She told herself last night that she would choose Alexander over Gavin, but would she choose Alexander over her clan? Over Mariah and Laura?
Alexander could defend himself. They could not.
“I do not ken anything more than what I told you already,” Margaret said, not able to look him in the eyes when she did. “I just do not wish to see anyone hurt.”
He sighed and took a step back from her.
“Donna worry,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be gentle on them. I give you my word.”
There was something to his voice, an angry growl like a dog starving at its master’s hand, that made her not believe him. “You do not have to say such a lie,” she said, using her best Isobel tone in order to gain the confidence that she sorely needed. “I can tell you do not wish to give them any such kindness.”
She expected him to laugh, to shake his head, to roll his eyes…those were his usual responses when she let Isobel speak through her mouth. But this time, he did none of those things. This time he stared dead into her eyes and said, “Tis an unfortunate thing to be caught in a lie. One wonders if tis worse for the liar or the one lied to.”
Margaret froze, and let him walk away.
“I’ll leave the two wounded men to escort you and the caravan back. I’ll see you in Dirlot,” he called over his shoulder before rallying his men and leaving her behind.
9
“Ugh!”
The man was thrown to the ground of the small building with such ferocity that Alexander almost felt sorry for him. Almost. As it was, he was holding a piece of rope in his hands that had a spot of blood on it that he was quite sure lined up with a mark on his wife’s ankle. Folded over his lap was his wife’s dress, though it was ruined now that the back had been ripped open.
He was almost certain that Margaret would have ripped it herself, likely so she could slip through the small hole in the wall behind him, but he would punish each man they found as if they had ripped it themselves, just in case.
“I donna ken nothing!” the lad on the ground cried out while one of his men pushed their blade against his neck.
With a pockmarked face and gangly figure, the lad was a rather pitiful creature. The pitiful ones, in Alexander’s experience, were either the first to break, or the first to slit their own throats out of blind, misplaced loyalty.
“How many did you find?” Alexander asked Jonah, who was leaning up against the frame of the door.
“Seven. The rest seem to have skipped along home, as this one should have done.”
At the attention, the lad cried out again, and then began to weep.
“Well, laddy, care to tell me what you were on about when you took my wife?”
“I didna, I—ah!” he cried out when Alexander reached forward and grabbed the man’s arm, which had been broken sometime during the fight.
“Tis an unfortunate wound. I’d have my men set it and send you along home to your mum, but you owe me an explanation. You see, you wear my clan’s tartan, yet none of us ken who you are.”
“It wasn’t my idea! It wasn’t, m’Laird!”
“Then whose was it?” Alexander asked. When he was met with silence, he squeezed the arm again.
“Enough!”
The shout came from outside, and Jonah went to find the man who had let up the call so he could be brought before Alexander.
This man was quite a bit larger, though also dressed in Mackay tartan. “I’m the one that carried yer wife off. Talk to me and leave him be.”
“Fine,” Alexander said, letting the other lad be dropped so the blades of the room could be focused on the superior threat. “Why did you take my wife?”
The man was silent now, pressing his lips together.
Jonah stepped forward and smiled at him. “Please tell us, you did say to talk to you. If you canna say anything, my brother will be a bit rude to that other lad again.”
The man’s eyes shifted to the lad on the floor, who was still sniveling and appeared to have wet himself.
“Was it Laird Gunn?” Alexander asked, watching the man’s face carefully. In the hours of searching the forest, wrangling those that they could, and exploring the camp, Alexander had decided that he was the most likely source of this pain. He had caved to the queen’s request to marry his only child off to an enemy so quickly, it should have been suspicious. This, then, was an elaborate scheme to bring her back home.
“We’re usually in the service of Laird Gunn,” the man said, looking a bit nervous at the mention of his laird, “but not this time. We followed another yesterday.”
“Who?”
“The one ye took your lass from, ye filthy Mackay. The one yer lass was promised to before ye and yers came and stole a Gunn away from her happiness.”
Alexander raised his eyebrows, and Jonah gave him a confused look. “Tis my understanding that the marriage order was created in part because Margaret was not betrothed to anyone.”
“Laird Gunn never asked her,” the man replied, spitting into the hay. “Just gave her up.”
“Who was she engaged to?” Jonah asked, his voice sounding like he was more curious than anything.
“His name is Gavin,” the man said, giving Alexander a defiant look.
Gavin.
Alexander dropped everything in his lap and left the building, looking around at the clearing and all of the prisoners tied to the trees. None of them were him.
Alexander remembered the glare Gavin had given him when he had first arrived in Braemore, and the way that he had been looking at Margaret. At the time, Alexander had been pleased with the possibility of taking the object of that man’s affections. He hadn’t thought, though, that things between them had gone far enough to justify him doing this much to take her back.
Or, he thought with a wince, how far she would be willing to go to get back to him.
On the first day that he had met Margaret, when he had offered everything she could have wished for and she had rejected it, he had considered her to be different: immune to senseless wishing. But she hadn’t been, had she? Her wish had just been something he couldn’t give, not while he also became her husband.
“Alexander,” Jonah said, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Break some bones so they canna come after us with any force. We are going back to Dirlot.”
Dirlot Castle was situated at the top of a small hill, a river defending it from one side, and a dug trench defending it on the other. Though it was not the largest castle, it had been his home since Mary de Guise, the current Queen Mary’s mother and longtime reagent, had torn down the family’s Varrich Castle nearly a decade prior.
When her anger had subsided and the Mackays had regained favor with the crown by assisting Queen Mary with the Gordons, Alexander’s father had gone to Tongue to oversee plans to build a new, larger home for the family. In the meantime, though, Dirlot, with its large, white bricks and excellent view of the countryside, was their home.
Designed to withstand attacks from any side, Alexander never imagined any battle raging within its walls. Not until today.
Alexander marched himself down the narrow halls, not finding it within himself to even try and avoid the servants that came scurrying past. Jonah was behind him, trying to get Alexander to slow down and take a breath.
“You’ll ruin more than you’ll earn,” he said when Alexander rounded the final corner, placing him mere steps from his bedchamber door.
“I do not ken what there is to ruin,” Alexander snapped in reply.
Alexander did not need to open the door, for Ann did it for him, emerging from the interior of the room looking pale and bewildered.
“I’ll let you question her, Jonah. I’m sure she kens more than she’ll admit,” Alexander said, pushing past Ann and slamming the door to the chamber behind him.
Margaret was sitting on his, well, their, bed, tracing her finger along the pattern in his quilt. She was dressed in a
pale blue cotton dress, with a crisscross of lines embroidered across the chest, interrupted only by the laces that went from the hollows of her slight cleavage down to her waist. It was, perhaps, the most understated thing he had ever seen her in, and also, the most beautiful he had ever found her. He wondered if she had known that she was donning such powerful armor against him when she had dressed.
“A man holding a dagger… the Mackay coat of arms?” she asked, not looking up from the quilt.
“Manu Forti,” he said. “With a strong hand.”
She nodded and looked up at him briefly before her eyes scanned the rest of the room. Alexander had always taken great pride in his powers of decoration, even if his father and brother had thought him silly for it. The quilt, which had been a gift from his mother, was set with Mackay blue and green, colors which he had then brought out to match the rugs and velvet draperies. The tapestries on the walls depicted seas and hills and fields of flowers, things he could look at whenever he felt himself trapped inside for too long. Along the mantel were trinkets from his time as a boy: the antler from his first buck, a piece of amethyst he had found on his first battlefield, and a small portraits of his parents in iron frames—iron that had been taken and recast from the remains of Varrich castle. To think that he had been excited to see her in this room, sitting on that quilt, even.
Alexander crossed the room and dropped himself into the chair, pouring himself a cup of wine from the silver pitcher on the table beside him and draining the goblet in one gulp.
He set the goblet back on the table with a crack that made Margaret flinch. Just by the way that she looked at him, he knew that she knew that he had discovered the truth. All she had left to figure out was the extent of his knowledge, and how far his displeasure would drive him.
If you ken what I had planned for you, he thought to himself, but shaking his head before he wasted away the afternoon thinking up empty threats.
“Well, were you pleased to see me coming up the hill?”
Margaret looked up at him, confused by his starting point. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be pleased?”
“I thought you may have preferred to see Gavin. He was your betrothed, no?”
Margaret paled, but didn’t look away. He wished she would. Looking into her eyes now was painful. Looking into her eyes made him want more from her. And it made him think she maybe wanted more from him.
“It was a different time, Alexander. In a way, it was a different life.”
“Poetic words, you’ll forgive me for not giving them much meaning.”
“Tis not as if you did not have involvements with other women before you met me.”
“Aye, but my involvements were far from engagements.”
She grimaced. “While I understand that, you ought to trust me. I am your wife, after all.”
“Aye, a pill of duty you swallowed remarkably well. Donna worry, duty is the only reason I wed you, too,” he said, the coldness in his voice feeling like a winter wind blowing off of the sea. “It shows a good, noble character to do one’s duty, even when pining for another.”
“I’m not pining for another,” Margaret snapped.
“Then what is Gavin to you?”
“A past mistake,” she said. “And I must ask you now not to ask anything further about it. Please, out of respect for me.”
He laughed now, trying not to let his shaking gasps turn into cries, for he was not going to shed a tear before a lass that was strong enough to hold them back.
For hours now, he had been trying to decide how she would explain Gavin away. He had come up with answers both simple and outlandish. Though he liked some answers less than others, he had decided that any answer would suit him. At least, with an answer in his hand, he could declare that he knew at least part of the heart belonging to the woman who had stolen his.
How humiliating it now was to hear that she still deemed him unworthy of her truths. How much deeper would she drive the blade of her deceptions into his heart?
“You ken, lass, since the moment we met, I couldna figure out who you were. I held onto hope that the arrogance and the selfishness and the vanity that you put forward was not the truth of you. Instead, I held onto comments made in passing and expressions that lingered for mere moments, trying to use them to prove you were a decent person. How disappointing it is now to see that that was a false hope. I’ll never ken who you are, nor do I wish to anymore. And so, I’ll never respect you.”
Margaret didn’t say anything. But she didn’t look away.
“Well? Will you rise to defend yourself or shrink into your shame? Come on, be bold, lass.”
“I—” her voice trembled, “I am a decent person.”
“Are you? Shall we examine the points against? You did not bother to learn where the kitchens in your own home were since you did not deign to ever go there. You spat on the memory of your aunt because she married a merchant. You—”
Margaret jumped from the bed, her hand flying out and striking him across the cheek, sending his head whipping to the side and instantly reddening into the shape of her palm. After a moment of frozen shock, Alexander leapt to his feet and reached for her, trying to take her wrists in his hands. “You and that godforsaken unwomanly strength of yours. What did—”
“You’re perfectly correct in your assumptions. You do not ken me at all,” Margaret shouted over him, jumping back and putting the table between them. She lifted the goblet and hurled it at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Do you think that was my wish?”
“Tis certainly your choice!” Alexander said, trying to round the table and reach her before she could throw the second goblet, but to no avail. It hit him squarely in the same place on his chest as the first.
“No! Tis not! I wish to tell you everything. I wish to lay myself before you just as I am and ken that twould not change a thing between us, but tis not possible!” she shouted, slamming her hands down on the table.
“I’ll not be letting you win this argument, Margaret, even if you throw a tantrum.”
“There is no winning this argument, Alexander. If I do not explain everything, you’ll despise me. If I tell you the truth, you’ll still…” Margaret paused, and he watched all the color drain from her face. She wobbled where she stood and then began to crumple to the floor.
Alexander rushed over, grabbing her around the waist before she hit the stone floor. She gasped for air, and he pulled her close to his chest while she regained control of her breath.
“Breathe, lass,” he whispered, gently rubbing her back.
Her hair smelled like lavender, calming and refreshing like springtime. With a deep breath, he relished the moment, unsure of how many more moments like this he had before he forced himself to let her go.
Letting her go had always been the answer. Even when he entered the room to shout and rage, he had known that his conclusion was to put her in a carriage and set her free. He would not keep her here if she loved another. It would be cruel to them both. All he wanted first were the answers to the questions he so desperately wanted. He had been willing to press her with painful words, knowing that any damage he did to her was nothing compared to what he was feeling. But now, as she crumbled before him, he felt guilt wash over him like a cold and heavy rain.
Alexander lifted her from the ground and carried her over to the chair, seating himself with her on his lap. She was still gasping for air, though her breaths had subdued a bit, and, angrily, he set aside notions that she was currently nuzzling her face into his neck.
Such hopes will kill you, he told himself.
When her breath finally steadied, Alexander’s hand slipped off of her, moving back to rest on the arm of his chair, allowing her ample opportunity to remove herself from his lap, but she remained where she was. She was looking at his face, studying him for something with a look of great and serious pain in her green eyes. Then the color of them started to shift, their clarity wobbling as something slid over her irises.
&n
bsp; Alexander winced and reached up, touching his fingers gently against her eyes. “Donna break your vow now, lass.”
When he pulled his fingers away, they were damp, but no tear seemed to have spilled. He let his fingers trace down her cheeks, carefully avoiding her purplish bruise. It was selfish to keep touching her like this, he knew it well. He just couldn’t resist it.
“I just do not know what to do,” Margaret whispered.
“If you tell me the truth,” he said, his voice soft yet stern, each word guarded from emotion, “I’ll be less likely to despise you. I’ll at least respect you.”
I’ll at least be able to recover from you, he thought.
“You have to understand,” she said, reaching up to wipe at her eyes before another tear could threaten to fall. “All my life, I have been the logical one. I am not a gambler, that is my brother.”
“You are an only child,” Alexander said, not sure why he felt the need to correct her.
“Listen to me!” she shouted. “For once, I am going to do what I want to do, rather than what is probably the correct answer, so can you please just listen?”
Alexander nodded, pressing his lips together, preparing himself for anything she could say.
I am in love with another.
I despise you.
I use haughty words to disguise my feelings.
“I am not Laird Gunn’s daughter.”
Alexander shifted. He hadn’t been expecting that one.
10
Margaret watched as all of the color drained from Alexander, to the point that she could barely distinguish the lines of his face anymore. It was as if he had suddenly become a chalk outline of a person on a piece of stark white paper, losing all sense of shadow and dimension.
“His real daughter is my cousin, Isobel. But, she ran off, so my uncle had me take her place so the queen would not bring her hellfire down upon us.”
Alexander cocked his head, opened his mouth, then shut it again.
From there, Margaret spilt every piece of her story. She told him how her family had been destitute, though she did not reveal her brother’s missteps in arranging that situation. She told him about how she had been working on the docks, fighting a losing battle against their finances. She told him about how Gavin had come to her and offered her refuge, and how she now viewed it as a narrow plank of wood floating in the sea: just enough to keep a drowning man’s head above water, but not enough to carry them to shore. She told him about the vow she had made to Gavin on the eve of their wedding and delivered countless bitter apologies for it, before showing how he had used it against her. Finally, she told him about her relentless dedication to be a version of Isobel, so that he would have the wife he would have expected.
Highlander's Torn Bride (Highlander's Seductive Lasses Book 2) Page 10
