Chapter 19

19

“ D id he admit it to ye, in the end?” Ersie asked from the armchair as Freya prepared herself for the day ahead.

The maid, Ealasaid, was fastening Freya’s stays. A beautiful gown of dark red wool, finely woven and perfect for the autumn chill, was draped over the back of the chair where Doughall had sat the night before. Freya still could not look at it without blushing, not merely because of what they had done together in his study, but because of the revelations he had willingly made at her bedside.

Some, of course, were still proving troublesome to accept. She had often dreamed of being a mother, promising herself that she would be the very opposite of her mother. So, to find out that it would not be in her future remained hard to swallow.

But if I can make him jealous and I can surprise him, who’s to say I cannae get him to change his mind about that too?

“Nay, he didnae,” Freya replied, unsure whether it was a safe topic of conversation around Ealasaid. “I still cannae decide if he was just angry with me for dancin’ with another laird at our betrothal feast. I’ve never had one before, so I dinnae ken what’s appropriate.”

“Ye should have danced with the Laird first,” Ealasaid remarked quietly, her head down as she tied a knot in the stays. “Then, ye’d have been free to dance with whomever ye pleased.”

Freya’s cheeks reddened. “Aye, then he was probably just angry.”

“Nae a chance!” Ersie interjected, shaking her head vigorously. “I ken the Laird better than anyone, and I ken jealousy when I see it. Ye could say that anger is akin to jealousy, but he was definitely feelin’ it.”

Freya’s mind wandered to the study, to the things that he had made her feel, sensations beyond her comprehension that she wished she could feel again. She thought of how tenderly he had carried her out of that room and brought her to her bedchamber, and of the library he had offered for her use.

The promises he had made, which might have seemed paltry to most, were more than she had anticipated.

“If ye didnae talk about him gettin’ all jealous, what did ye talk about?” Ersie pressed. “The guards mentioned ye were in the Laird’s study for a fair while. Did ye take yer sister-in-law’s advice? Have ye agreed to have a happy, peaceful marriage?”

There was a dubious note in the last question, but also a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

A strangled gasp escaped Freya’s throat. “There were guards down there?”

“At a distance, aye,” Ersie replied. “They watch the comings and goings of their Laird, but they dinnae intrude. Why, were ye ragin’ at each other?”

Freya fidgeted with a loose thread on the ribbon of her drawers. “Nay, we were… surprisingly patient with each other.” She suppressed the urge to grin, pressing her lips together. “I dinnae think I’ll be the happiest wife that ever lived, but I dinnae think I’ll be the most miserable, either.”

“Ah… such romance.” Ersie grimaced, clearly dissatisfied with the outcome—though she did not know all of the details of last night’s meeting. If she did, perhaps she would have been more appeased.

But that was simply not something Freya was willing to discuss with Ersie, even if the maid was not present.

“I am nae too dismayed by it,” she insisted.

Ersie leaned over the armrest until she was practically draped over it. “So, what’s the plan for today? What are we coaxin’ out of the Laird next? Because he was jealous, and I willnae hear otherwise.”

“I hadnae given it much thought,” Freya replied.

She had been too busy thinking of other things, like what other pleasurable doors he might be inclined to unlock for her, and where in the library she would begin her extensive reading.

I could find that letter, read it to him, and see if I can coax some sadness out of him…

But he had asked not to see it, and she did not know what its contents were about. For all she knew, it might be a list of things to remember for a feast or a gathering, and though such a list might be enough to make the hostess weep the night before a gathering, it would not have the same effect on Doughall.

“Sympathy, maybe?” she said, the notion coming to her out of nowhere. “Or empathy.”

Ersie nodded eagerly. “I like it.”

“Actually, I have just the thought.” Freya held her arms up and allowed Ealasaid to pull the woolen dress over her head.

If the maid minded or had any opinions on the endeavor, she did not say so. However, there was a small smile on her lips as she fastened the laces down the back of the dress.

“I think I’ll spend the mornin’ in the library,” Freya said with a decisive nod.

Ersie tilted her head to the side. “ That’s what is different about ye.”

“What?”

“Ye dinnae have yer spectacles.” Ersie narrowed her eyes at her, curious. “Wherever might they be?”

Freya cleared her suddenly dry throat. “We’ll have to stop by Doughall’s study on the way. I believe I may have left them there.”

“I’d have asked why,” Ersie said with a grin, “but I think that blush on yer cheeks just gave me the answer.”

If that wasn’t bad enough, Ealasaid stifled a giggle and hurried over to the nearby side table, pretending to rearrange the hairbrushes and accouterments that lined it.

Freya cursed her pale cheeks, so quick to flush, and headed out without another word, tying her hair up with a ribbon as she went.

What Freya had not considered was how long it would take for Doughall to come and find her, if at all. Aware of his aversion to the library, she had taken one of her favorite books to the family hall, where she had previously been introduced to Isla, and curled up before the fire with the book in hand.

But the book of twelve short stories, the Lais of Marie de France, was not long by any means, and by the time she gave in and sent Ersie to coax Doughall into coming to find her, she had read it three times.

As such, when he finally arrived, she struggled to feign the same sadness. In fact, she wasn’t even at the right story when he strode through the doors with a frown on his face, saying, “Ersie said ye werenae feelin’ well, though why she couldnae fetch Sorcha herself is beyond me.”

“I… have such a headache,” Freya stammered, for lying—even of the smallest kind—had never come easily to her. “She shouldnae have bothered ye. It’s a headache of me own makin’.”

He walked closer, all the tenderness and vulnerability from the night before nothing but a memory. A dream, perhaps, that she had imagined in such detail that she had tricked herself into believing it was real.

“Whatever do ye mean?” he asked bluntly. “Did ye knock yer head or somethin’?”

Discreetly turning to the story of Les Deux Amants— The Two Lovers — she lightly patted the pages. “It’s more a matter of the heart. This story… I cannae help but weep every time I read it, and I fear I’ve wept meself into a headache. Have ye never done that before? Shed so many tears that yer head would start poundin’?”

“I havenae shed a tear since I was a babe,” he replied brusquely, evidently annoyed that he had been pulled from whatever he had been doing to attend to a tearful woman who was not, in fact, crying at that moment.

Freya tried, but she could not get the tears to come.

“Of course nae. Apologies, Ersie really shouldnae have bothered ye. Ye were obviously in the middle of somethin’,” she muttered, thoroughly embarrassed.

It had been a foolish idea. What she should have done was read the letter and, if it was suitably emotional, ask Doughall to read it with her.

Doughall stood over her, frowning at the book in her hands. “What are ye readin’?”

“The Lais of Marie de France. One, in particular,” she replied awkwardly. “It’s such a tragic tale.”

“Which one?”

Marginally encouraged by his questions, she showed him the first page. “It’s about a king who adores his daughter and doesnae want anyone to marry her, so he gives an impossible task to any suitors who come knockin’. They have to carry the princess up a hill without restin’, and if they manage it, they get to marry her. She falls in love with a boy and asks her aunt to brew him a potion for strength, so he’ll succeed, but?—”

“His pride doesnae allow him to take it, so he dies on the hill for nay good reason,” Doughall interrupted. “And she dies with him for nay reason at all, just to make lasses like ye cry.”

Freya blinked up at him, the awkwardness in her chest transforming into utter, burning embarrassment. Of course he would not be moved by a sad story written centuries ago, about fictional people, when he had lived through a tragedy far worse, far more real than anything written on that page. Especially not one about love.

I shall kill Ersie for lettin’ me go ahead with this! Why did she nae see the idiocy of it?

She cringed inwardly, while her mind scrambled for some way of salvaging the endeavor.

“I dinnae think it was pride,” she said somewhat haughtily, to cover her embarrassment. “I think he was too determined to reach the top and didnae want to slow down, or be seen cheatin’ in any way. That would mean losin’ her.”

Doughall sniffed. “It was pride. A man kens better than to ignore help when it’s offered. He lost everythin’ because he didnae want to admit he couldnae do it alone. He was tryin’ to impress the lass, and it was his downfall.”

“That’s really what ye think of that story?”

“It’s the truth of it, aye,” he replied. “So, wipe yer eyes. There’s nothin’ to cry over, unless ye like weepin’ over stupidity.”

I could weep over me own…

She closed the book with a satisfying snap . “Ye cannae feel a bit of sympathy for them?”

“Nae a bit.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Now, unless ye do bash yer head or fall or have some good reason to be in tears, dinnae disturb me again. Summon yer maither instead.”

He moved to walk out, but reaching the door, he turned back and drew something out of the folded pockets of his belted plaid. He dropped it in Freya’s lap and returned the way he had come, leaving her alone, his footfalls echoing in the hallway beyond until there was silence again. The only sound beyond the rushing in Freya’s ears was the spit and crackle of the fire.

Puzzled, she glanced down to see what he had left her with. She picked up the square of silky fabric like it was something strange and foreign, noting the embroidered letters ‘DS’ on the corner— Doughall Scott . He had gone without showing her any sympathy, but he had left her with that subtle, powerful gesture of empathy: his handkerchief.

Freya did not see her betrothed or Ersie for the rest of the day, taking her meals in stilted silence with her mother, brother, and Emily while wondering where on earth everyone else was. She might have enjoyed the food better if she had been permitted to engage Isla or Doughall’s uncle, Flynn, in friendly conversation. Even some of the guests from the feast.

Instead, she got a scolding that seemed to go in circles.

“While I am, of course, delighted that ye’re gettin’ married at last, I cannae fathom what ye were thinkin’ last night, dancin’ with that other laird,” Moira remarked, skewering a piece of roast pheasant. “I was horrified, and I daresay I wasnae the only one.”

Adam sipped his weak ale. “There was nay harm done, Maither.”

“Aye, I ken that, but there might’ve been,” Moira insisted. “After all this bother with Laura, ye’d think at least one of me daughters would ken how to behave with some propriety. I’ve spoiled ye—that’s what it is. I’ve been too soft with ye.”

Freya nearly spat out her mouthful of buttery potatoes, a harsh laugh threatening to tear out of her throat. Fortunately, the potatoes kept her from saying anything she might regret, and she concentrated on chewing and swallowing instead of ripping her mother’s remarks to shreds.

“Enough, Maither,” Adam said coolly. “Everythin’ has turned out well, so there’s nay reason for ye to keep mitherin’ on about it.”

“Someone has to,” Moira carried on. “Ye’ve been too soft with both of them, too, since yer faither—God rest his soul—was taken from us. This would never have happened if he was still with us, and?—”

Adam slammed his cup down on the table. “I said, enough! If ye dinnae like the state of things, ye can return to MacNiall Castle at once, and ye’ll nae see yer daughter’s weddin’.” He took a deep breath. “I willnae warn ye again.”

Clearly affronted, huffing and puffing like an angry bull, Moira popped the pheasant into her mouth and chewed it with a vengeance. But Freya had lost what little appetite she had, and as she swallowed the potatoes, feeling them clog her throat, she excused herself.

No one tried to stop her as she left, though Emily offered a look of sympathy. There were a thousand things Freya wanted to do—find Ersie, find that letter, wander in the chilly evening air, read something in the not-so-forbidden library—but her weary feet carried her to her bedchamber instead. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.

She had just sat down on the edge of the bed, contemplating whether or not to summon Ealasaid, when something on the chair caught her eye—the same chair Doughall had occupied last night, which still had not been moved back to its original place.

It was a book.

Curious, she reached for it and opened the cover, where a short note greeted her eyes, wrapped around the key to the library.

You shouldn’t read books that upset you. Try this one. Doughall.

“ The Blazing World ,” she mumbled, reading the title. By Margaret Cavendish. A novel she had heard about but never had the opportunity to acquire, infamous for its strangeness and utter disregard for what was deemed ‘normal’ and ‘appropriate’ in literature.

Taking it to the fireplace, the flames offering more light to see by, she curled up and prepared to devour it, thrilled by the knowledge that he had left it for her. That he had thought of her enough to do so.

Compassion…

In her mind, she crossed out the emotion. While she was at it, she crossed out ‘considerate’ too, already wondering what else she might eke out of him next. A promise to reconsider having children? Perhaps.

Maybe she was fooling herself, but nothing seemed quite as impossible anymore.