Twenty-nine

The first day Michael was gone was easier. There was no chance he'd be back so soon.

But the second . . . it went on forever. After a fitful night of sleep, Caitlin rose early and spent the morning outdoors, walking the now familiar paths through the hills, trying to find some distraction in the beauty of the moor in bloom, in the way the shadows of the clouds raced across the land. Of course, unless he'd ridden all night, she couldn't expect him home this early, but even still, when she reached the heights far above the house, she couldn't help but look for him, a lone horseman emerging over the distant rise, following the ribbon of road that stretched from Inverness.

She took her midday meal in the kitchen, then retired to the sitting room where she tried to read. After an hour, she gave up and surrendered to the urge to drag her chair to the window and stare out at the road.

Time seemed to slow even more. The wind blew the heather, the birds swooped overhead, the sun tracked from its zenith, lower, then lower still, until the light poured through the pane, dazzling her and nearly obscuring the view.

At some point, Jinny poked her head in, reminding Caitlin that tea was waiting.

"I'll take it in here," Caitlin murmured.

"Of course, ma'am." The maid gave her a curious look. Caitlin had not explained things to any of the servants. There was nothing to explain.

The girl left.

Caitlin's eyes were drawn to the road once more. Perhaps in the few moments she hadn't been watching he—

No. The road was as empty as it had been all day.

She exhaled and craned her neck to the side, massaging the tense muscles. There was a chance he would never return. She should be prepared for that. He could be drunk right now, wandering his way south, giving up on life entirely.

After all, she'd told him she'd leave alone if need be, that he'd have to choose. But if it came down to it, and he chose to run away, could she really go without him? Make her home in some far-off land, knowing that he was here, somewhere. That he might be suffering alone—

Was that movement?

She squinted. The slanting sun made it hard to see clearly, but . . .

There. There was something on the road. A horse and a rider.

She flew out of the house, not bothering with a bonnet or cloak.

"Michael!" She strode toward the figure on the horse, shading her eyes with her hand. It was the right horse, surely. The old mare's gray coat was easy to spot. But the rider was hard to make out, a hat pulled low over his face. Was it him?

He lifted a hand in greeting.

Caitlin broke into a run.

As she approached, his features came into focus, and a wash of relief spilled though her when she saw he was smiling—an unaffected, unreserved, ear-to-ear grin. She'd never seen anything like it.

Michael swung down from the saddle just in time to catch her in his arms.

Their mouths found each other, but Caitlin was too out of breath for a long kiss. She pulled back and looked at him, framing his face with her hands. That wondrous smile . . . She couldn't help but laugh. His whiskers were bristly under her palms, his clothes a bit rumpled, but it was him . The man she loved. She drew him to her and kissed him again. Held him as tight as she'd ever held anything in all her life.

When she finally withdrew once more, his hat had tumbled to the ground, and they were both breathless. "And how did it go, then?"

"It went . . . well . Not at all how I expected." He beamed at her and bent down to retrieve his hat.

"Tell me."

"I will, but let's walk. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I'm ravenous." He put the hat back on, then shifted the horse's reins to his other hand and offered his arm. She looped hers through, and they started toward the house.

"It took all day to get there," Michael began. "Cameron received me in the library at the castle yesterday evening."

"And you . . . apologized?"

"Yes. It felt bloody foolish by the time I got there, but I apologized as I'd planned. Said I was sorry for everything." He fell silent.

"And?"

Michael shrugged. "He didn't accept. He said what I did was unforgivable." Caitlin's heart sank. Had she mistaken his happiness somehow? "He didn't wish me ill either. But he said he couldn't simply take my apology and act as if all were well. And he was right not to. It isn't." A shiver ran through her, and she suddenly wished she's brought a shawl. "Do you know, Sommerbell still can't ride in closed carriages, or be in small rooms . . . " Again, Michael stopped talking. He seemed to be lost in thought.

Caitlin trained her eyes on the brown stone of the house, doing her best to keep the impatience and worry out of her tone. "What happened then? Did he turn you out?"

"I left before he could, or ran away is more like it. I felt . . . wretched. I couldn't stand to be there for a second longer." As he spoke, that joyous grin flooded back onto his face, as mismatched with his words as could be.

"I don't understand," Caitlin stilled, pulled Michael to a halt, and planted herself in front of him, forcing him to look her in the eye. "If it went so poorly, why are you smiling?"

Michael's grin widened further. "Well, on my way out of the castle I happened upon Sommerbell." Caitlin felt her eyes go wide. "He didn't see me," Michael added quickly. "But I saw him. And he was—he was happy . As happy as a man can be. And Jane, my other cousin. She's happy too. Despite it all. Everything I did. They've moved on."

Understanding began to slide into place, and a warmth spread in Caitlin's chest. "Have they, now?"

"Yes. I think so." Michael nodded solemnly, all mirth gone from his face, replaced by an innocent kind of wonder she'd never seen there. "Do you know, I don't think it matters that Cameron didn't forgive me. I mean—like I said, what I did was unforgivable. I don't blame him at all. I don't know that I'll ever be able to forgive myself, if I'm honest. But that doesn't mean I can't change, does it? Be happy as the man I am now?" He shook his head. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

Caitlin gazed into the clear blue of his eyes, her lips spreading into a wide smile. "Oh, but you are. You're making all the sense in the world."

Half an hour later they were in the sitting room, where Michael was devouring a plate of bread, boiled eggs, and cheese. He hadn't been exaggerating about not eating. When Caitlin asked where he'd slept, he shrugged and said he hadn't wanted to intrude on the innkeeper at Darnalay Village—he'd apparently had doings with the woman while he'd lived there—so he'd tethered his horse and laid himself down on the heather by the road.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, incredulously.

"A bit." He grinned and swallowed the large mouthful he was chewing. "But I really just wanted to be here, so I was up as soon as there was light enough to see."

Caitlin bent over and kissed his cheek. "That explains this, then." She plucked a heather blossom from his tousled hair. Then she rose. "I'll just call Jinny to draw you a bath."

When she returned, his plate was empty, and Michael was sitting back comfortably on the sofa, his eyes half closed. A rush of memory blew through her, of the day they'd first met. He'd been in need of a bath then, too, but that was the only resemblance she could find between this man and the lost soul who'd arrived on her doorstep all those months ago.

He opened his eyes as she approached and smiled a lazy, contented grin. "Is that bath ready?"

"Not quite." Caitlin sank down beside him, and he drew her close till she was half sitting on his lap, his arms encircling her. He smelled of pipe smoke and heather and the windswept moor.

She rested her head on his chest. "Michael?"

"Hmm?" She felt his voice as much as heard it. The rumble in his chest, the warmth of his breath on her scalp.

"You'll come with me, then, won't you? To America?"

His arms tightened around her, and he pressed a kiss to her neck. "Of course. Was there any doubt?"

"No. I suppose not."

Silence fell between them as Caitlin rode the waves of Michael's breath. The sun had just set, and the sky outside the window was awash with vibrant colors.

"Michael?" Caitlin spoke again, barely whispering. She wasn't at all sure he was awake, and she didn't want to wake him, but she also needed to ask. Somehow, she couldn't wait.

"Yes, love?"

"I wonder. Would you like to get married?"

He was silent for a long time. Then, almost as if he hadn't understood the meaning of the word, "Married?"

"Married. Wed." She turned so she could see his face and was relieved to find a gentle smile there. "If we're to live together in America, share a bedroom, I mean, and on the boat over . . . It does seem . . . the proper thing, does it not?"

His look darkened a bit. "You'd lose your dower. There'd be no going back."

"I know that." She kissed him lightly on the lips. "I love you, Michael Dunn. I don't want to go back."

His smile grew—first on his lips, then in his eyes, a sunburst as bright as the colors outside the window. "You really want to? I mean—I would live with you without it, you know. I don't mind."

She grinned up at him. "I've never been more certain of anything in me life."

"Well then, let's get married." He gazed at her, his eyes soft with love, and pulled her in for a kiss. A long, deep, forever kind of kiss. A promise. A vow.

They sat together, lost in their love, as the bright colors of sunset dissolved into the gentle hush of twilight. A swallow swooped low, finding dinner for his family. The clouds blew by. And the end of one day became the beginning of another.