Page 17 of The Highlander's Fake Wife
“Aye, but I am yer maither first and yer kinsfolk second,” his mother retorted with a raise of her brow. “And ye know full well to council’s worry is nae unfounded. A laird knows to raise a proper heir so, once he leaves this plane, a competent leader remains behind.”
“I have nae forgotten, Mam,” Arthur replied coolly.
“And yet, ye’ve reached yer thirtieth year and are no closer to fulfilling that promise!”
Arthur’s fist squeezed his goblet tightly, feeling the wood begin to crack beneath the pressure. She was right, of course–he knew his mother was right–but to speak to him in such a blatant manner…?
“She seems genuinely taken with ye, Arthur,” Flora said. “I think Mam just…wants to make sure yer intentions are genuine. And, if not, to make sure Olivia knows. After all she’s been through, she deserves that much, aye?”
He could feel his temper begin to recede back into the pits of his stomach. As usual, his twin was the voice of reason, even if said reason was infuriating beyond all belief. Arthur sighed, feigning another sip of ale to avoid his family' s gaze.
They couldn’t understand the promise he had to uphold for his father’s sake–for the sake of his clan. It was an unseen burden, a heavy weight that constantly threatened to drag him into the deepest abyss. And, admittedly, Olivia’s appearance had allowed him to forget about his lot in life, at least for a little while.
For a moment, he could float above the waves, instead of drowning beneath them.
He had resolved to wait until the day had fully settled into the afternoon, but Arthur was entirely too distracted to continue his work. Sighing loudly, he pushed himself free of his chair and left his study, stopping at the kitchen to take the aforementioned seafood pottage to Olivia’s room. He gently rapped against the front of her door, not necessarily wanting to startle her this time around.
But when nobody answered, he decided to quietly push the door open and peer inside, doing his best to tactfully glance around the room in case she had decided to sleep without…restrictions. Hardly anything looked out of place as he entered, and he picked up on a soft, gentle snoring coming from beneath the furs on the bed.
Arthur set the pottage at a nearby desk, quietly approaching and holding a snicker back at the sight. At the very least, he now knew Olivia was the messiest of women he’d seen asleep. While the furs were technically beneath her main body, arms and legs sprawled outward and strange angles, taking up a massive portion of the already massive bed. Her mouth hung agape, a thin strand of drool slipping onto her pillow, and her usually wild head of hair was somehow even more feral than before. Not very feminine, perhaps…and yet, Arthur found himself drawn in all the same.
A grumbling moan escaped her lips, and she suddenly pulled completely beneath the blanket, droplets of sweat beading across her forehead. She inhaled quickly, visible hand grasping tightly at the hem of her blanket, and her lips curled into a distressing frown.
“Selkie?” Arthur reached a hand out to press against her shoulder, but the moment he was a hair’s breadth away, her azure eyes fluttered open, as if sensing the sudden addition in her room. She choked back a startled gasp, hand immediately ripping out beneath her pillow as she held what looked to be one of the kitchen’s knives out between them.
Reactively, Arthur grasped her hand and, with a flick of his wrist, easily disarmed her, the knife clattering beneath the bed’s frame. Her gaze swiveled wildly, heaving heavily, as if still trapped in some deep, inescapable nightmare.
“Aye, selkie, yer alright!” Seeing little option, Arthur quickly grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle, but firm, shake.
Her hair settled between his fingers, the usual tight coils relaxed slightly from her terrified sweats, and after a moment, clarity returned to Olivia’s expression. She blinked–blinked a few times–and her entire face began to flush terribly at the sight.
“M-M’laird!” Olivia’s eyes flickered to his arms, and she quickly leaned out of his grasp. “I–y-ye have a terrible h-habit of barging in to places, ye ken that?!”
Arthur’s expression soured terribly. He bent over to grasp the knife’s hilt, pulling it out from beneath the bed and held it outright. He spoke no words, knowing full well that Olivia’s quickly-shifting expression said everything he needed to. She sat upright on her bed, hands tight in her lap as she grasped at thefabric of his sister’s old gown. Anger quickly melted to anxiety, the scowl on her face now one of immediate terror.
“I…I willnae say I didnae mean to use it.” Her eyes occasionally flickered to the knife, and Arthur watched her chest heave in relief as he set the knife well out of arm’s reach.
Arthur remained quiet, allowing his body language, his facial expression, to do the talking for him. And, to his credit, it worked with great effect.
“W-well, what? Did ye think I would simply take yer pretty words of protection as is?” Olivia snapped, now bearing her fangs as he backed her into a corner once more. “I’m to only daughter o’MacCulloh’s late Laird, and–and until recently, I was under the assumption ye didnae take kindly to my kin! And–and all this talk o’secret betrothals, and yer family’s unprompted kindness, and…and…” She blinked furiously, a frustrated snarl escaping her lips as she flung her arms forward, aiming to shove Arthur away.
He let her hands reach his chest, but he refused to be pushed off the bed. “Selkie…”
“And ye keep calling me by that name! Like–like we really are some gowkin’ eejits in love!” Again, she shoved against his chest, fists curling up once more as she began to strike him. “Ye act so cavalier, like me entire existence is some convenient jest! And meanwhile, me maither–me whole clan simply tossed me away–me family…” her strikes weakened considerably, and Arthur found her once more leaning into his chest.
“Ye want me to stay here, Olivia?” he asked softly.
Her breath hitched, arms slipping around his waist as she simply clung to him, seemingly for dear life. After a beat passed, Arthur dared to move arms around her as well, enclosing the now-trembling woman in a firm, comforting embrace.
10
Olivia felt like a child. Here she was, having allowed the enemy of her father’s clan to hold her like some simpering fool. Worse, he offered to hold her bowl of pottage while she spooned out sustenance for herself–she’d shut that down immediately, having moved to the opposite side of the bed and shoveled angry bites of food in silence.
She’d purposefully turned her back to the laird, though Olivia could feel his one eye staring at her, judging her–or, was he ensuring she simply didn’t choke? Thank God she didn’t shed a tear in his presence; she was certain he’d never let her live it down.
Eventually, her bowl had been completely scraped clean. She set it against the nightstand, arms crossing over her chest as she sat, shoulders hunched, her back still facing away. She let out an irritated hiss as her foot began tapping against the ground–a nervous tic that was sure to paint her as further pathetic–and she craned her neck to snap at the laird’s throat once more.
“I cannae imagine what ye’ve gone through the last day or two, Olivia.”
