had threatened him with a gun, demanded his obedience, received a bullet in her shoulder without so much as a bat of an eyelash and taken a dunk in the river. She was the furthest thing from a ninny, and his chest welled with pride at her courage. A shame he couldn’t marry her. Unlike many of the ladies who’d vied for his attention in order to appease their vanity, she wouldn’t demand his every waking hour, leaving him free to do as he wished. However, he feared her lack of dependence on him for her emotional well-being would only draw him nearer as she did now, intriguing him to get to know her even better. Realizing he was a little more reluctant than he should be about relinquishing her, he plopped her onto the nearest spindle-back chair.
“Ow.” Camy teetered toward the table but caught herself with her good hand. She scooted toward the edge of the chair with her chin held high and her back straight as a plank. “If I was such a b-burden, you could have let me walk.”
“My apologies.” Duncan’s cheeks flamed. “I should have been more careful.”
Of course, he would do well not to touch her again. He wouldn’t wish to be caught in her womanly charm. He scrubbed his palm over his face and winced as he brushed his hand over his eye. The cabin grew a few shades darker and the air closed in. Duncan needed to think about how he could seal the purchase without her as part of the negotiation. He turned for the door. Swinging it open, he stepped into the mud outside.
“Mr. Murray,” Camy called.
His hand on the door. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“To gather your belongings from the river.” He needed air. He needed to get away from her to regain his wits about him. He’d found many ladies attractive over the years, but none as interesting as Camy Sims. The very lilt of her speech tempted him with a desire to sit and chat about nonessentials, a temptation he hadn’t experienced in many years, since before his mother fell ill and lost the will to speak. He could imagine himself sitting across the table with her, sipping tea and eating biscuits, while she regaled him with some tale or another. All he had to do was agree to Hamish’s terms. And gain Camy’s acceptance to be his wife. Absolutely not.
“It is raining. You have no shoes.”
“Rain has never stopped me from enjoying the outdoors.” Glancing down, he held his arms out. “A little more won’t hurt me.” As much as he would enjoy a warm fire to dry his bones, he needed to walk, to think. Why had Hamish brought him out here to no more than a shack housing three sisters? To play on his charitable nature? The old man would find his charity didn’t extend to marrying a brown-eyed lass with tumbling locks as wild as his beloved Highlands. He had to find Hamish and be done with his business so he could remove himself from Camy’s presence.
“You’ll catch your death if you’re not careful.”
If he was not careful he’d catch something much worse than death, like her for a wife. He’d much rather marry one of the simpering young ladies who cared more for proper social graces than was necessary, as it would be easier to maintain his distance. Besides, he felt at home with his bare toes in the cool grass—a little mud would not make a difference.
“I assure you I will be fine, Miss Sims. Besides, I wish to look for your father.”
Deep lines creased her forehead. “My father? You’ll have a time of that. He’s not been seen ’round here in years. He left us with Uncle Hamish when Mara Jean was a tot.”
“You cannot blame our father, Camy.” Ellie dropped a pile of clean cloths into the boiling water and stirred it around. “He had no means to care for three little girls.”
Camy scowled. “Either did Hamish.”
“Hamish had Naomi,” Ellie countered.
“Even so, Da dinnae even try.” Camy’s voice wobbled.
The soft lilt of her accent ignited the black heart confined behind the brick and mortar of his chest. Her words pummeled him like a battering ram. Her words were similar to those he’d said to his own mother after his father left them with a leaky roof, no wood for the winter and no food for their bellies. Even in her illness and after all his father’s abuses, his mother had continued to defend him, but Duncan knew the truth: his father hadn’t even tried. Duncan had done what he could, but there weren’t many folks willing to help the son and wife of a scoundrel like Ewan Murray.
The pain of old wounds sliced through him like an ax splitting wood. To make matters worse, the sisters’ raw emotions filled the room. Duncan understood the rejection and the loneliness all too well and he did not wish to recall the depth of pain he’d felt when his father abandoned him and his mother. However, he could not stop his heartstrings from pulling taut and drawing him closer into their midst, closer to Camy. The sheen of her brown eyes dulled, beckoning him to shield her from all the hurts of this life. If he stayed, as he’d promised, he wouldn’t have the strength to resist his need to protect her. He reminded himself that he was no better than his father, no better than Camy’s. No matter how much he wished it otherwise.
With escape the only thing on his mind, he pulled the door closed and stepped beneath the stoop and off the porch, his toes sinking into the mud. He lifted his face to the punishing sting of the rain. Would his father’s past always chase him down and haunt his thoughts?
The land beckoned to him. However, the pounding in his head and the promise he’d made to Camy to remain by her side kept him from giving in to the need to run barefoot across the countryside as he’d done when he was a lad whenever his father had left, sometimes for months at a time, leaving his mother to suffer days of melancholy.
* * *
Camy slumped against the chair as the door closed behind him. The effort to act the lady almost forced her to embarrassment as she fought the roiling in her stomach. The sharp sting had long since turned into a deep burning, which seem to be spreading throughout her body. Although she was grateful he’d left, giving her a moment of reprieve from proper decorum, disappointment cut into her thoughts and she had a deep suspicion it had something to do with Duncan and his promise to stay by her side, and little to do with memories of her father’s abandonment. She’d long since carved him from her mind.
There were few men of her acquaintance who kept their word, so she didn’t understand why she believed Duncan would be different. Perhaps it had been the look in his eyes when he gave his word. As if he meant it. Hamish, with all his faults, had the same look when he meant to do as he said, which wasn’t often. It was why she had been convinced Hamish would never sell the land. Her uncle might be a lot of things right down to a no-good yellow belly at times, but when he made a promise with a look of determination, he kept it. Until now, it seemed.
“Here.” Ellie cupped her elbow and helped her stand to her feet. “Let’s get you out of your wet things before Dr. Northrop arrives.”
Camy groaned with each pull and tug as Ellie helped her change into a dry skirt and a loose-fitting bodice. She was near to suffering from the vapors by the time her sister fastened the last of the buttons after covering her wound with strips of linen. A quick tug of her hair had her knees wobbling and Camy didn’t think she’d be able to stand much longer. Ellie released Camy’s hair with an irritated sigh.
“We’ll not worry about tidying you up any more than necessary, but we do need to get your hair dried.” Ellie moved the chair closer to the fire and helped her sit. “Do you wish to speak about Mr. Murray before Northrop arrives?”
Turning
