Page 45 of The Highlander's Fake Wife
“Arthur…” Flora’s voice softened, as if trying to coax a wild animal out from its corner. “It wasnae her clan, braither. She’s–”
“Have the maids move her to the room beside mine. ’Twas long overdue; my betrothed shouldnae be so far from me, especially if she’s still in danger.”
“Arthur,”
“It wasnae her clanthistime, Flora. Now, dinnae argue with me; I am yer laird first and yer older brother second. Both have seniority over ye, so stop arguin’ with me and go do as I’ve asked.”
A heavy silence hung outside the door, soon filled with the sound of footsteps storming away. Olivia tugged nervously on the hem of her quilt, shrinking away as a soft knock rang against her door.
“May I come in, selkie?” Arthur asked, his voice far more gentle than before.
“A-Aye, m’laird.”
The door creaked open slowly, with Arthur lingering between the frame. He almost seemed to be waiting for something—waiting for her to invite him in fully, Olivia realized—and she made her opinion known. “Ye may come all the way in, m’laird.”
He nodded, closing the door gently behind him as he stood stiffly in place.
“Ye may come to me bedside, Arthur!” Olivia said softly. “I willnae faint at yer mere presence.”
He seemed relieved to hear so, quickly crossing the room and taking a knee. It astonished Olivia, truly, how much his face could change in a mere instance. The angry lines around his eyes were still visible from before, but his expression was anything but cross. For a moment, Olivia was tempted to reach out a hand and feel those lines for herself, but she thought better against it.
“Mother said ye were panic struck,” Arthur said.
Olivia groaned loudly, hiding her flushing face beneath her blanket. “Aah, I feel so ridiculous, now. We daenae even have similar clan colors, and I just assumed,”
“They were in the shadow, selkie,” Arthur reassured. “Ye couldnae have kenned.”
“But I reacted so terribly,”
“Ye were thinking about yer safety.”
Olivia shook her head. “That’s nae what it felt like to me.”
Silence hung between them for a beat, Arthur visibly trying to find the right words to soothe her mind. Olivia’s thumb brushed against the quilt’s stitching, exhaling softly as she settled on their next topic. “Ye seemed awfully agitated just now, Arthur.”
“Ye were in distress; I dinnae ken what was going on, and as laird o’this keep, ‘tis me job to–”
“–I have a feeling yer mood is being influenced by last night,” Olivia finished curtly.
Arthur paused, a wry smirk crossing his lips. “Awful keen o’ye, selkie.”
“Not really,” Olivia admitted. “As my own temperament is similarly affected.”
Arthur’s face paled somewhat, a wave of guilt briefly washing over him.
“Ah–n-nay, I dinnae mean it like–” Olivia stumbled terribly over her words, realizing what she had just implied and frantically tried to correct herself.
Arthur shook his head, shifting his weight so as to sit along the side of her bed. He set his hand mere inches away from her own, and for a moment, Olivia desperately wanted to take it. “I left ye in a terrible state last night. I take full responsibility fer ye response today.”
Olivia bit back the tremble beginning in her lower lip. “I…I wish it were yer hands last night, not mine. I wish–” she swallowed, shaking her head with a frustrated huff. “I wish ye werenae so against a genuine betrothal. We arenae enemies, ye and I–I ken ye’d do anything to protect meself and me kin. So, why…?”
“‘Tis yer rule, selkie,” Arthur pointed out. “I am nay to touch ye wit’out yer permission.”
“Aye, but if we were to actually be wed-”
“We cannae be wed,” Arthur insisted firmly. “I willnae allow it.”
A scowl crossed Olivia’s face. “I didnae think our relationship was one only ye had a say in.”
