Chapter 11

11

A ‘headache’ had succeeded in keeping Freya out of Doughall’s way for an entire day. A ‘headache’ that had involved hours of poring over fine gowns that Ersie had somehow acquired and Freya having her hair manipulated every which way by the skillful hands of two maids until one particular look had been settled on.

Although, according to Doughall’s aunt, the ‘headache’ had not been necessary at all. The mighty Laird had gone to scout the borders and nearby villages shortly after Freya and Ersie had ridden to the loch and had not yet returned.

“If he doesnae make it to the feast tonight, I might well pick a switch and strike him on the arse with it,” Isla muttered as the gloomy afternoon outside the chamber windows began to shift into the bronzed hues of sunset, piercing the rainclouds with shafts of burnished light.

Freya could not sit still, perching on the window seat, pacing to the bed, getting up and trying the writing desk’s chair, moving to the fireplace to stare anxiously into the flames for a while, before repeating the circuit again and again.

This was a mistake. He’s nae even goin’ to be here. Another punishment, nay doubt.

She smoothed her hands down the front of the gold-green gown and then pulled them away, worried that her clammy palms would leave a mark on the delicate fabric.

Is that why he didnae protest about the feast? Did he decide then that he wasnae goin’ to show up?

He had not left without ensuring she was well-protected, though. In addition to Ersie, who had spent the previous night curled up on the floor by the door like a guard dog, there had been no fewer than four soldiers stationed outside her bedchamber at any time.

“Ye look so beautiful, Freya,” Moira piped up, her hands clasped together. “Truly, I never thought ye could look so… perfect. I wasnae certain when ye said ye were goin’ to wear that shade of green, but I was mistaken. It’s extraordinary.”

“It really is, Freya,” Isla agreed, her smile not reaching her eyes. “And I shall kill me nephew if he doesnae arrive in time to see ye like this.”

Ye willnae be the only one.

But Freya held her tongue, telling herself that she only cared for her mother’s sake. Moira would be heartbroken if Doughall was absent from the feast, denying the hopeless twin her moment in the figurative sun.

Moira rubbed her throat. “What reason would he have to stay away?”

“Och, well, um…” Isla hesitated. “There might be an attack, or some conflict to mediate, or the weather might turn foul where he is. He wouldnae stay away for nay good reason, I assure ye. And it’s still early—I’m sure he will arrive in time.”

Freya did not believe her, but Moira seemed appeased. Perhaps Isla was not as convinced by the ruse as Freya had thought, merely guided by the same wishful thinking that appeared to have everyone at Clan MacGordon in its grip.

“I think I’ll walk for a while, and find Ersie while I’m at it,” Freya announced. “This room is too warm, and I wouldnae want to sweat through such fine material.”

She headed for the door before anyone could protest, slipping out into the cold hallway. The four guards stationed there dipped their heads in respect, though a few peered up through their eyelashes, taking in the sight of her in that beautiful gown.

What would Doughall make of that, I wonder?

As if they could hear her thoughts, the guards lowered their gazes.

But as Freya began to walk down the hallway to the door that led to the staircase, the guards followed her.

That would not do at all.

“I am meetin’ Ersie,” she said, turning around. “Ye dinnae need to escort me. She’s waitin’ at the bottom of the stairs, and I dinnae think she’ll appreciate yer thinkin’ that she doesnae ken how to protect me.”

The guards looked at one another, hesitated, and then returned to their original positions… though it rather made their presense there unnecessary if she was elsewhere in the castle.

Still, she was not about to argue when she desperately needed some peace and quiet, where no one would tell her how nice she looked and no one would mention that Doughall might not bother appearing.

Dinnae let it all be for nothin’…

She hurried down the stairs, just in case the guards changed their minds or realized that she might have been lying.

A short while later, having ducked and hidden from anyone who might have asked where she was going, she was standing in the forbidden library, inhaling the comforting scent of books. So many books. All begging to be read, not shut away, gathering dust. All those words locked away where no one could learn from them or even enjoy them.

Speaking of the lock, there had been no resistance when she had opened the door, which was as good as permission to her. If Doughall really did not want her to be there, he would have ensured that it was locked.

“Something quick, I think,” she murmured to herself, eagerly walking over to the endless stacks.

Running her fingertips over the spines, she peered up to see what treasures were stowed away on the topmost shelves. They looked thinner than the ones lower down. Poetry, perhaps, or plays. Perfect reading for the amount of time that she had at her disposal, before someone realized she was missing again.

Rising on tiptoe, stretching her arm as far as her shoulder joint would allow, she fumbled for a book with an eye-catching dark green spine. Her fingertips pinched it and, with some effort, teased it out of its place.

As she pulled it down, something fell from the pages—a yellowed, folded piece of paper. The cracked half of a wax seal clung to the timeworn parchment.

A letter, undoubtedly.

Freya stooped to pick it up.

“There ye are!” Ersie’s voice ricocheted through the silent library, almost startling Freya out of her skin. “I hope ye ken that ye could’ve cost those guards their employment if the Laird found out that ye slipped past them—though, of course, I’ll nae breathe a word of it.”

Freya scrambled to pick up the letter and stuff it back into the pages, pushing the incriminating evidence sideways onto the nearest shelf, above some history tomes.

“I was just… takin’ a moment to meself,” she said apologetically. “Dinnae blame them.”

“I dinnae.” Ersie smiled in the doorway. “Come on, ye’ve an entire feastin’ hall to delight and amaze.”

Freya hesitated. “Has Doughall returned?”

“Do ye think I’d come to fetch ye if he hasnae?”

Freya expelled a nervous breath. “Well then, I suppose we’d better begin the night’s performance.”

“Aye, dinnae keep yer audience in too much suspense.”

Ersie offered her arm like a gentleman might and swiftly escorted Freya to the Great Hall, where, with any luck, all of their work over the past day would finally come to fruition.

The chatter ebbed at the shriek of the hall doors. All eyes turned curiously toward the new arrival, and though he did not really care who was about to join the revelry, Doughall cast an absent glance in that direction.

His eyes widened just a little as Freya walked in, and the muted chatter turned into utter silence, so quiet that he could hear every footstep on the flagstones.

A vision in the most unusual shade of green, like gilded summer leaves, Freya was… breathtaking. Her copper hair was loose and wavy, falling to her hips, two front pieces twisted back to create a crown of her own locks, and two jeweled slides fanning upward from the back of her head. She wore a teardrop emerald at her throat, drawing Doughall’s eye to the creamy skin of her bosom, while a belt of golden vines highlighted the hourglass shape of her waist.

Is it really her?

He squinted to be sure, as if he was the one in need of spectacles, but he already knew the answer. The gown and the jewels and the style of her hair had only enhanced the beauty that was already there. The quiet splendor of her that he seemed to find irresistible in closer quarters.

A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. “Forget the roasted birds, I plan to feast on that this evenin’. Mercy, have ye ever seen such a lass? Me mouth is waterin’ already.”

Doughall turned slowly, his lip curling as he looked upon Kaiden Lawson, the Laird of Clan MacMillen. A rake of infamous proportions who did not know when to keep his mouth shut.

Doughall considered teaching him, but his aunt caught his eye, beaming with such joy that he knew he could not ruin the evening she had spent so much effort planning. No one wanted blood on the feasting table… not until everyone had finished eating, at least.

“I hear she’s—” Doughall began to say, but Kaiden was already up on his feet, making his way toward the Devil’s betrothed.

Nay matter. She kens her place. She wouldnae be daft enough to antagonize me again.

He picked up his cup and took a sip as he watched, half-maddened, half-curious to see what his fake betrothed would do.