Page 68 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

Sleep was impossible later that night. Fiona remained locked inside her small chamber for the rest of the afternoon and evening, stoically climbing into the cold, unfamiliar bed only when Alice insisted. She had refused Gavin’s pleas to speak with him and had rather viciously torn up a note he sent, the sounds of the tearing parchment causing a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

Knowing her restless turning would awaken Alice, who slept on a pallet near the door, Fiona sat huddled beneath the thin coverlet. Tucking her knees close to her chest, she stared out into the dark, miserable night, yearning for what she could never have, could never capture and hold.

She watched the dawn slowly break, bringing the warming sunlight to all it touched. If only it could penetrate her heart and heal the frozen pain, she thought.

But sunshine quickly fled and the rains began, steady and hard. How ironic. Even the weather joined her in sorrow. Fiona bathed her swollen eyes, knowing she had to face the reality of the situation. She wasn’t precisely certain what she was going to do next. All she did know was that staying here and watching Gavin marry another woman would crush the already shattered pieces of her heart.

Somehow, she must devise a way to leave.

Father Niall was placing a newly embroidered cloth on the altar when Fiona approached him in the chapel. She had waited until everyone had broken their fast and left the great hall before slipping away, grateful to have avoided meeting Gavin.

“Have you heard the news about the earl’s marriage?” Fiona asked.

“Yes. There is talk of little else.” His eyes were kind, sympathetic.

Yet the words brought all the wounded emotions she struggled to control rushing back. “The announcement was not unexpected,” she lied. God forgive her, now she was lying to a priest. A man she considered a friend.

A frown gathered across Father Niall’s brow. “Still, it must be painful for you.”

“’Tis hardly pleasant,” Fiona quipped, but her voice fell flat. “I will need to make arrangements to leave. Can you help me?”

“What about Spencer? Will he go with you?” The priest cleared his throat. “I’ll admit I had my doubts when you first proposed coming to Scotland, but Spencer has thrived here. Would you take that from him now, my lady?”

“Nay.” A grim smile tugged at Fiona’s mouth. “Spencer needs the training the earl is providing. Though it adds another layer to my sadness, he must stay.”

“You must be strong, Lady Fiona, and trust in God that all will be well.”

“I’m trying. Yet ’tis difficult to have faith under these circumstances.” She began walking toward the door, then stopped and turned. Fearing the answer, yet needing to know, Fiona whispered, “Am I being punished, Father Niall? For being wicked, immoral, for taking a man to my bed who was not my husband?”

The priest’s face crumbled with sympathy. “God understands the weakness of the flesh, for were we not made in his image? He is not a vengeful being, though he expects us to atone for our sins. And I know that you understand it would be an even graver sin to encourage the earl to commit adultery after he has taken a new wife.”

“I agree. That is why I need to leave this place as soon as possible.”

Father Niall nodded, yet his face looked troubled. “So you’ve heard?”

“What? There is more?”

The priest’s eyes slid over her. “I regret having to tell you, but I heard the cooks talking after morning Mass. Laird Sinclair and his daughter will be arriving tomorrow.”

“Maybe this time the earl will find true love,” the laundress said. “I’ve heard that it can happen, even in an arranged marriage.”

A group of servants were busy hanging out the laundry, their chattering voices easily overheard. Fiona made a move to turn away, but several highly raised brows let her know that she had been spotted. Curiosity, mixed with a dash of pity along with a hint of satisfaction, lined many of the women’s faces.

Fiona’s pride rushed forth. There was no help for it. She’d have to test her composure and walk past them.

“I’ve heard tell that she’s young and pretty,” one of the women exclaimed as Fiona drew near.

“The looks of an angel, that’s what Duncan told me,” another chimed in.

Fiona couldn’t seem to catch her breath as a large sob lodged itself in her throat. She battled to force it down. She’d rather walk barefoot in the snow all the way back to England than break down and prove that their words were causing her pain.

“If she’s as pretty as they say, he willnae be able to resist her, I’m sure.” The laundress snickered. “Not that he’d even try.”

“Aye, we’ll have the heir we’ve been praying for within the year, mark my words.”

Pain stabbed at Fiona’s chest. A child. Gavin’s child. The sob rose again in her throat, threatening to burst from her at any moment.

Fiona kept her steps slow and measured, but she barely made it beyond them before bursting into tears. Her legs sagged, her steps faltered. Scurrying around, she searched for a quiet, desolate corner of the bailey where she could be alone to vent the misery that was strangling her heart.

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