Chapter 21

21

H ead brimming with incredible visions of The Blazing World, dizzy with awe at the creativity of the author, and more than a little delighted that Doughall had chosen such a book for her, Freya breezed down to the family hall to break her fast.

Recently, she had been having her breakfast in her chambers, but that morning felt like the perfect time to begin a new routine.

And if Doughall happens to be there—all the better.

She could thank him for leaving such a precious gift—the book and the promised key—and perhaps think about coaxing another emotion out of him. Embarrassment, maybe. The shy, endearing kind, experienced in the face of effusive gratitude.

But when she walked into the family hall, where the small table was set for breakfast, only one person was sitting there.

“Freya! What a lovely surprise,” Isla said, gesturing to the chair beside her. “Truly, I thought I would be breakin’ me fast alone this mornin’, so I’m grateful for the company.”

Freya hesitated. “Is nay one else awake yet?”

“Och, yer maither, braither, and yer braither’s wife have been and gone. I believe they went to the nearest town to make weddin’ preparations.” Isla patted the chair next to her more insistently. “Me husband has ventured to his beloved distillery, and Doughall took off late last night with Ersie and a few others.”

Freya did not move to take a seat. “Took off where?”

“I wouldnae ken, dear lass,” Isla replied with an apologetic grimace. “But I’d wager it was important if he took his best men with him.”

He couldnae have written that he was goin’ somewhere?

Irritation coursed through the center of Freya as she quickly put the pieces together. Doughall could not have left the castle too long after he placed the book on the chair for her, so he must have known already that he would be riding out somewhere.

“Ye ken him well, do ye nae?” she asked Isla, though she still did not take a seat beside the friendly woman.

Isla chuckled softly. “I’d say so. I all but raised him for many years.”

“Is this what he does, then?” Freya did not find the situation amusing. “Is this what I should expect from me husband—that he’ll just leave without a word, while I worry, nae kennin’ where he might be?”

Isla stopped laughing immediately, sorrow pinching her eyes. “Freya, me dear, I doubt he’s left ye to worry deliberately.” She paused, chewing on her lower lip. “What ye have to understand is that he has been the Laird of this clan for nigh-on twenty years. He’s accustomed to answerin’ to nay one, to actin’ without hesitation. This will be… new for him, but if ye talk to him, I’m certain he’ll consider yer worries in the future.”

“Ye’re certain?” Freya asked, her voice laced with doubt.

Isla’s lengthy pause was all the answer that Freya needed.

If Doughall’s aunt, who had spent so many years at his side, did not think he would change to accommodate his wife, then why would Freya? He had already informed her that he would not be having children, that he did not want to marry, and that she was not to have any expectations beyond a lack of cruelty.

And I, the fool that I am, let meself be tricked into thinkin’ that this wouldnae be so awful.

The book did not negate the paltry offer that Adam had forced her to accept. Perhaps that was all she would have to make things seem less miserable once vows were taken and she was truly bound to him—the library.

“Freya,” Isla began haltingly. “I ken that his… demeanor isnae exactly friendly or invitin’, but he will take care of ye. Ye’ll want for very little.”

Freya met the older woman’s eyes with a sad smile. “What if the things I want, that he cannae give, arenae so little? Nae to me, anyway.”

“Oh, Freya…” Isla pushed back her chair.

“Nay, dinnae get up,” Freya insisted. “Now that I think about it, I dinnae have an appetite. Ye enjoy yer breakfast. I’m sorry to have intruded.”

She turned and rushed out of the room, ignoring Isla’s calls as she walked quickly down the hallway, her shoes clicking on the flagstones. There was only one place that could offer her the comfort she needed, and she planned to stay there until her betrothed mustered the enthusiasm to come looking for her. If that took days, then so be it.

It’s nae different from bein’ at MacNiall Castle.

Her heart was heavy as she descended, pulling the library key out of her pocket. At home, her brother had often placated her with a new book or a new ribbon for her collection, while Laura was given adventures, endless time in Adam’s company, and permission to do wild, thrilling things that would have seen Freya soundly scolded if she had asked for them.

Ye probably got the idea from me braither…

She cursed both men under her breath, feeling no calmer as she arrived at the ancient oak door of her private library.

Stepping inside, however, inhaling the familiar scent of paper and leather and wood and the indelible perfume of dust, was akin to being embraced by loving arms after a tiring day. She relaxed into the peace of the room, walking slowly up and down the aisles between the bookcases, deciding what she might like to read.

Then, she saw it—the eye-catching dark green spine of the book she had unceremoniously stuffed back onto the shelf sideways. The book she had been meaning to return for. The book with the yellowed parchment inside, the wax seal broken, tempting her to take a look.

Glancing at the door, though she knew no one would disturb her in there, she retrieved the slim book and took it over to the reading chair.

Her heart pounded giddily in her chest as she settled down and opened the cover, excitement bristling through her as she plucked out the timeworn letter.

Who looked at ye last, eh? How long have ye been hidden up there on the shelves?

She looked toward the seemingly endless bookcases.

How many more of ye are there?

She intended to investigate if the letter before her was exciting enough.

With no further reason to delay, she took a deep breath and unfolded the letter. Initial disappointment at the shortness of the note gave way to breathless shock, her eyes drinking in the seven potent words scratched onto the parchment in spiky lettering: If I can’t have you, neither can he.

“What?” she whispered, turning the parchment over in case there was anything she had missed—initials in the corner, a mark that might give away the writer. But even the wax seal bore no sign of the writer’s identity. It was just a plain, smooth circle.

She sat there for a moment, bewildered, pushing her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose, trying to gauge the age of the letter. It was certainly old, the ink faded, the handwriting unfamiliar. It wasn’t Doughall’s; she had seen his handwriting in the study.

He said barely anyone but his maither came into this room. If this belonged to her, then she made an effort to keep it hidden.

Folding it back carefully and slipping it back into the cover of the book, she decided there was nothing else for it; she was going to have to speak to Doughall about it whenever he deigned to return from wherever he had gone. She was not going to wait to be found— she would find him the moment he stepped back into the castle.

After locking the library behind her, she made her way toward the eastern tower with the book and its secret letter held tightly to her chest. There was an empty study up there with a window that looked out over the moors, offering the best view of returning riders. No one would get to him before she did.

Who could have sent such a letter? she pondered as she walked, lost in her world of mystery, trying to fit the sparse pieces together in any way that made sense.

“Freya, there ye are! I’ve been lookin’ all over for ye,” a familiar voice halted her progress.

She turned to find Isla hastening up the hallway toward her, looking harried and red-cheeked. It seemed impossible to Freya, but it appeared that Isla had been searching all over for her, as if, somehow, she mattered.

“I was… readin’,” Freya said, quickly tucking the book behind her back.

Isla came to a breathless standstill. “I was so worried ye’d left. Och, I could kick meself for nae goin’ after ye before.” She reached out and put a gentle hand on Freya’s forearm. “I ken this hasnae been easy for ye. It wouldnae be easy for anyone. Mercy, it’s nae even easy when ye’re besotted with the man ye’re goin’ to marry, as I was, and I got to stay in a castle that already felt like home. Forgive me, Freya.”

The maternal—or perhaps sisterly—touch of Isla’s hand ignited a shy warmth in Freya’s chest, her face flushing with a happy heat. If no one else in the castle thought she was of any importance, Isla was making it clear that she did.

Maybe she kens about this letter…

Freya bit her lip in thought, the book burning a hole in her back. After all, Doughall had said that Isla was the most frequent visitor to his mother’s library, being her sister and all.

“I hadnae slept well,” she replied carefully. “I was in a fractious mood already, but… I’m quite recovered now. There’s really nothin’ to forgive. I wish I’d stayed and had breakfast with ye.”

That seemed to please Isla. “Ye could come and dine with me now? They havenae cleared anythin’ away yet.”

“I would love to, but…” Freya paused, willing the letter to somehow tell her what to do “I was goin’ to sit in the eastern tower for a while, to write to me friends. They’ll be worried about me whereabouts, and I should inform them that, the next time they see me, I’ll be a married woman.”

She dearly wanted to ask Isla for her opinion on the letter, but one word held her back: Doughall. Until she had shown it to him and heard his opinion, she could not bring herself to show the note to anyone else, not even someone who might know where it came from.

Isla nodded in understanding. “In that case, please say ye’ll have luncheon with me? I want to ken everythin’ there is to ken about ye, Freya. I want ye to be happy here, so let me do this for ye.”

“I should like that,” Freya replied quietly, wondering if she was about to make another friend at MacGordon Castle. After all, she did not have any back at home.

“What are we chatterin’ about, eh?” a different voice interjected, followed by a figure descending the narrow staircase just behind Freya.

She turned quickly, trying to angle her body in such a way that neither Isla nor Flynn would be able to see the book in her hands. Not that the book itself was particularly sordid—it was merely an exquisitely bound version of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

“I was just invitin’ Freya to have luncheon with me,” Isla replied, beaming at her husband and breaking Freya’s heart in the process.

Will I ever have a reason to look at Doughall that way?

Flynn skirted past Freya and took his wife in his arms, pressing a tender kiss to her lips that seemed to make Isla melt. Freya looked away, uncomfortable with the enviable display of affection.

Will Doughall ever behave that way with me?

She tried to imagine it, concentrating on his tenderness after he had conjured up a world of pleasure within her, but all of that had been in secret. The hallways had been empty, with everyone else enjoying the feast, and she doubted he would have carried her with such care, if at all, if that had not been the case. And he had only shown a sliver of his vulnerability when the bedchamber door was closed.

“I swear ye get more beautiful every day,” Flynn sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind Isla’s ear.

She swatted his chest playfully. “Aye, and ye lose more of yer sight every day.”

“Naught wrong with these eyes, love.” Flynn winked, turning his attention back to Freya. “Lookin’ forward to the weddin’, are ye?”

Freya gulped. “That reminds me—I really must write those letters to me friends about the weddin’. If ye’ll excuse me.”

She dipped into a brief curtsy and hurried off, cringing as she heard Isla scolding her husband behind her.

“Ye scared her off, ye oaf. What did ye do that for? Poor thing is as skittish as a foal.”

“If she’s marryin’ into this family, love,” Flynn replied, humor in his voice, “she cannae get scared easily.”

Those words rang in Freya’s ears as she hurried down a shorter hallway and up a winding staircase to the eastern tower.

Opening the cover of the book to make sure the letter was still there, something became very clear in her head—this was no note from a lover or a suitor, but an outright threat.