She massaged her temples, scowling at him. “You’re giving me a headache.” After a moment, she blew out a resigned breath, fluffing her bangs from her eyes. “Okay, I give up. Why don’t you tell me about yourself. I mean, who you think you are.”
A rather begrudging invitation, but he would work with what he could get. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been, awaiting her response, until his muscles smoothed beneath his skin. “I have told you that I am the laird of my clan, despite the fact that my father, Silvan, still lives. He refuses to be laird anymore, and at three score and two I can scarce blame him. ’Tis a long time to bear such responsibility.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I had a brother, Dageus, but he died recently.”
He didn’t mention that his betrothed had been killed while accompanying Dageus back to Castle Keltar for the wedding. The less said about any of his betrotheds to another woman, the better. He was touchy about the entire subject.
“How?” she asked gently.
“He was returning from the Elliott’s estate when he was killed in a clan battle that wasn’t even our own but between the Campbell and the Montgomery. Most likely, he saw the Montgomery was severely outnumbered and tried to make a difference.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes to find compassion shimmering in her gaze, and it warmed him. When he lowered himself from the massive trunk of the fallen tree and pulled her leg over the trunk so she faced him, she didn’t resist. With him standing on the ground and her perched upon the trunk, they were at equal eye level, and it seemed to make her feel more comfortable. “Dageus was like that,” he told her with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “He was ever one to fight others’ battles. He took a sword through the heart, and one bitter morn I woke up to the sight of my brother, trussed across the back of his horse, being escorted home by the captain of the Elliott guard.” And grief rips at my heart. Brother of mine, I failed both you and Da.
Her brows puckered, mirroring his sorrow. “Your mother?” she asked gently.
“My father is widowed. She died in childbirth when I was fifteen; neither she nor the babe survived. He has not remarried. He vows there was only one true love for him.” Drustan smiled. His da’s sentiment was one he understood. His parents’ match had been made in heaven: he a Druid and she the daughter of an eccentric inventor who’d scoffed at propriety and educated his daughter better than most sons. Unfortunately, educated lasses were hardly in abundance in the Highlands, or anywhere else for that matter. Silvan had been lucky indeed. Drustan had longed for such a match himself, but time had worn him down, and he’d given up hope of finding such a woman.
“Are you married?”
Drustan shook his head. “Nay. I would not have tried to kiss you were I betrothed or wed.”
“Well, score one point for men in general,” she said dryly. “Aren’t you rather old never to have been married? Usually when a man hasn’t married by your age, there’s something wrong with him,” she provoked.
“I’ve been betrothed,” he protested indignantly, not about to tell her the number of times. It wasn’t a fine selling point, and she was closer to the truth than he would have liked. There was indeed something wrong with him. Once women spent a bit of time with him, they packed up their bags and left. It was enough to make a man feel uncertain of his charms. He could see she was about to press the issue, so he said hastily, hoping it would end the discussion of the subject, “She died before the wedding.”
Gwen winced. “I’m so sorry.”
They were silent a few moments, then she said, “Do you want to get married?”
He arched a teasing brow. “Are you offerin’ for me, lassie?” he purred. If only she would, he’d like as not snatch her up and marry her before she could change her mind. He found himself more intrigued by her than he’d ever been with any of his betrotheds.
She flushed. “Of course not. I’m merely curious. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of man you are.”
“Aye, I wish to wed and have bairn. I simply need a good woman,” he said, flashing her his most charming grin.
She wasn’t unaffected by it. He saw her eyes widen slightly in response and she seemed to forget the question she’d been about to ask. He breathed a silent thank you to the gods who’d gifted him a handsome face and white teeth.
“And what would a man like you consider a good woman?” she said after a moment. “Wait”—she raised a hand when he would have spoken—“let me guess. Obedient. Adoring. Definitely not too bright,” she mocked. “Oh, and she’d just have to be the most gorgeous woman around, wouldn’t she?”