Page 62 of Highland Seduction

Ainsley let go of his hand to finish her meal. “Ye believe such a thing possible?”

He thought of his sister, and of him and Ainsley. “I’d have said no’ for many years. But now . . .” He shrugged. “If ’tis possible for us, for our siblings, is it no’ for the rest of our clan too?”

“Yer brother,” Ainsley sighed. “And my sister?”

She said no more as naught further needed to be said. Royce was laird. Their clan looked to him for leadership. And after what had happened with Ainsley’s sister, Tor did not believe he would ever be whole again. Would ever truly forgive. Did that mean Clan Shaw and Clan MacRob, despite their own marriage and that of their siblings, were doomed as forever enemies?

“We’ve one last day, do we no’?” he asked. “Shall we spend it sitting here, brooding?”

“What do ye propose?”

Tor knew his wife loved the market, and they’d gone only once together. “Shall we go to the market? Bid adieu to Ivy?”

If his wife would look at him that way but once each day, Tor would die a happy man.

“Truly? I thought ye’d wish to remain here, in case there is any word.”

“We’ve waited enough.” He stood, reaching for Ainsley’s hand. She took it gladly.

The day was warm, a perfect one for their visit to the market. They wove through stands, listened to merchants haggling and attempting to harangue their customers into giving up more of their coin. They searched for Ainsley’s man but did not find him. He had likely moved on already to a different town.

“We will make honey of our own,” he said when Ainsley could not hide her disappointment. “And I will find ye a kitten, my love.” He kissed her as a distraction. “I promise.”

That seemed to work. Too well in fact. For just as he leaned down to kiss her again, something caught his eye in the distance. He stood straighter.

“Is it the merchant?” she asked.

“Nay.” Tor tugged on her hand. “There,” he said, pointing off into the distance.

Ainsley looked but saw naught. “What is it?”

“No’ what.” He kept them in his sights. “But who. Look, just next to the silversmith’s table.”

Ainsley tried to jump as they walked, but still she could not see through the crowd of people. Until they found themselves in a clearing, and she gasped.

“Tor,” she said, rushing forward. “Tor. ’Tis Ian!”

“Aye,” he said, moving faster. “And Marta.”

It was his clanswoman. But they were turning, and he and Ainsley would lose them at any moment. Though he did not wish to startle them, Tor had no choice.

“Marta,” he yelled. “Ian.”

Both turned.

“By Saint Andrew and his disciples,” Ainsley said next to him. “It is them.”

Marta MacRob looked directly at him before spinning, as Ian did next to her.

“Tor,” Ainsley said, “they are running.”

As she said it, both he and his wife did the same. Unfortunately, the crowd chose that moment to burgeon once again. They chased them, lost them, found them, and then lost them again. Ainsley was screaming next to him, crying her cousin’s name over and over. It was some time before Tor could admit to himself, and to his wife, “They are gone.”

They wandered the marketplace for so long, merchants began to pack their belongings. When Ainsley turned to him, her expression full of despair, her eyes of tears, he decided at that moment, when he did find Ian again, to wring the lad’s neck. He’d spare Marta, but for his part in making Ainsley so sad . . . “I will kill him when I find them again.”

His wife pulled away from him, shaking her head. “Ye will no’,” she said. “Killing my cousin will no’ end this feud.”

Tor smiled. “Perhaps no’, but ’twould make me feel good.”