Chapter 18

18

D oughall knew he should leave without another word, knew that he should not turn to acknowledge Freya’s gentle plea, much less obey it. It was not that he wanted to punish her with his absence when she clearly wanted him to stay, but that he did not trust the sweet tone of her voice. It was the sort of voice, the sort of entreaty, that could weaken a man.

I’m already bound—what can be the harm in indulgin’ her just this once?

Slowly, he turned. “I cannae stay, lass.” His voice was softer than he had meant it to be.

“Nae even until I’ve fallen asleep?” Her honey-brown eyes were filled with too much hope. He would have been a monster, indeed, to dash it.

He grumbled and walked back to her, dragging the chair from the writing desk with him. Setting it next to the bed, he sat down.

“Sleep then,” he said gruffly.

She laughed . She actually laughed, clapping her hand over her mouth as her pretty eyes twinkled. Her spectacles were still in his study, forgotten on his desk, but it seemed that she could see him well enough.

“Ye willnae hold me?” she asked as her laughter ebbed.

“Nay,” he said simply, not trusting himself to be so… intimate with her.

What he had just done was intimate in its own way, but holding someone while they fell asleep, wrapping them up in his arms, was an intimacy beyond anything he was prepared to offer. It was the behavior of two people in love, and that was something his heart would never be capable of feeling. It would be crueler to pretend.

Freya plumped the pillows behind her and pushed herself up into a sitting position that suggested she had no intention of sleeping.

“I usually read to tire meself,” she said shyly. “But as ye’ve banned me from yer library, ye’ll have to tell me a story instead.”

“Do I look like a storyteller to ye?” He sat back in the chair, balancing one leg on the knee of the other.

She shrugged. “Ye look like a man with many tales to tell, which is more or less the same thing.”

For reasons he could not explain, her words prodded at something in his chest, stirring up a sadness he had long fought to push down and bury deep.

How was it possible that she knew it was there? How could this woman see through him so clearly? Had her brother told her something about his history?

“If ye’re goin’ to play silly games, lass, ye can find yer own way to fall asleep,” he said, getting to his feet. “Alone.”

“Why did ye say ye wouldnae marry or sire children?” Freya blurted out, her hand raised as if to stop him.

Doughall hesitated for a moment and sat back down in the chair with a heavy thud. He could see what this was now—a mild interrogation from a worried bride. Somehow, he could stomach that better than her being able to see through the rawest parts of him.

“I dinnae choose to do the things I ken I willnae be good at,” he replied evenly. “Nay one does if they can avoid it.”

And I was avoidin’ it rather well ‘til ye came shamblin’ along.

He rested his elbow on the armrest and supported his head with his hand, feeling a little weary himself. The bed looked alluringly comfortable, and he did not doubt that she would feel warm in his arms… but he would stay where he was, at a safe distance from any temptation.

“Ye were worried— are worried—that ye’ll fail at marriage?” she said, one eyebrow raised as if she had not considered that before.

“I wouldnae use that word,” he remarked.

“Which one—‘worried’ or ‘fail’?”

Irritation bristled below his ribs. “Neither.” He paused, leveling a cool gaze at her. “Once we’re wed, ye should ask fewer questions.”

“Why do ye think I’m askin’ ye now?” She dared to smile. “We’re nae married yet, and I suspect it’s a bride’s duty to at least get to ken the man she’s about to marry. It wouldnae be wise nae to.”

Doughall wished he could argue against her logic, but whether it was a matter of skirmishes, battles, council discussions, or clan troubles, it was a foolish laird who did not gather as much information as possible before making a decision. Having never intended to marry, he had not considered that the same might be true of a lady.

He let out a strained sigh. “The two are intertwined.”

“Marryin’ and sirin’ children?”

He nodded. “The matter of the weddin’ and marriage is what it is, but I doubt there are too many who enter into it kennin’ that they willnae sire any children. Many marry just to sire children and heirs.”

“Aye, I’m aware,” Freya replied with a slight catch in her voice, averting her gaze.

After what had just happened between them, he did not know whether to find her sudden shyness endearing or ridiculous. She could enjoy the pleasure of his touch and his tongue, but she could not mention the idea of having children without blushing furiously? It made little sense to him.

“I willnae have bairns because I would never want them to… be where I am now,” he replied, cursing the brief hesitation in his voice.

This was precisely what he had feared would happen when he had turned around to answer her plea: that she would weaken him somehow, putting an even bigger crack in the defensive walls that surrounded his vulnerabilities.

She swiveled slightly, turning to face him. “What do ye mean?”

Doughall half-rose to leave before he said something he would regret, a squirming sensation roiling in the pit of his stomach. This was territory he did not even dip a toe into for good reason, yet her sweet voice seemed to be pulling on an invisible tether, tugging him over that perilous boundary against his will.

It might compel her nae to marry ye at all, though…

He weighed up the possible effects of his personal history and decided to be honest. If that pushed her away and made her defy her brother’s wishes, good. If that did not push her away, he had already prepared himself for the marriage he did not want, so it would not change much.

“When ye care for somethin’ or someone, when they’re a part of yer heart,” he began in a rumbling voice that was almost a snarl, “the loss of them will take part of ye with it, so ye’re never the same. I wouldnae put that same burden on the shoulders of a bairn of mine for the sake of legacy. Damn legacy. It’s naught but history repeatin’ itself.”

Freya shuffled closer. “Who did ye lose?”

He eyed her suspiciously, certain she already knew the answer. If not, then she must be a fool indeed, for one would assume that if there was no father or mother to meet, then there was a sorrowful reason for that.

“I saw me maither and faither get killed,” he replied, forcing strength into his voice. “Nay rhyme or reason for it. One evenin’, they went to the loch as they often did and crossed paths with the wrong people at the wrong time. Dinnae ken who they were—just brigands passin’ through who stopped to talk to me parents, likely pretendin’ they were in need or somethin’.

“I saw them slay me faither, and me maither saw me. I must’ve yelled or somethin’. She told me to run, so I did, ‘cause I was a lad who didnae ken any better. I couldnae do a damn thing to protect either one, though I’ve wished every day of me life since that I hadnae fled when she told me to. I should’ve been the warrior me faither kenned I could be and fought for me maither’s life or died tryin’.”

He balked, realizing how much he had said. He had not meant to, but that was the trouble with the stories of his past. That was why he never even began to relay that particular tale, for once it started coming out of his mouth, it became a torrent that could not be stopped. Ersie had learned that the hard way, as had Isla. But he had not opened the floodgates in years, and he had not realized there was still such a reservoir of pain behind them.

“Aye, so that’s why,” he said, clearing his throat. “I dinnae want history to repeat itself. I wouldnae want any bairns of mine to suffer like that. Besides, when ye’re a laird’s bairn, ye’re born with a target on yer back. I wouldnae want a bairn losin’ me, nor would I want to lose a bairn. The best way to prevent it is to never have bairns.”

Freya said nothing, pulling the coverlets and furs up to her chin, gazing at him so intently that it took every shred of willpower he possessed not to turn his gaze away. There was sorrow in her teary brown eyes, and her breaths were shakier than before.

He prayed she would not pity him—he could not stand pity. It was a wretched emotion that made him want to flip a table or take his sword to one of the wooden figures in the training yard until it was little more than a pile of splinters.

“Forgive me,” she choked out a moment later. “I dinnae think I’ve ever heard ye say so much at once.”

He stayed silent, making up for the verbal cascade he had unleashed.

“Nor have I ever heard ye speak… with such feelin’. I wasnae expectin’ it from someone like ye,” she continued ruefully, her tone almost veering into the pity he despised.

In a bid to avoid it, he did something else he never did.

“Aye, well, dinnae get used to it. I willnae be makin’ a habit of it,” he replied, his voice surprisingly light. “I reckon it’ll take me days to fix the damage I’ve done to yer perception of me.”

Her eyes lit up, hesitant laughter spilling past her lips. “Did ye just make a joke , Doughall?”

“I willnae be makin’ a habit of that , either,” he replied, not quite cracking a smile but offering a faint smirk.

If she thought she was marrying someone other than the Doughall he presented himself as, she would be sorely disappointed. He figured it was better to lower her expectations now, for once he left that bedchamber, she would not see him joke or reveal the missing pieces of his heart again. He would not allow it.

Just once. Call it a weddin’ gift.

“So, ye never wish to have bairns?” she asked, her laughter trailing off into a pensive realization, disappointment already etched across her forehead in shallow creases.

“None, and I willnae raise any bastards as me own, either,” he replied, wondering why his chest felt so tight at the sight of her dismay. Like he wanted to cheer her up and smooth those perplexed lines from her face.

But to do that, to give her hope, would waste all his painful honesty.

Before he could stop himself, he was speaking again. “Listen, I may nae be what ye dreamed of, I may nae be able to give ye what ye likely assumed ye’d have one day, but I’ll be decent to ye. I willnae be cruel. I’ll be good to ye—to our people. That’s me promise to ye.”

Freya hugged the furs tighter to herself and nodded slowly, resignation lacing every movement of her head. If this were a barter between clans and he had been offered the equivalent, he would have laughed at the haggler or strung them up by their boots for the insult. But what was agreed upon could not be undone—they would marry, and those were the terms.

Still, that did not mean he wanted life to be unpleasant for her. Anything she wanted other than bairns would be hers. He would make sure of it.

“Can I ask one more question?” she said, those lines of disappointment still not quite gone from her face.

He shrugged. “Aye, I suppose so.”

“What is it about that library that makes ye forbid me from enterin’ it?”

If he was being honest, he had expected the question to come sooner. He had often thought it a flaw in humanity that when something was declared forbidden, it raised one’s curiosity to unbearable heights. He knew that all too well, and firsthand, thanks to the woman sitting on the bed in front of him. The more he forbade himself, the more he craved her. Why would she be any different with the library?

“Because it was me maither’s,” he replied, willing his voice to remain even. “I have kept it untouched since I lost her. It is swept and cleaned, aye, but that is all. Why it was open that day, I dinnae ken, and I’ve yet to discover who left it unlocked.”

Freya’s eyes lit up unexpectedly. “Did anyone enter that library other than yer maither when she was alive?”

“Rarely.” He frowned, uncertain of where the conversation was headed. “Me faither, now and then. Me aunt, more often, bein’ me maither’s sister and all. A friend or two. That’s all.”

She shuffled even closer to the edge of the bed, all of her disappointment and concern replaced by a thrumming excitement—the giddiness of someone who had just received excellent news.

“What if I told ye there might be a way for ye to still be close to those ye lost, even if they cannae be here with us anymore?” she said, her eyes positively glowing now.

He raised a dubious eyebrow. “If ye’re suggestin’ I read me maither’s books, ye neednae. I’ve read them. None were to me taste.”

“Ye read all of those books?” Her mouth dropped open, but she hurriedly shook her head as if to set herself back on course. “The other day, I found a letter in one of the books. If I were to go and retrieve it, maybe ye could read it and… feel closer to yer parents again. I ken it helped me when I lost me faither, and I dinnae think I was nearly as fond of him as ye were with yer parents.”

Doughall had almost forgotten that Freya probably understood what he felt about the loss of his parents. He had known the former Laird MacNiall well and had thought him a decent laird, but not much of a father. The sort of man who had craved more and more and more in terms of wealth and power for his clan, always at war with someone or another, unaware that being a good father, cherished by one’s children, was probably the most powerful role a man could ever have.

It's nae the same , he wanted to tell Freya, but that would mean telling her just how much his father had meant to him, just how much he had adored the man. However, that love would never compare to the love Doughall had had for his mother.

“Dinnae bother,” he said roughly. “A letter would be a reminder I dinnae want, nor need, so it doesnae really matter what it says.”

He would deny his curiosity to avoid the heartache it could bring. In fact, unless the letter was a detailed list of who had murdered his parents, he was content for it to stay hidden wherever Freya had found it.

“But ye can use the library,” he added firmly. “I’ll leave the key for ye tomorrow. Just put back whatever ye take. Dinnae start movin’ things around.”

She seemed shocked by the generous gift, and more surprised still when he got up and scooped her around the waist, laying her back down on the bed.

“Sleep now,” he said, a light warning in his voice. “Ye’ve had all the stories ye’re goin’ to get.”

He was about to pull away when she suddenly sat up and kissed his cheek—a soft, clumsy graze of her lips on his stubbled skin. A moment later, she flopped back onto the bed with a pleased smile, gazing up at him in a way that made him want to throw all caution to the wind and bed her right there and then.

“Thank ye,” she said quietly.

With a grunt, he turned and left the room, realizing with some trepidation that it was going to be harder than he thought to get through marriage to her without running the risk of siring a child.

If she wrapped her legs tight around him at the wrong moment, pleading with him to stay where he was, he did not know that he would be able to resist.