Page 58 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

For one moment, he saw Donaldina beside Lachlan’s cairn beneath the stars. Her hand was small within his, yet she held him as though there were no weakness in offering comfort.

He could not sleep afterward. Not that he wanted to. The memory of her fingers remained with him through the night, warm against a place in him long accustomed to cold.

“How soon?” Ewan asked.

“As soon as ye can have it done.”

The man thought about it for a moment. “That will require setting aside the western gate repairs.”

“Use one of me men tae assist ye.”

“And Lady Donaldina?”

Roy looked at him. Ewan lowered his gaze with suspicious speed.

“She neednae know who ordered it,” Roy urged.

The carpenter’s mouth moved again. “Naturally.”

“I mean it.”

“Aye, me laird.”

“Nae one mentions me name.”

“Of course.”

Roy stepped toward the door, then stopped. “And sand the edges smooth. She works without gloves when the weather is warm.”

Ewan stared at him. Roy’s expression hardened.

The carpenter immediately reached for the oak.

“Nae a word,” Roy warned.

“I heard nae name at all.”

Roy exited the shed before the man could get more amused. Behind him, the first measured strike of the carpenter’s mallet echoed through the morning air.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Donaldina returned to the western garden late that afternoon. The day softened toward evening, though the wind remained sharp above the cliffs. It carried the scent of salt and damp heather through the narrow gate, stirring the rosemary and bending the last pale flowers against their stems.

She carried a basket upon one arm and a small crock of wax beneath the other. One of the older hives required sealing before the next rain. She noticed the crack that morning but allowed herself to be distracted by matters that possessed gray eyes, an unreasonable dislike of rest and a talent for making silence feel more intimate than speech.

Donaldina refused to think of Lachlan’s cairn. She refused more firmly to think of Roy’s hand closing around hers beneath the stars.

The resolve lasted until she opened the garden gate and found that a new hive stood beside the others. Donaldina stopped upon the path.

For a moment, she merely stared. The fresh timber shone pale against the weathered silver of the older boxes. Its roof sloped low over the sides, protecting the seams from rain. The base had been raised upon thick oak legs so that damp could not gather beneath it, and the entrance faced away from the hardest western wind.

It was larger than the others, though not so large that she could not lift the frames herself. Someone had thought carefully about that.

Donaldina placed the basket upon the ground. The bees moved quietly around the older hives, passing through the cold air in slow, drowsy patterns. The new one remained empty, smelling of pine resin, shavings and fresh sap.

She approached it. The corners had been joined cleanly rather than fastened with iron. Every edge was smooth beneath her palm. She ran her fingers over the roof, then along the narrow entrance cut into the front.

Ewan’s work, certainly, yet the careful construction carried another man’s instructions.