Page 47 of The Highlander's Fake Wife
“Even over yer own maither?” Katherine chuckled weakly. “For shame, me Laird!”
Arthur offered a smile of his own, then bit back a gasp as Katherine suddenly embraced him. She held him tightly, the occasional sob slipping out from her throat, and he realized how much she must miss her husband and son. The sour taste slipped down his throat and knotted terribly in his stomach, but Arthur reciprocated the hug. Suddenly, he understood why his selkie was always so against lying.
24
The day dragged on terribly, with evening settling across the sky at seemingly a snail’s pace. Arthur had destroyed a great number of practice dummies and given his men a number of bruises to look forward to the next day, but nothing could get rid of the sour knot in his stomach. His anger was far easier to be rid of, lashing out during combat practice like tongues of fire amidst a raging inferno.
Now, his rage had cooled into a seething contempt; for clan MacCulloh, for the wars that ravaged the highlands and forced a destiny of early death upon him. Some was reserved for himself, still ruminating about the charade he’d put up for Olivia’s mother.
“What was I meant to say?” he grumbled, standing up from his desk as he stretched out his back. “‘Aye, I never intended to marry yer daughter. Ye simply overheard me cowardly reason as to why that is’.” Arthur paused, surprised at the addition of ‘cowardly’. It was hardly the coward’s destiny he shouldered–towillingly greet death each time he clashed with another clan was quite extraordinary. At least, he was fairly certain it was. At some point, it had been.
“It cannae simply be an excuse, can it?” He shook his head, glancing down at the work he still had left to do. The castle’s ledgers stood at the top of the pile of papers, cross-referenced with his own list of supplies he wanted to take to the ceilidh. No; Arthur Ross, laird of MacDonnell, didn’t make excuses, nor was he a coward. He was doing what was best for Olivia. He always had, since the moment he’d met her.
A knock on the door set Arthur on edge, and he exhaled sharply, forcing his clenched fists to loosen. Evidently, Olivia wasn’t the only one who had been affected by the false attack. “Come in.”
The door swung open, Nathan immediately crossing beneath the threshold. He looked a bit more haggard than usual, the dirt of travel still fresh on his clothes and smeared across his sweat-soaked face. If Arthur had to guess, the man had ridden nonstop to get to the MacCulloh’s keep, then turned around and done the same to get home. A long parcel was tucked under his arm, but Arthur’s curiosity could wait.
“Well?”
Nathan caught a quick breath, offering a respectful nod before producing a small missive from beneath his cloak. “They agreed to speak about terms, though they deferred to ye when that may be.”
“It willnae be anytime soon.” Arthur took the note and tossed it across his desk, satisfied enough with his man-at-arm’s word. “I’ll be going to Rosie’s ceilidh as soon as possible. Olivia had a terrible scare today–she needs to be surrounded by allies, and I need to hear what the other lairds have to say about MacCulloh's future.”
“Would tonight be too inconvenient, m’laird?” Nathan asked.
Arthur’s brow furrowed, gaze flickering back to the parcel as a wry smile crossed his face. “Ye stopped in the village fer me?”
“It was on the way,” Nathan said.
It most certainly was not. “I appreciate it, Nathan.” Arthur rounded his desk, snatching his list and accepting the package from his man-at-arms. “Olivia deserves a good night’s sleep, but we can begin to pack. Here,” he handed his man-at-arms the list, exchanging it for the package. “Start with the kitchen; ensure we have enough inventory to comfortably take from. I’ll handle the armory and weapons, as well as the horses. There’s a pair I’ve got in mind.”
“Airgiod and Òr?” Nathan guessed.
Arthur offered a smirk in return, the pair vanishing around the corner as they continued on with the preparations.
Olivia sank slightly beneath the bathwater, blowing bubbles out from her mouth from a gentle sigh. It felt like she’d just finished running a dozen laps around the keep, her body aching with a fatigue she would have never imagined possible. The warmth from the water was certainly helping, and as she tilted her head upright, her ears quickly filled, muffling any further outside noises.
A brush gently began to pull through her hair hanging over the tub’s rim, with a gentle tune being hummed by her mother. Olivia sat up slowly, pressing her back against it to make her mother’s task easier. “I appreciate ye staying with me, maither, but ye dinnae need to take it this far.”
“Nonsense, love,” her mother said. “You were shaking like a leaf trying to get outta bed; no maither in their right mind would leave their child alone after that.” She continued to brush Olivia’s hair out, the shark scent of lavender oil filling the room as her mother began massaging her scalp. Oliva couldn’t help but let out a delighted sigh, her stiffened posture finally beginning to loosen up.
“Ye want me to braid it,a sheòid?”Her mother asked. “I cannae imagine how ye’ve handled this mane o’yers without me.”
Olivia giggles lightly, resting her hands along the sides of the tub. “Actually…Laird MacDonnell has quite a deft hand. He’s given me a few styles that may rival some o’yer own.”
Her mother gasped dramatically, causing Olivia’s giggling to bubble into laughter. “Blasphemous child–I cannae believe ye replaced me so quickly!” She offered up a chuckle of her own, the pair enjoying the brief mirth shared between them. But, after a moment, her laughter faded away, replaced with a far more somber tone. “Yeh’ve really taken to him, Olivia?”
“Aye.” Olivia’s gaze followed curls of steam floating off the water, relieved she no longer had to lie as much as she once had. After all…she had, indeed, fallen for that ridiculous man.
“I’m…glad to hear that.” Her mother tugged against her hair once more, beginning to weave a thick braid for Olivia to sleep in. “I shouldnae have acted as I did when I first arrived. Wounded ye like I had; ’twas nae right o’ me.”
Olivia craned her neck, partially-tied braid flopping against the water’s surface and sinking below. “Ye would have been mad not to kick up a fuss! Finally seeing yer daughter after a sennight, and she’s draped in the arms of the enemy.” She blew out a breath, a stray, still-dry hair floating briefly in the air above her. “If it were me, I may have gone on a rampage.”
Another chuckle escaped her mother’s throat, and Olivia watched as her expression brightened somewhat. “Aye–that sounds like something ye’d do.” Her smile softened, a hand gently stroking Olivia’s cheek. “Still…I shouldnae have left ye as I did. Yer a smart hen, Olivia, and I sometimes forget ye’re nae me wee bairn no more.”
Olivia’s hand clasped over her mother’s, her own smile working its way across her face. “I’m just glad yer here. That ye trust Arthur like I do.” She paused, realizing that may not entirely be the case. “Ye…do trust him now, aye?”
Her mother’s eyes crinkled under her smile. “Ye really care so much fer him.”
