Anne’s face softened. “She’s not a project, Carwyn.”

He looked away and stared into the fire. “I know that, Anne. I’m not an idiot.”

Anne offered him a sympathetic smile. “Brigid is a protector. That’s how she deals with her past. And she senses that her distress causes you pain, so she’s avoiding dealing with the things she needs to in order to gain control.”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “You think… you think she’s worried about me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s just who she is. It’s her character, Carwyn, and it’s not a bad thing. You’re a comforter; she’s a protector. But she doesn’t need comfort right now. She needs to be able to be angry and learn how to deal with it, and for that, you need to leave.”

His heart ached at the thought of leaving Brigid. Of being so far away, even if she was surrounded by friends and family. Carwyn had told her that he’d take care of her.

“I can’t, Anne.” His whisper was hoarse. “Do what you need to. I’ll keep my distance, but don’t ask me to leave.”

Anne set her knitting aside and leaned forward. “I know you’re not my patient, so consider this as a friend. Your world, the life and family you’ve spent a thousand years building, has suffered a tremendous loss. You are trying to help Brigid, but think for a moment. Do you want to stay for her? Or for yourself?”

He stared into the mirror over the dresser in his room, his right hand covering the delicate outline burned into his chest. Angry red bands wrapped around his shoulders where her arms had lain. The scars were still bright, though the skin was no longer blistered. How long would it take to heal?

Months? Years? His fingers traced the lines that lay over his heart.

A strange part of him treasured the evidence of her. After a thousand years of seeing the same reflection, Brigid’s hand had marked him. Changed him. And in the back of his mind he knew that, even when the scars healed, he would never be the same.

A knock came, quickly followed by the door bursting open. Tavish stomped in with a pile of towels.

“Here.”

“Thanks for knocking.” Carwyn reached over and pulled on a garish shirt he hoped would make Brigid roll her eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

“What were you and Cathy fighting about earlier?”

“Couldn’t you hear?”

“I was distracted.”

Tavish only snorted and muttered something under his breath.

Carwyn cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

The surly vampire looked up with what could almost be considered a smile.

On a bulldog.

“I said I can’t imagine what has been distracting you… Father.”

“I’ve been contemplating the new breeding program you wrote me about for the cattle.”

Tavish’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“No, not really.” He threw a wadded towel at him. “No one is as excited about cow genetics are you are.”

An almost-wistful look crossed Tavish’s lined face. “Ioan was.”

Carwyn smiled. No, he wasn’t. But his oldest son had been interested in any subject that any of his siblings was passionate about, from Highland Cattle to rainforest conservation to homeless children.

Carwyn nodded. “Did you get that article I sent a few months ago? He had it marked on his desk for you.”

“I did.” The gruff vampire cleared his throat. “Thanks. And Cathy and I were arguing about the girl.”

“Who, Brigid?”

“No, the other new vampire you follow around.”

“Shut it.”

“Fine. I’m not one to pry. I’ll only say that it’s long overdue.”

Carwyn frowned. “Nothing is going on. And even if it was, this is coming from you? The most confirmed bachelor I’ve ever met?”

Tavish rolled his eyes. “I don’t like women. You do. You should have one. It would probably be a civilizing influence. And I actually… like the girl.”

“You do?”

“I do. She’s not frivolous.”

Carwyn clapped Tavish on the shoulder. “Stop with the relentless flattery, son. I doubt she’s interested in a decrepit vampire such as yourself.”

Tavish crossed his arms. “Ha. She’s smart and as long as she doesn’t kill herself or anyone else, I don’t mind having her around.”

Carwyn was speechless. That was, perhaps, the nicest thing he’d ever heard his youngest child say about… anyone. Ever. Carwyn had saved Max from the battlefields of France during the First World War, not realizing that the young man had a twin. When he’d given in to Max’s wishes to visit his ancestral home twenty years later, he’d had no idea that Tavish would storm after them into the night, calling his brother’s name as if linked by some eternal and unbreakable bond.

Tavish must have seen the look on his face. “What are you getting maudlin about?”

“You and Max. Two children could never be more different, and yet you care so deeply for each other.”

“I’d like him better if he hadn’t waited twenty years to come home. He left me with all the damn work on this place and I knew he wasn’t dead. Lazy arse. And I’d like him even more if he hadn’t married the American harpy.”

Carwyn gave him a rueful smile. “He’s happy.”