Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Laird Dougall was repulsive. Deirdre had tried to think of more charitable ways to think of him, but it was simply impossible. It wasn't that he was old or ugly, though both of those were true. Plenty of men were old or even ugly and had solid, good hearts that made up for it. But Dougall had none of that, nothing to recommend him as a husband or even as a person.

It didn't matter, though. It couldn't matter. Deirdre had asked for Aoife's help to dress in as attractive a manner as possible, even going so far as to curl her now much-shorter hair into little ringlets. She applied subtle make up to her eyes and lips and wore a dress that emphasized every part of her figure. She wanted to look like the perfect woman for Laird Dougall, so that he'd forget her past rejection and covet her as she needed him to.

The look he was giving her now was as greedy as it was unpleasant. She felt like a fattened sheep on a holiday, ready to be slaughtered to nourish a family. Well, her sacrifice would protect a family, her family, and that alone made it worth it.

"Ye are a bonny thing," Dougall told her. He walked around her now, eyeing her the same way that someone might inspect a particularly plump cut of meat. "And ye've grown well since I last laid eyes on ye two years ago."

Deirdre forced herself to smile. "Thank ye, me Laird. That's very kind of ye, me Laird."

"I'd expect tae have children at once, of course. Would ye be prepared for motherhood within the year?" He stood in front of her, tilting her chin up so he could look in her eyes. "Aye, ye'd make bonny bairns for me."

Deirdre tried not tae shudder. "Anythin' ye wish, me Laird. It'd be me pleasure."

She saw James frown slightly from the corner of her eye, but made sure to act like she hadn't noticed him. She knew how conflicted he must be feeling, wanting to be a good brother to her at the same time as needing to be a good Laird. Instead, she turned her eyes to Gracie and Marjorie, both of whom were sitting quietly nearby, watching but saying nothing as they'd been instructed. Marjorie gave her a soft smile, and Gracie winked. Both of those gestures were enough to hearten Deirdre, despite her fears and disgust.

"I'll not deny it," Dougall said after a moment. "Ye'd make a fine wife, and I'd fair enjoy beddin' ye."

James cleared his throat pointedly, his displeasure at Dougall's crassness clear on his face. "Remember where we are, me Laird."

"I do remember," Laird Dougall replied, "And I'm afraid that's the problem I have with this wee matchup. She'd produce fine bairns for me, maybe even a son tae handle the land instead of splittin' it amongst me useless daughters or me brother's son. And since she's a similar age to me younger lass, that strange girl would even have a companion. It would be perfect, truly, except for the fact she's a McMillan lassie on McFerguson land."

A long pause followed before, feeling the words tremble on her lips as she spoke, Deirdre asked, "What?"

"What sort of fool would I be tae marry into a clan on the verge of war? A war we all know ye'll likely lose?" Dougall pressed.

James shook his head. "I don't understand. Ye kent every step of the way what was happenin'. Why would ye suddenly change yer mind—unless?—"

Laird Dougall smiled, and James swore, badly enough that Deirdre gasped. She'd never heard him break like this in public, even for just a split second.

"He got tae ye already, the slimy—" James started, then cut himself off, forcing himself back into a Lairdly propriety. "Bram got tae ye."

"Laird McMillan spoke with me. He told me he plans on takin' one of these young morsels—this one or the other free sister—tae wife tae put away any claims of his lack of legitimacy. I'd have tae be a madman tae steal the bride of one of the most powerful Lairds in this part of Scotland, no matter how delectable ye are, sweetness." He reached out to touch Deirdre, and she recoiled.

"Bram is me cousin ," she protested. "And he's a murderer! A criminal!"

"A tyrant, in yer own words, Laird Dougall," James added severely.

Dougall shrugged. "A tyrant, aye," he agreed. "But a tyrant with followers. What have ye, Laird McFerguson? A couple of pretty sisters tae barter and a scattered handful of allies who are scarcely worth the effort. I'm a pragmatic man."

James scowled, a real menacing frown of the type Deirdre did not remember seeing on his face before. It was a dark look, and for a brief second, Deirdre was genuinely worried that he was going to hurt someone.

"Me Laird Dougall, I have no intention of marrying Bram, regardless of what he does," she said quickly. She was intervening in the mild, thin hope that this could possibly be salvaged. "Even if he successfully captured me, he could drag me to the altar, but not force the words I do from my lips."

Dougall gave her an amused, slightly patronizing look. "Oh aye? And if he held yer sisters at knifepoint? Yer niece or nephews?"

She felt sick to her stomach. It was all too easy to imagine: Bram, holding tiny Faith or one of the boys in his arms, ready to snuff out that new life forever. She couldn't, wouldn't let herself fall apart, though, and pushed through with her next riposte. "Well, that's why I should be married as soon as possible, don't ye agree? If ye wed me…"

"A woman askin' for her own marriage!" Dougall threw back his head and laughed, and Deirdre knew then that all was lost. "Whatever man does end up with ye, lassie, he's in for a hard time. Presumin' ye survive what's comin'."

Deirdre's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she couldn't find the words to respond. This terrible, awful man! And though part of her was relieved at the dawning realization that she would not have to marry this disgusting man after all, another part of her felt ill and even ashamed.

She felt all too aware of her too-short hair which they'd cut into a style to save it from the mauling it had received, and of the thick dark circles under her eyes, and the weight she'd lost as a prisoner. Had she truly lost all that would make her tempting to even this horrid person? Was even this beyond her reach to help her family succeed?

"Am I to understand that we cannot count on your alliance, then, Laird Dougall?" James asked quietly.

Dougall looked at James for a long moment, his eyes not even darting in Deirdre's direction. "That would be a fair assumption. Me clan will not be takin' up arms against Bram McMillan. Tae do so would be suicide, and we will not side with the losin' option."

"Even after everythin' Clan McFerguson has done for ye?" James spoke with such sorrow in his tone that it broke Deirdre's heart. "Me grandfather and yer great-grandfather were cousins, were they not? And me faither helped ye when yer clan was sufferin' from that farmin' blight a score ago. Is all of this forgotten?"

"Not forgotten," Dougall said. For the first time, a hint of doubt, possibly even shame, crept into his tone. "Never forgotten. Clan Dougall remembers good turns done tae us, but even this is not worth such an alliance. Ye must understand."

James said nothing.

"But," Dougall continued, "Out of respect for ye as Laird, and for yer faither's help, I am willin' tae remain neutral. I will not marry yer lassie, nor will I take up arms on yer side—but I will not fight for Bram, either. I can't stand the little bastard, anyway."

Deirdre held her breath for a long moment. Then James held out his hand, and Dougall shook it.

"Thank ye for comin'," James said, still in that same quiet tone. "I'm sorry we could not make a more profitable arrangement for us both."

"When this is over, should ye live, feel free tae reach out again," Dougall told him, getting to his feet. He looked at Deirdre again, and all the reasonableness seemed to vanish from him as he traced his eyes along her body once more. "The lass is still young and bonny. A man like me could do worse for a wife. But even the prettiest girl isn't worth bloodshed."

Deirdre swallowed, clasping her hands to force them from shaking. She knew that, after they won—for she could not think of a world where the alternative was true and they did not—Dougall would return for her. And she knew now she would have little justification to refuse him. All of this, and without a hope of his help to protect her family, her clan.

I failed. I failed.

But a hand settled on her shoulder, and Deirdre realized with a start that James had somehow moved behind her without her noticing. He spoke in a much firmer tone now.

"I appreciate yer neutrality, Dougall," he said in a voice that brokered no arguments. "But ye must ken that after this moment ye will not be permitted tae renew yer suit with Deirdre, nor Aoife should she remain unmarried, at any point after."

Dougall, who had already started toward the doorway, paused. He looked over his shoulder, seeming incredulous. "Ye'd be so petty because I refuse tae die for ye?"

Deirdre looked up in time to see James shake his head.

"No. I am not bein' petty." He glanced down at Deirdre and gave her a sad smile, then looked back up to Dougall. "But this woman and all of her sisters are worth all the bloodshed in the world if that's what it takes tae keep them safe. The oldest two found men who understood that, blessed as I am tae be one of them—and I will not let me sister by marriage settle for anythin' less than a man who'd die for her without a thought."

After Dougall left, Deirdre apologized to James over and over for her failure, but he would not hear it. He thought he was being kind, but it had the opposite effect: every time he said it wasn't her fault, she felt more and more guilty. At last, she gave up on apologizing and instead thanked him for defending her.

But what she didn't tell him was that, though he was a wonderful man and his defense had been gallant and beautiful, he'd been wrong about one thing. Because Deirdre did not want a man who would die for her, nor shed blood. Her whole life had been consumed by one man felling another, one more loss, one more time for pain.

No, she did not want a man who would die. She wanted one who would live.

As Deirdre made her way to her room to be alone, all her fear and sorrow and shame bundled together and transformed into pure, unbridled frustration. How was it that, despite dedicating her whole life to this fight, to her family, to her home, she was here with nothing? As a woman, and a noblewoman at that, it would be difficult to impossible for her to fight, so what could she do? She could not join the battle, and now she could not even marry to secure an alliance for the clan when they needed it the most.

And worse, the Brennans were the key to it. Bram's alliance with Laird Brennan had been the feather that sent the whole tower of stones tumbling to the ground, smashing and crushing everything in its wake. Deirdre had been there. She could have done something about it. Perhaps she could have offered herself to Laird Brennan as he so clearly had wanted; it would have been an unhappy life, but he was old and unhealthy, so she would not have had to bear it forever. Perhaps the promise of her in his bed, young and willing, would have been enough to turn that disgusting man away from his alliance with Bram.

Or she could have gone to Bram directly. He wanted to marry her to secure his right to the McMillan clan, and of course she couldn't allow such a thing—but perhaps she could have figured out a plot, a plan to make him think he was going to get what he wanted, only for the others to swoop in and save her and the clan and everything?

Deirdre sat at her desk, propping her head in her hands. She could have done something, she knew it. Instead, she was here, fightless and lonely and useless—and still hopelessly in love with a man who would soon come to kill everything she held dear.

Maybe she should have stayed. Maybe she could have broken through her complex feelings and fear and shown Ciaran her love, turned him away from the darkness into which his father had raised him. Maybe Marjorie was right, and there was still hope for him after all.

Her hands shaking, she reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a piece of paper. She reached for her quill pen, dipping it into the ink, and began to write. It was a hopeless, foolish thought, a dream amongst dreams. But she knew she had to try.

Ciaran,

I fled. You must have been so angry when you discovered that I was gone. Or were you hurt, perhaps? Did you even feel anything at all? I know it must have been a blow to you as the Laird's son that your prize prisoner had disappeared, but I was always more than that to you. I don't know how you felt about me, but I know that, despite everything, you made me love you. And I hate that, in order to protect my family and secure my freedom, I had to possibly cause you pain.

Is that bizarre? You captured me, lied to me, betrayed me. I should hate you. I should wish nothing but to see you gone from this world. But, oh, Ciaran, you also held me. You stroked my hair and stayed by my side. You told me of your brother, and your mother, and your pain. The true you, the man who asked his healer for herbs, is the one I adore. And I think, if I am not too bold in assuming it, that a small part of that you loved me as well.

I ruined all that the moment I left, I know that. I don't expect you to forgive it, though I am baffled by how your herbs and letter ended up in my satchel. When did you put them there? How? Why? Or did you pass them to Rabbie that night to give to me, and I write only of a foolish girl's hopeful dream? I don't know. I don't care, really, though I do hope Rabbie and his wife and younger children are safe. I'm sure they have fled by now, and I hope there was enough forgiveness left in you to persuade your father not to pursue them—just as you do not seem to have pursued me.

In any case, it probably is simpler than that. Why pursue me when your father and Bram will soon attack us, and you can take me back if you please or punish me as you see fit?

But Ciaran, for that part of you that I love, that part of you that I truly believe might love me, I had to try. I have to beg. Please, please do not attack us. I know that, though your father is in charge of the clan, he doesn't command the loyalty of everyone in the Brennan fighting force. I know that, though he disrespects you, you have a way of whispering in your father's ear.

Please. Please don't let me lose my sisters. I never got to know my mother or my father, not really, and I cannot bear to lose the only family I have ever known. Angus was your home, your heart, your life. Please don't take mine from me.

I love you, Ciaran. With all of my heart and all of my soul. Even if you run a blade through my chest, my last breath will be your name. And though I know I was a pawn to you, a piece that refused to play its part, I entreat you to grant me this last boon. Stay out of the battle. And then, you may kill me or capture me as you like. I will come to you willingly to face whatever you see fit.

But do not hurt my family. Please. I will do anything—anything—to stop it.

All my love,

Your Deirdre of the Sorrows.

Tears were running down Deirdre's face as she finished, big wet splotches leaving marks on the paper as she sobbed. She did not try to stop them, allowing her heartbreak and agony to be felt, allowing the loud, hiccuping breaths to echo around her room. Someone knocked at the door, but she ignored them. She did not want comfort now, only to at last feel the pain that must be felt.

At last, when she had collected herself enough, she folded the letter and sealed it with wax. Tomorrow, she'd find a messenger and send it along to Clan Brennan, emphasizing that it must only be read by Ciaran.

Perhaps he'd tear it up without even reading it. Perhaps he'd laugh cruelly at the words she'd written. Perhaps, perhaps.

Another, firmer knock at her door. Deirdre collected herself and moved to open it. She saw Aoife there, a sad, knowing look on her face.

"I brought yer tea," Aoife said softly. "Nettie asked me to."

Deirdre accepted it without a word, then moved aside. Her sister came into the room, and once the door was closed, the two of them embraced.

"Stay the night?" Deirdre asked as Aoife held her. "We can share a bed and just talk. Like we used to when we were wee bairns. I missed ye so much."

"I'm always here," Aoife told her. Her voice was muffled, and it sounded like she was crying too. "Always. I'm sorry I made ye forget that. I'm sorry I nearly left ye behind."

The apology was like a balm, soothing Deirdre's raging heart. At last, at last, she had her sister back. Her beloved Aoife. The world might be unbearable, but for Aoife, for Blair and Jocelyn, the men and the children, she'd survive. She held Aoife tight and whispered, "I'll never forget again."