. She didnae mean what she said just now.” The lady took a handkerchief from her pocket and used the corners of the fine cloth to dab her cheeks. “She wouldnae run from you…from this arrangement. She…”
“Dinnae fash,” he inserted. “If Miss Graham fancies a run, I will delight in catchin’ her.”
Chapter Five
The carriage waited in the courtyard like a black beast, its polished wood shining in the torchlight. The sky was cloud-covered, causing the whole atmosphere to take on a stark, grayish pallor. Isobel looked at her surroundings through tear-filled eyes, her throat so tight she could hardly breathe. Behind her, the house she had grown up in seemed to shrink with each passing moment, becoming less real, less solid, as if it were already fading into memory.
Her mother clutched her hands and pressed a handkerchief into her palm. “Write to us,” Catriona whispered, her voice breaking. “Promise me ye’ll write.”
“I promise.” Isobel’s voice barely escaped her lips. She wanted to say more, to tell her mother how scared she was, how much she didn’t want to leave. But the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, she pulled her mother into a tight hug, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and trying to remember the feeling of being held.
Her father stood apart, his face pale and ashen, his hands clenched at his sides. When Isobel finally let go of her mother and turned toward him, she saw the guilt etched into every line of his weathered face.