Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Mara, we must speak together.” Ramsay drew his horse to a halt on a rise.

The ache lodged beneath Mara’s ribs intensified. Two days had they ridden—blindly, it seemed—after leaving the benighted town of Ullapool with their skins intact. For Mara the time had passed in a blur, all gratitude mixed up with dismay.

Now she refused to look at the man beside her—could not bear to—and gazed instead at the beautiful scene below. Her throat grew tight with emotion; she had now seen more of this bonny land than she had ever hoped or dreamed, and it proved far grander than her heart could hold.

And this man she loved?

She turned her head at last and feasted her starved eyes on him. The afternoon sun lit his hair with a ruddy sheen and sculpted every line of his proud, handsome face. As rugged, stern, and strong as this land was Diarmad Ramsay—and as beguiling.

Determinedly she turned her gaze away again as shame gripped her. She longed for his touch but in two days had not succumbed to that desire. She listened now as his voice caressed her ears.

“This course is run,” he announced. “I am finished wi’ it. I do no’ ken what you think of the choice I made back there. You will no’ say.” He left the words hanging as if questing for a reply.

Mara cleared her throat, hoarse from disuse. “Was that the true Prince?” she asked. “Was it our liege lord we left in chains?”

Ramsay did not immediately answer. She stole another look and caught sight of his profile, hard and tense.

“I do no’ ken for certain, but I think not.”

“You saw the Prince at Culloden.”

“I saw him, aye, and that man back there was a very good likeness, very good indeed.”

Silence once more fell between them while Mara struggled with the pain in her heart.

Ramsay said, “I know what you are thinking.”

Did he? A wonder that, because Mara certainly did not.

Before she could say so, he went on.

“You hate me for breaking my vow to my father, forcing you to break your vow to yours, and for betraying that man at the White Rose, be he prince or no. You ha’ lost all regard for me. And you believe we should carry on with this mad chase all about the Highlands, pretending to be who we are not.”

Hate him? Was that truly what he supposed? Nay—he did not know what she thought at all.

And how could she tell him? How admit that amid this sea of mangled honor, duty, and obligation her concern was so selfish and personal?

“If you do no’ intend to carry on wi’ our assignment, what do you intend?”

He gazed at her now with heavy gravity in his eyes. “I mean to go home. I have obligations there. My father is dead. I do no’ ken whether my brother still draws breath. But for all that, my clan will need a chief.”

So that explained the direction he had been heading, steadily north and east toward what must be his home lands.

Pain clenched at her heart still more fiercely as truth struck. It was over, this mad, beautiful dream. “You wish to be shed of me,” she said, not without bitterness.

“Eh?”

Somehow she held his gaze. “I know it must be so.”

He shook his head as if bewildered. “It but strikes me I maun offer you the choice to go home also. That has been borne upon me by your silence, if naught else. ’Tis no’ fair for me to set off on my own course and not give your feelings due consideration. If you wish, we will turn back and I will tak’ you home before going on my way.”

A death stroke to Mara’s heart! She swayed where she sat. “Part ways, you mean.” She had been right, then; since the encounter back in Ullapool, since hearing what Dwight had to say, he saw her differently. She could not bear it, could not part with him despite what he might think of her. But should she beg to accompany him? What of her pride?

“I ken fine you do no’ agree with my decision to leave off wi’ our task,” he said rigidly. “And if you would sooner see the last of me…”

She looked away at the glorious backdrop of hills and sky, unable to bear what she took for loathing in his eyes.

“How near are we to your home lands?”

“A day or two’s ride, maybe three.”

“Then”—she couched it in a way her self-esteem, battered as it was, would allow—“’twould be far better to continue on there rather than delay by turning back. Your lands seem a fair enough place to go to ground while the search dies down. I can always leave for home later.”

And perhaps meanwhile he would decide he could not live without her despite her great and intolerable failings.

He gave a hard nod. “Very well so. We will ride on together.”

****

Together, yet not together; Diarmad thought about the truth of that later when he lay beneath a blanket of stars, searching the heavens for answers. The only ones he found, he could not stomach.

Mara lay barely an arm’s length away from him, yet far beyond his reach. Their conversation this afternoon proved how she now despised him.

But he ached for her, he did still—longed even now to draw her into his arms, hold her close against his body as he had before, woo her lips and make her his completely. Her desire had been so hot and ready, her favor so strong, losing it felt akin to a mortal wound.

Aye, but he could not blame her for shunning him, could he? He had known from the first moment they met how she worshipped her Prince. And yet he, Diarmad, had forced her to abandon her hero, or one who valiantly served him.

What of your honor, lad? He heard his father’s voice in his ear again, harsher than ever in life.

I could no’ let her be hauled away to die, he replied silently. Surely you maun see that.

But his father’s reply indicated he did not understand. Cainnech would have done as bidden, would have carried through and kept the Ramsay honor whole.

At the cost of her life, Da?

At the cost of hers, and his own. Did I no’ bleed away my life for this Cause?

Aye, Da.

What of all the others who ha’ made a terrible sacrifice? Are there not poor, suffering folk even now who would starve rather than claim the price on our Prince’s head?

Archibald and MacNeal—

Would you try to justify your actions by comparing yoursel’ with that sort? You truly have condemned your family’s honor.

Tears flooded Diarmad’s eyes, blurring the stars overhead. I have shamed you.

His father did not refute it, and pain lodged like a stone beneath Diarmad’s heart. He vowed to the sky, I will no’ fail you again.

Once more his father made no reply. Diarmad lay with his eyes brimming and tried to imagine his future. If his brother survived and had made his way home, he, Diarmad, would have to do his best to support his new clan Chief and live with his burdens. Might Mara MacIvor fit into that life? Could he do anything to change the dire way she now saw him and persuade her to stay?

For of all the unimaginable things before him, parting from her seemed the most impossible—losing her fire and brightness from his days, watching her ride away to the south knowing he might never see her again.

Nay.

His weighted heart protested it. Yet his aching mind told him, She already despises you. Why ever would she agree to stay?

He closed his eyes tightly against the blurry stars and his ears against the terrible voice of condemnation. He could not—would not—regret buying Mara’s life at the cost of his honor, but it seemed a terrible price, losing her regard and affection.

Come to me, he begged her silently, but she lay in her blankets with her back to him, and he dared not reach out.

Not for all his longing.