Page 31 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“I am meetin’ Ersie,” she said, turning around. “Ye dinnae need to escort me. She’s waitin’ at the bottom of the stairs, and I dinnae think she’ll appreciate yer thinkin’ that she doesnae ken how to protect me.”
The guards looked at one another, hesitated, and then returned to their original positions… though it rather made their presense there unnecessary if she was elsewhere in the castle.
Still, she was not about to argue when she desperately needed some peace and quiet, where no one would tell her how nice she looked and no one would mention that Doughall might not bother appearing.
Dinnae let it all be for nothin’…
She hurried down the stairs, just in case the guards changed their minds or realized that she might have been lying.
A short while later, having ducked and hidden from anyone who might have asked where she was going, she was standing in the forbidden library, inhaling the comforting scent of books. Somany books. All begging to be read, not shut away, gathering dust. All those words locked away where no one could learn from them or even enjoy them.
Speaking of the lock, there had been no resistance when she had opened the door, which was as good as permission to her. If Doughall really did not want her to be there, he would have ensured that it was locked.
“Something quick, I think,” she murmured to herself, eagerly walking over to the endless stacks.
Running her fingertips over the spines, she peered up to see what treasures were stowed away on the topmost shelves. They looked thinner than the ones lower down. Poetry, perhaps, or plays. Perfect reading for the amount of time that she had at her disposal, before someone realized she was missing again.
Rising on tiptoe, stretching her arm as far as her shoulder joint would allow, she fumbled for a book with an eye-catching dark green spine. Her fingertips pinched it and, with some effort, teased it out of its place.
As she pulled it down, something fell from the pages—a yellowed, folded piece of paper. The cracked half of a wax seal clung to the timeworn parchment.
A letter, undoubtedly.
Freya stooped to pick it up.
“There ye are!” Ersie’s voice ricocheted through the silent library, almost startling Freya out of her skin. “I hope ye ken that ye could’ve cost those guards their employment if the Laird found out that ye slipped past them—though, of course, I’ll nae breathe a word of it.”
Freya scrambled to pick up the letter and stuff it back into the pages, pushing the incriminating evidence sideways onto the nearest shelf, above some history tomes.
“I was just… takin’ a moment to meself,” she said apologetically. “Dinnae blame them.”
“I dinnae.” Ersie smiled in the doorway. “Come on, ye’ve an entire feastin’ hall to delight and amaze.”
Freya hesitated. “Has Doughall returned?”
“Do ye think I’d come to fetch ye if he hasnae?”
Freya expelled a nervous breath. “Well then, I suppose we’d better begin the night’s performance.”
“Aye, dinnae keep yer audience in too much suspense.”
Ersie offered her arm like a gentleman might and swiftly escorted Freya to the Great Hall, where, with any luck, all of their work over the past day would finally come to fruition.
The chatter ebbed at the shriek of the hall doors. All eyes turned curiously toward the new arrival, and though he did not really care who was about to join the revelry, Doughall cast an absent glance in that direction.
His eyes widened just a little as Freya walked in, and the muted chatter turned into utter silence, so quiet that he could hear every footstep on the flagstones.
A vision in the most unusual shade of green, like gilded summer leaves, Freya was… breathtaking. Her copper hair was loose and wavy, falling to her hips, two front pieces twisted back to create a crown of her own locks, and two jeweled slides fanning upward from the back of her head. She wore a teardrop emerald at her throat, drawing Doughall’s eye to the creamy skin of her bosom, while a belt of golden vines highlighted the hourglass shape of her waist.
Is it really her?
He squinted to be sure, as if he was the one in need of spectacles, but he already knew the answer. The gown and the jewels and the style of her hair had only enhanced the beauty that was already there. The quiet splendor of her that he seemed to find irresistible in closer quarters.
A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. “Forget the roasted birds, I plan to feast onthatthis evenin’. Mercy, have ye ever seen such a lass? Me mouth is waterin’ already.”
Doughall turned slowly, his lip curling as he looked upon Kaiden Lawson, the Laird of Clan MacMillen. A rake of infamous proportions who did not know when to keep his mouth shut.
Doughall considered teaching him, but his aunt caught his eye, beaming with such joy that he knew he could not ruin the evening she had spent so much effort planning. No one wanted blood on the feasting table… not until everyone had finished eating, at least.
