Chapter 12
12
A s they emerged through the main entrance of the castle and into the sunshine, Emily looked around her with interest.
The courtyard looked very different in daylight. She recognized the arches she had run through the night before and shuddered at the prospect of walking through them again.
As they passed beneath the first archway, Freya walked with her down the familiar gravel path. The statue in the center of the gardens was neither an angel nor a demon, but a pegasus, its wings spread as though it might take flight at any moment.
"Me maither commissioned it after me faither died," Freya said, following Emily's gaze.
"It's beautiful," Emily replied as they walked beneath it.
"It represents strength and nobility," Freya added, but her expression was grave. "Me braither almost had it knocked down when he became Laird."
Emily examined the noble expression on the horse's face, the sinewy muscles carved into the stone. "Why?" she asked, at last.
"Och, because he was angry with our faither," Freya said dismissively, but Emily could detect the pain in her voice. "He is angry with me maither, too. She was the one who convinced Faither to go to war, ye see. He was constantly fightin', always trying to expand our territories. By the end, me faither could start a fight with another laird because of the length of the other man's kilt."
"Why did yer braither want to remove it, though?" Emily asked.
"Me faither was strong and brave, but nae where Adam believes it matters. A laird's place is with his people—with his clan. Me faither prioritized me maither's wishes to the detriment of his own people. That's how Adam sees it. Many members of our clan are struggling. We expanded too fast, and Adam regularly travels far and wide to keep the peace."
"That must be a burden," Emily said.
"I shouldnae be tellin' ye this really. It's funny; I feel I've kenned ye for years even though we've only just met."
Emily laughed. "I feel the same," she admitted, for she was already very fond of Adam's wayward sister.
She could only imagine what a hellion Laura must be and what the two of them would be like together.
"How did ye feel about yer faither bein' gone so frequently?" Emily asked. "If that's nae a rude question."
Freya's eyes flicked back to the pegasus as she contemplated the question. "I suppose it was the way of things. It didnae have as much impact on me. Adam was different, however. He was expected to make choices on behalf of the Laird, and he and our maither disagree more than they agree."
"Does she have much influence with the council?"
"She used to, but she has been grievin'. She blames herself for me faither's death. He wouldnae have gone to that final battle if she hadnae encouraged it. I think he was ready for peace."
She fell silent as Emily considered everything that Adam had been through. If his father had been absent for much of his life, he would have been thrown into politics and clan decisions from a very young age. He would have had to fight tooth and nail as a young man to win the council's respect.
"Och, he's back again," Freya muttered suddenly.
Emily looked up to see someone arriving on horseback in the main courtyard. He was a big man, almost as broad-chested as Adam, but his frame and hair were longer. He had sharp eyes and an angry, brooding expression.
"Who is he?" Emily asked.
" That is Doughall Scott, Laird MacGordon," Freya muttered, her brow furrowing as she watched him. "Adam must have sent for him. He is the closest thing me braither has to a friend." Her expression darkened. "But I'm nae sure if MacGordon is capable of friendship."
They neared the archway as they completed their circuit of the gardens and stepped into the courtyard again. MacGordon spotted them instantly.
His eyes ran over Freya briefly before he frowned at Emily. He dismounted without saying a word, but his eyes lingered on them thoughtfully. Freya was frozen in place and didn't smile at him. After a few more seconds, he stalked into the castle.
"Do ye ken him well?" Emily asked.
Freya scoffed. "Nae a chance of that. If he speaks three words to me, it's a miracle. If ye think Adam can be overbearin', he has nothin' on Scott, believe me."
There was something slightly off in her tone, however. Emily couldn't make out whether the woman disliked the man or was pretending to.
"Come on," Freya continued. "I'll take ye to the cliffside. It's a beautiful day—we can walk along the edges, where the ground is firmer. We just might have to watch out for the skuas—they're nestin' and like to dive at ye. Their beaks are mighty sharp."
"Make sure he is with ye at all times."
The maid looked at the letter Adam had handed her with trepidation. Behind her, a soldier was waiting to accompany her.
Adam glanced up at the man. "Make sure that she is never left alone, and bring her back safely. Dinnae let anyone intercept this letter under any circumstances."
The soldier saluted him as the maid turned and walked to stand at his side.
"Ye will likely be followed," Adam added. "Watch yerself."
"Aye, M'Laird," the soldier responded.
The maid didn't look any happier as they made their way out of the castle, but at least Adam could guarantee that the letter would arrive intact. He wondered if he had lost his senses to be sending it at all, but apparently, one plaintive look from his intended was enough to topple his defenses.
"I see ye are overthinkin' things again," came a gruff voice behind him.
Turning in place, he saw Doughall Scott standing before him, severe and irritable as ever.
Doughall's hair had grown even longer, and he was sporting an impressive beard along with it. His grey eyes followed the soldier and the maid as they walked away.
"I dinnae recall askin' yer opinion on it," Adam grumbled.
"Och! Then ye didnae send for me?" Doughall asked with mock outrage as he moved forward, and the two men embraced. "Is that wee fairy I saw in the gardens yer future wife?" he asked.
"Aye," Adam replied, feeling an absurd spike of irritation.
"Stewart has good taste—who would have guessed?"
"I'll thank ye to keep yer eyes to yerself," Adam growled.
Doughall snorted. "She looks like less of a handful than yer sisters."
Adam frowned at him. "Ye'll keep a civil tongue in yer head about Freya and Laura, too."
Doughall rolled his eyes at him. "Why did ye nae kill her as ye planned?"
Adam's stomach churned at the idea. He turned away, heading up the corridor, hiding his discomfort as best as he could.
"May I remind ye," he said firmly, "that killin' the lass was never me plan? It was yers. Theo convinced me that there might be an easier option."
"Keepin' the woman around is never goin' to be an ‘easier' option, believe me," Doughall muttered.
"I beg to differ. What has she done to deserve death?"
"Other than marryin' James Stewart, the biggest bastard in Scotland?"
"Aye, other than that. Besides, she didnae want to marry him. He threatened her family, and she had to agree."
"So she says."
"I believe her."
Adam could feel Doughall's eyes on him, but he refused to meet them. One problem with having such a close friend was that he could read him like a book.
"Or did ye see the nymph and decide ye'd rather have her for yerself?" Doughall asked.
Scowling as he opened his study door, Adam allowed his friend to enter and slammed it shut behind him. "Nothin' of the kind."
Doughall removed his heavy cloak and threw it carelessly over the back of a chair. He had grown wider since Adam had last seen him; he looked as though he could break an oak tree in half with his bare hands.
"Then why did ye keep her alive?" Doughall continued. "Explain it to me in one-syllable words."
"To draw him in," Adam replied with forced patience. "That's why Theo sent for ye. I need yer men. It'll show that we have strength in numbers, and when Stewart attacks, we'll be ready for him."
Doughall dragged a heavy chair to the fireplace, and Adam frowned as the chair legs carved white lines into the flagstones.
"And how do ye ken she'll go along with this little plan of yers? What if she escapes at the last minute or finds ye in yer bed and slits yer throat."
The thought of Emily finding him in his bed was a rather distracting one. Adam imagined her creeping into his room at night, crawling onto his bed, and straddling his body, a knife raised in her hands, ready to strike. But then he would sit up, grab her waist, and flip her beneath him, rendering her utterly, sweetly helpless.
"MacNiall."
"Mhm?"
"Ye were explainin'."
"She hates Stewart. She'll go along with it."
Doughall put his feet up against the grate and grunted in satisfaction. "If ye say so."
"Are ye plannin' to have yer boots catch on fire?"
"Nae without a glass of whisky," he said hopefully.
Adam scoffed as he went to the side table to pour him one. He was rather envious of his friend's easy posture. Doughall might be an intimidating man, but he could cast off his worries without a second thought. Adam was always plagued by his next decision.
He drew up another chair and sat down so he was facing the large window behind his desk. The sun had come out, and it had turned into a beautiful day.
They nursed their drinks for some minutes, but Adam kept glancing repeatedly at his friend. Doughall's chin was tipped down to his chest, the dancing flames reflected in his glittering eyes. He had something on his mind, Adam could tell.
"Speak yer mind, man."
"It might have gotten Laura back," Doughall said seriously, leveling him with a hard stare. "If ye'd killed the bride instead of takin' her, Stewart would have seen ye were out for blood. He might have released yer sister to save himself. Men like him do anythin' to protect their worthless hides."
"But at what cost?" Adam asked viciously, thinking back to the first time he laid eyes on Emily. The thought of harming her sent a flare of panic through him.
Doughall appeared taken aback by Adam's angry tone and fell silent.
What if I had never met her? What if I had simply sliced her in two on sight? I would never have kenned what her body felt like against mine, how she tasted—I'd never have witnessed all that fire inside of her…
"Ye trust her, then?"
Adam sighed. Doughall was like a dog with a bone when he wasn't happy about something—he didn't let it go.
"Aye. For her part." Knocking back his whisky, Adam glared at his friend, who met his gaze wearily. "Are ye with me in this or nae?"
"Always."
Doughall removed his boots, bending his toes to the fire, and groaned loudly.
"Make yerself at home."
"Thank ye, I shall." He settled even further back in his chair. "So, who else is comin' to yer false weddin'? I'm assumin' MacTristan. Yer cousin was always good at makin' a nuisance of himself at family occasions."
Adam was only half-listening. He had just spotted Emily and Freya walking in the gardens outside the window. They were speaking together quite easily, and he watched as Emily threw back her head and laughed at something his sister said. He took in her long, glistening hair, his hand twitching as he remembered gripping it, feeling her melt against him as he tugged down hard.
Doughall twisted in his seat to see where Adam's gaze had drifted. He smirked, making Adam scowl even more.
"Why didnae ye tell me ye wanted the woman? That makes things simpler. It is hardly a bad thing to be lustin' after yer future wife. She's a beautiful little thing, and ye do need an heir."
"Aye, but ye're forgettin' two things. We most likely arenae goin' to marry. And even if it gets to that, I dinnae need a woman to influence me decisions. I willnae repeat me faither's mistakes."
"But she is influencin' yer decisions." Doughall was watching him carefully, his gaze steady and grave. "Ye didnae even ken her at the time, but ye chose to save her instead of killin' her. I think ye're a fool if ye believe she willnae affect how ye choose to act."
Adam watched Emily and Freya walk out of sight and then stared into the fire, trying to convince himself that his friend was wrong.