Page 58 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Doughall found her kneeling in the gardens, tending to a bed of late-blooming crocuses, the petals a spray of bold yellow and dusky purple against the otherwise slumbering flora.
He watched her for a moment, stirred by the sight of her in such a titillating position. The mix of fatigue and how he might soften the blow of bad news had made it even harder for him to wrangle his self-control, his mind feverish with the thousand ways he could play the instrument of her body to hear the rich music of her ecstasy.
Her shoulders stiffened, sensing his presence. “Ye found me, then?”
“Found ye?” He pushed down his wayward desires and crossed the frosty grass of early evening toward her. “Nay. I was told ye were here.”
She peered up at him, nudging her spectacles up, streaking a line of dirt on her cheek. “How lucky for ye. I, on the other hand, had no idea whereyewere.”
He frowned, torn between wiping the soil from her cheek and asking why his absence bothered her so much. She had lived with her father and brother all her life—surely, she understood what was expected of a laird and, by proxy, of a lady.
“Lewis Brown.”
Freya’s eyes widened sharply, her breath catching. “W-What about him?”
“He was seen nearby. I went to rip his head off his shoulders.”
Her throat bobbed, the flush in her cheeks paling in fear. “Did ye?”
“We didnae find him, but we will,” Doughall replied, curling his hands into fists to temper his rising irritation.
He did not like to fail, least of all when it could affect someone who was under his protection.
Freya turned her head, staring down at the colorful crocuses. “Well… good, but I dinnae much care about Lewis Brown. I’m nae worried about him, considerin’ I cannae leave the castle without an armed escort, and, truly, I think I’d trust Ersie with me life.” She took a deep breath. “What Iamworried about is our upcomin’ weddin’.”
“About that.” Doughall unclenched his hands. “It’s happenin’ the day after tomorrow.”
Her shoulders stiffened again, but she did not look back at him. “All the more reason for me to say what needs to be said, then,” she replied quietly, her voice breathy with something like shock. “I have agreed to the terms, Doughall, but what I cannae agreeto is… feelin’ like an outsider in me own home again. Feelin’ like a stranger when I walk into a room and everyone stops talkin’. Feelin’ like I’m… that I… that I dinnae belong and that I am nae worthy of bringin’ into the fold.”
His eyes narrowed. He felt somewhat sorry for her, but he was unsure how her words pertained to him. He had given her the library, had he not? She had befriended Ersie, had she not? He had promised to be decent to her. What more did she want? How was thatnotbelonging when, very soon, she would carry his name and title?
“Ye’ve heard gossip about ye?” he asked, bewildered. “Show me the gossiper, and I’ll have ‘em dealt with.”
“Nay! Nay, it has nothin’ to do with gossip, for pity’s sake. It’s to do with ye!” she retorted, getting to her feet, a yellow crocus in hand. “I cannae wake up and find out from someone else that me husband is missin’. Yeneedto share things with me, Doughall. Whatever ye wish to get out of this marriage, we need to be a team, nae two souls driftin’ past each other from time to time.”
She might as well have been speaking an obscure dialect of Greek for all the sense her words made to him. His own mother had rarely made a fuss when duty summoned his father away, though he could no longer remember those days in much detail. If shehadquarreled with his father about such things, they had not done it in front of him.
“Ye want me to come runnin’ to ye whenever duty demands me presence instead of actuallygoin’where I’m needed without delay?” He sniffed. “That’s askin’ for too much, lass.”
She shook her head slowly. “To think, I crossed out ‘considerate.’”
“Eh?”
“It’s… it’s just good manners to tell yer wife where ye are!” she replied, throwing her hands up. “Nay, it’s more than that—it’s justhumannae to want someone else to worry. But I suppose I shouldnae be surprised that that’s beyond ye, since there’s nae a lick of emotion in there.” She stepped forward and jabbed a finger in his chest. “Right?”
He stared down at the spot she had jabbed. “I’ve never pretended to be anythin’ other than what I am, lass.Yeshouldnae be surprised now.”
“Aye, but the thing is, yearepretendin’,” she said fiercely, strange tears in her eyes. “I thought ye werenae capable of feelin’ anythin’, I really did, but then ye… spoke to me that night, ye shared yer story with me, and ye… left me that bloody book! Ye gave me the library! And since I’ve been here, Ikenye’ve felt things. I ken ye’ve felt anger, for certain, and lust and empathy and… and, aye,jealousy. So, ye dinnae have me as fooled as ye think ye do!”
He moved closer to her. “Careful.”
“Or what? What will ye do, M’Laird?” she challenged, not in the way she had before, where she had invited punishment, but with true vehemence in her voice. A strength that stirred him, despite himself.
He did not answer, gazing down at her lips.
“There’s nothin’ ye can do to me that’s worse than bein’ alone,” she said in a raspy voice, panting hard. “And that’s how ye made me feel today. Alone. Poor, wee Freya—send her off to the library, and she’ll be nay bother. Keep her in the dark, she willnae mind. Doughall, I willnae have a future as… as lonely as me past.”
A peculiar tug caught him in the middle of his chest, that nagging feeling that refused to leave him be. Regardless of how his stern exterior appeared to her, he did not like to see her in such distress.
