Garrett laughed, “Ye can say what ye wish, Finn, but no one glares at another like that without deep emotions. The lass must’ve truly gotten to ye. Why else would ye care what she does or who she marries?”
At the thought, every fibre in Finn’s body tensed to the point of breaking, and for a long moment, he simply stood and stared at Garrett.
“Aye, I can see very well that she means nothing to ye,” his friend mocked. “A bit of advice, dunno wait too long. One of these days, ye willna succeed in turning away a suitor, and then she’ll be lost to ye. Why do ye think I married Claudia right then and there on the spot?” A large grin on his face, Garrett sighed. “She’s a fierce woman, beautiful and strong and so…so verra alive. I knew another man might snatch her up in an instant, and so I claimed her as my own as fast as I could. No matter where she is, I will find her and remind her that she’s mine…as I am hers.” Garrett’s eyes sobered. “Ye’d be wise to do the same…if indeed ye care for her.” Then he stepped away and hurried after the cart, bending down to work again as a more-than-annoyed Ian glared at him.
“Ye’d do well to heed his advice.”
Spinning around, Finn found Cormag standing behind him. “How long have ye been there?”
“Not long,” Cormag replied, and yet, it seemed he knew all there was to know as he generally did. He inhaled a slow breath as his gaze once more travelled over Finn as though he was trying to make sense of something. “What does she mean to ye?”
Finn gritted his teeth, uncertain how he felt about the path his friends were urging him to take.
“I see,” Cormag replied, seemingly satisfied with the answer he had glimpsed on Finn’s face. Then he sighed, a hint of exhaustion coming to his grey eyes.
“What is it?” Finn asked, wishing he could read others as well as Cormag could, particularly Emma.
Cormag shrugged. “I canna help but wonder why people are so vehement in pretending that they dunno care, for it only seems to complicate matters.”
Finn sighed. Leave it to Cormag to turn a heart’s fears into a matter of the mind. Then he stopped, his gaze rising to meet his laird’s. “People?” he mumbled, and his traitorous heart thudded loudly in his chest. “Ye said, people. Who did ye mean?”
Cormag’s brows rose, and it was all the answer Finn needed. “Emma?” he whispered as his hands once more balled into fists, willing the hope in his heart to cease its conquest. “Did she…did she say anything to ye?”
“She didna have to,” Cormag replied, “for the lass is as inept at pretending that she doesna care as ye are, Finn.” For a short moment, a rather indulgent smile curved up Cormag’s lips before he turned and walked away, returning to their task at hand.
Swallowing, Finn stared after him. Could it be true? Was there a chance that Emma harboured sentiments other than indifference and disregard for him? Whenever he saw her, she never turned to look at him, and whenever their eyes happened to meet, she always turned away with such haste as though the very sight of him offended her. Could there be another reason for her reaction as there was another reason for his own?
Certainly, he did not hate her. He hated that she did not care for him. That she had led him to believe that she did but had then crushed his hopes without a look back.
Or had he been wrong?
Intrigued and−heavens, yes!−hopeful, Finn knew that he needed to see her, perhaps even speak to her before he decided to leave. If he did not, he would spend the rest of his life wondering what could have been.
Chapter Three
Out into the Snow
With only one day left until the annual yuletide feast at Seann Dachaigh Tower, the whole castle was abuzz: the hum of voices and hurrying feet echoing through the grand hall like bees in a hive. Furniture was moved to make room for rows upon rows of tables, all of which were in need of decorating to match the festive mood stirred by evergreens hung up in archways and around windows alike.
Emma and Maggie had spent the past two days decorating the hall, tying bows and stars fashioned out of straw into the evergreen branches to brighten up the castle. Still, Maggie was not satisfied, and a dark scowl came to her face when her eyes swept over the still-barren tables. “This won’t do,” she stated matter-of-factly, arms akimbo. “We need more branches.”
Emma sighed, her fingers beginning to feel numb. “We dunno have any more.” She gestured to the lush decorations around the hall. “I think ‘tis enough, Maggie. Ye did a fine job. Ye should be proud.”
Pressing her lips into a thin line, Maggie shook her head, disapproval clear in her blue eyes.
Due to her enthusiasm and utter commitment to the task, Maggie had taken over the planning of the yuletide feast five years ago…almost upon arriving in Scotland. At first, people had frowned at the young English lass, but soon everyone had been delighted with the way she flitted around the castle like a fairy, brightening everything she touched, her eyes aglow with joy.
Today, Maggie was as much a Scot as any one of them, and people often shook their heads at the thought that she had not grown up in the Highlands. A minor detail, Maggie generally called it. A detail to be neglected.
By now, people tended to agree.
“We need more branches,” Maggie stated once more, and Emma knew better than to argue. “Niall, Blair,” she called her children, who came rushing up with excitement, hoping to be entrusted with an important task. “Go find yer father. We need to go out into the woods
