Page 51 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Puzzled, she glanced down to see what he had left her with. She picked up the square of silky fabric like it was something strange and foreign, noting the embroidered letters ‘DS’ on the corner—Doughall Scott. He had gone without showing her any sympathy, but he had left her with that subtle, powerful gesture of empathy: his handkerchief.
Freya did not see her betrothed or Ersie for the rest of the day, taking her meals in stilted silence with her mother, brother, andEmily while wondering where on earth everyone else was. She might have enjoyed the food better if she had been permitted to engage Isla or Doughall’s uncle, Flynn, in friendly conversation. Even some of the guests from the feast.
Instead, she got a scolding that seemed to go in circles.
“While I am, of course, delighted that ye’re gettin’ married at last, I cannaefathomwhat ye were thinkin’ last night, dancin’ with that other laird,” Moira remarked, skewering a piece of roast pheasant. “I was horrified, and I daresay I wasnae the only one.”
Adam sipped his weak ale. “There was nay harm done, Maither.”
“Aye, I ken that, but there might’ve been,” Moira insisted. “After all this bother with Laura, ye’d think at least one of me daughters would ken how to behave with some propriety. I’ve spoiled ye—that’s what it is. I’ve been too soft with ye.”
Freya nearly spat out her mouthful of buttery potatoes, a harsh laugh threatening to tear out of her throat. Fortunately, the potatoes kept her from saying anything she might regret, and she concentrated on chewing and swallowing instead of ripping her mother’s remarks to shreds.
“Enough, Maither,” Adam said coolly. “Everythin’ has turned out well, so there’s nay reason for ye to keep mitherin’ on about it.”
“Someone has to,” Moira carried on. “Ye’vebeen too soft with both of them, too, since yer faither—God rest his soul—was taken from us. This would never have happened if he was still with us, and?—”
Adam slammed his cup down on the table. “I said, enough! If ye dinnae like the state of things, ye can return to MacNiall Castle at once, and ye’ll nae see yer daughter’s weddin’.” He took a deep breath. “I willnae warn ye again.”
Clearly affronted, huffing and puffing like an angry bull, Moira popped the pheasant into her mouth and chewed it with a vengeance. But Freya had lost what little appetite she had, and as she swallowed the potatoes, feeling them clog her throat, she excused herself.
No one tried to stop her as she left, though Emily offered a look of sympathy. There were a thousand things Freya wanted to do—find Ersie, find that letter, wander in the chilly evening air, read something in the not-so-forbidden library—but her weary feet carried her to her bedchamber instead. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.
She had just sat down on the edge of the bed, contemplating whether or not to summon Ealasaid, when something on the chair caught her eye—the same chair Doughall had occupied last night, which still had not been moved back to its original place.
It was a book.
Curious, she reached for it and opened the cover, where a short note greeted her eyes, wrapped around the key to the library.
You shouldn’t read books that upset you. Try this one. Doughall.
“The Blazing World,” she mumbled, reading the title. By Margaret Cavendish. A novel she had heard about but never had the opportunity to acquire, infamous for its strangeness and utter disregard for what was deemed ‘normal’ and ‘appropriate’ in literature.
Taking it to the fireplace, the flames offering more light to see by, she curled up and prepared to devour it, thrilled by the knowledge that he had left it for her. That he had thought of her enough to do so.
Compassion…
In her mind, she crossed out the emotion. While she was at it, she crossed out ‘considerate’ too, already wondering what else she might eke out of him next. A promise to reconsider having children? Perhaps.
Maybe she was fooling herself, but nothing seemed quite as impossible anymore.
20
“It’s Lewis Brown!”
Ersie burst into the armory, where Doughall had been taking inventory of the weapons in the clan’s possession, noting any cracks or rust or flaws that would require the blacksmith’s attention.
He whirled around, his eyes narrowing on her. “What?”
“It’s Lewis Brown, M’Laird. James Stewart’s man. Spotted by the loch. Two of our lads chased him, but they lost him in the woods,” she panted. “I was on me way back from scoutin’ when I passed ‘em. They were comin’ to tell ye.”
Anger flared, a black flame in Doughall’s chest. “Was he on foot or horseback?”
“Had a horse with him, but he’s on foot.” Ersie sucked in a gulp of air. “The lads have the horse, so he willnae be ridin’ anywhere.”
Keenly remembering the night he had found Freya in the woods, he wondered if he would know the horse by sight. It had been a dark-coated beast, not a dun or a silver or even a piebald, but he could not be sure if the horse was black or brown. He shook off the contemplation; it was of little use at that moment.
“Round up ten of our best soldiers,” Doughall said darkly, feeling an eerie, familiar sense of calm. “We’ll hunt him out of those woods if it’s the last thing we do.”
