Page 46 of The Highlander's Fake Wife
Arthur visibly hesitated, hands grasping at the end of the quilt. It was a rare sight, seeing the laird look so distressed, so…uncertain. “I…I cannae do it, selkie.”
“Arthur.”
“Olivia, I refuse to be responsible fer makin’ a widow out of ye.”
Olivia blinked, her mind going completely blank. A widow…a widow? The world rolled heavily around in her head, but she couldn’t quite get it to settle. She stared at Arthur in disbelief, wonder if, perhaps, he had mispoken.
“By me hands,” Again, Arthur hesitated, genuine regret filling his eye. “By me own hands, I’ve made yer maither a widow. I killed a fellow laird, and–and I will die someday, Olivia. In a year, a month, maybe tomorrow; marrying me means marrying a man marked fer death, and I cannae willingly pull someone I cared for into that sort of existence.”
The word tumbled around Olivia’s head alongside the first–cared. Hedidcare for her, more than he was letting on. She shook her head, still unable to fully process it all. “Arthur…I ken what the life of a lady is like. That’s…” she swallowed painfully, not entirely truthful with her next words. “That’s nay something I fear. ‘Tis expected in this world, to lose folk to the highland. Lairds especially.”
“I willnae willingly condemn you–our children–to live without their faither,” Arthur snapped. “I willane let me sons and daughters die an early death by the hands of this violent, war-obsessed highland, before they even have the chance to fully discover themselves. And I willnae saddle ye with that sort o’ responsibility, that grief.”
“Then…” Olivia blinked, then blinked more furiously. “What ye said through me door…?”
Arthur spun around, hands reaching out to grasp Olivia’s, to cradle the side of her face. And, in that beat of hesitation, she leaned into it, taking his hand into hers and pressing her cheek against his palm. “Olivia, I meant everything I said,” Arthur insisted. “I wish more than anything that I were by yer side. I–” he pressed his forehead against hers, and Olivia took the moment to inhale his scent. Commit it to memory, to hold and cherish for as long as she lived.
He leaned back ever so, their noses a breath away as her eyes swam within his. A glimmer of hope danced behind his seafoam gaze, and Olivia wanted nothing more than to keep that sparkalive. “But–but if ye stayed me betrothed forever, you wouldnae be shackled with wifely duties.”
Oh.
“I would die, but ye could live yer life as ye saw fit.” Genuine excitement filled Arthur’s voice, as if he’d solved the world’s most impossible problem. “We wouldnae have to worry about making heirs. Ye wouldnae be trapped here, Olivia. Ye–yer life wouldnae end when mine does.”
Gently, Olivia pulled away from Arthur, grasping his other hand and pulling them back down to the bedside. His expression immediately fell, and she inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that had begun in her chest.
“I’m so sorry fer the life ye must lead Arthur. And–And I’ll always be grateful to ye, for savin’ me own.”
“...But?”
Another deep breath. Another moment to collect her trembling voice. “But just as ye have yer ideals to follow…so do I. And, I cannae uphold them by staying trapped in an endless betrothal.”
Arthur inhaled deeply and closed his eye; Olivia wondered if this was his way of holding himself together. Eventually, he let the breath out and stood, hands slipping free from her grasp. “I understand,” he said coolly. “Then, I willnae speak of it again.” He turned to leave, though paused mid-step. “We’ll be leavingfer the ceilidh as soon as possible. Ye’ll be safest amongst other lairds, I trust.”
Olivia couldn’t remember how to speak. She simply watched as the laird slipped out the door, leaving her once more in the discomforting quiet.
Arthur blew out a far more irritated breath once he shut the door. He was angry–so unspeakably, indescribablyagitated–but Olivia didn’t deserve to be at the end of it. She was right, of course; his selkie deserved to be a man’s wife, paid the proper respect a goddess like herself deserved. He ran a hand through his hair, swearing furiously under his breath. More than anything, he needed a sword in his hand and something he could completely tear apart without worry.
He turned to move down the hall, only for his blood to freeze at the sight of Olivia’s mother standing mere steps away.How long has she been there?Arthur thought, doing his best to suppress his face and throw up an air of neutrality. “Katherine.”
She nodded in greeting back.
Arthur stood stiffly, glancing over his shoulder back at Olivia’s door. “Ah–yer here to see yer daughter. O’course–I’m sorry fer causing so much worry, but I assure ye that as long as ye both stand behind these walls.”
“Ye wouldnae leave her a widow?”
A coppery tang filled Arthur’s mouth; he hadn’t realized he’d bitten his tongue so hard.
Katherine folded her arms, a brow arched as her lips held a slight frown. With a sigh, Arthur opened his mouth to begin explaining the ruse, only to be quickly interrupted. “Ye really do care for her, daenae ye?” she asked.
Arthur nodded curtly.
Now it was Katherine’s turn to sigh, her posture softening as age settled fully against her face. “I’m sorry I gave ye such a hard time, my Laird. Any man who speaks the same way ye did just now must care awful deeply. And to promise me daughter that her husband willnae leave, that her children will grow up with both maither and faither.”
The sour taste in Arthur’s mouth suddenly grew worse.
“I–I cannae ask for a better match,” Katherine’s voice wobbled, and she briefly covered her mouth, a soft sob still managing to escape as her eyes grew misty. “When me husband and son died, I didnae ken how she would stay safe. I did all I could, but…” her hand reached out, and Arthur quickly took it, offering a reassuring squeeze.
“Ye bring great pride to maithers across the highlands, Katherine,” Arthur said. “One o’ the finest examples I’ve ever seen.”
