Chapter 29

29

“ O ch, Freya…” Ersie stood in the doorway of the assigned dressing room, her hand pressed to her chest, her eyes shimmering as if she might cry.

Freya glanced at herself in the looking glass, hardly recognizing herself. “Do ye think it becomes me?”

“Becomes ye?” Ersie croaked, stepping into the room. “It looks like it was made for ye.”

Not wanting to ruin the exquisite, ivory-colored silk with her clammy hands, Freya twisted to try and get rid of a tiny crease… or perhaps for the pure pleasure of watching such a beautiful garment swish. It had struck awe into her very soul when Isla had shown it to her, and it took her breath away now that it was on her body.

I didnae ken I could look like this…

“It’s a pity I’ll have to wear me spectacles,” she said shyly, admiring the tight bodice embellished with tiny, twinkling beads clustered together to form ferns, while smooth seed pearls looked like they were rolling off the fern fronds like morning dew drops.

Golden lace bordered the edges of her neckline, the end of the bodice, the hem of her skirts, and the peaks of her shoulders, where they gave way to billowing sleeves in the most pristine, gauzy material, so white it appeared silver when the light struck it.

“What are ye talkin’ about?” Ersie said in a chiding tone. “Ye wouldnae be ye without yer spectacles. Nor would ye be able to see the astonished faces of everyone when ye first walk in. Truth be told, I dinnae think ye’d look nearly as perfect without them.”

Isla, who had just appeared behind Ersie, made a noise of assent. “I couldnae agree more.” She paused, gazing at Freya with fond eyes. “Och, I just kenned it would be the gown for ye. I dinnae think the beauty of seein’ ye in it will ever wear off.”

“How can it be that ye never wore it yerself?” Freya asked as Isla approached and pulled something out of her apron pocket.

After the fiasco with the sickly yellow gown, in the labyrinth of Isla’s private quarters, the older woman had known precisely where to find the gown among her array of armoires. But upon taking it out, praying under her breath that the moths had left it alone, she had explained that while it was hers, she had never worn it.

“Me sister gave it to me,” Isla replied with a sad smile. “Said she didnae want it, that it made her look ghoulish, but she didnae have the heart to throw away somethin’ so beautiful. I had planned to wear it for me own weddin’, but it didnae suit me either. Now I ken why—it was always meant to be yers.”

Freya’s eyes widened. “It was yer sister’s?”

“Aye, though I cannae recall where she got it from,” Isla said, slipping something around Freya’s neck. “We used to do all our shoppin’ together, but I remember she had such an array of gowns to choose from for her weddin’. Every dressmaker sent a gown on the slight chance she’d wear it and they could brag that Lady MacGordon had chosen their work. She was a fabled beauty, that sister of mine. Famous across at least half of Scotland for that… indescribably beautiful face of hers.”

Freya gasped as Isla fastened a necklace around her neck—a simple white ribbon with an enormous teardrop emerald that rested in the hollow at the base of her throat.

“I cannae wear this,” she insisted, for the jewelry definitely wasn’t hers.

Isla tied a bow at the back. “Nonsense. Ye must. It belonged to me sister too. Nay one has worn it since she… left us, and it’d be a shame if nay one ever did again.”

“Ye’re makin’ me look bad,” Ersie chimed in with a bright smile. “I dinnae have anything to give her, unless ye want to borrow me dirk, Freya? Ye could tie it to yer leg in case Laird MacMillen tries to dance too close with ye again.”

Freya chuckled, closing her hand over the large emerald. “I willnae be dancin’ with anyone but me husband today.” She cast Ersie a pointed look. “I nay longer have a need for our bet, Ersie.”

“What do ye mean?” Ersie hurried to her side, taking hold of her hands. “Och, dinnae leave me in suspense!”

Dropping her chin to her chest, Freya closed her eyes and remembered the previous evening—the feel of his slick skin warming her in the loch; the meadow and the fireflies; the way he had brought her to the most powerful conclusion she had ever experienced and the all-too-brief thrill of him piercing her, like a promise of what might await her on her wedding night. A drop of ambrosia on her tongue, making her crave more.

He said he couldnae lie with me, but he said he wouldnae marry either, and here we are…

Had she not seen him smile for the first time, and heard his sweet, soft laughter, maybe she would have lost hope that his mind could be changed. Instead, that flickering flame of hope burned brightly in her chest. If it threatened to dim, all she had to do was think of that laugh, that smile, the way he held her in his arms in such a fond embrace.

“Freya!” Ersie urged. “What happened?”

Freya realized she had not yet answered her friend, too distracted by the memory of last night. “I think ye owe me or I owe ye.”

Ersie squinted. “Eh?”

“I… made him laugh, Ersie.” Freya’s breath hitched, the memory more emotional than she had expected. “And I saw him smile. He… smiled all the way back from the loch.”

Not one to be left out, Isla peered over Ersie’s shoulder. “Ye didnae!”

“I did.” Freya nodded shyly. “I told a joke, and… he laughed. Ye wouldnae believe it, but he’s twice as handsome when he laughs and smiles. Maybe that’s why he doesnae do it often, or else nay lass in this castle would ever get anythin’ done—they’d be too busy starin’ at him.”

Isla clapped her hands together, bursting into a laugh of her own. “Och, when ye first came here, I kenned there was somethin’ special about ye. I hoped… I have hoped for so many years that a lass like ye would come along.” She whipped a handkerchief out of her pocket, dabbing at her eyes. “Ach, ye’ve got me started too soon with the weepin’! Flynn will think I came too close to the hogweed again—I’ll be so puffy!”

“Ye dinnae owe me anythin’, Freya,” Ersie said, letting out a cheer as she pulled Freya toward her and began dancing around the room with her. “All I want is for ye to be happy—for ye both to be happy, for as long as ye shall live!”

“Aye, me too!” Isla cried, clearly struggling to calm herself down. “Och, Freya… Ye dinnae ken… how glad… ye’ve made me. How glad ye’ve… made me tired, old heart.”

Ersie suddenly tugged Freya into a tight hug, swiftly joined by Isla, who put her arms around them both. In her one-and-twenty years on this earth, Freya had never felt so at peace, bursting with such a certainty of belonging that it nearly made her cry too.

“What is the meanin’ of this?” a sharp voice demanded to know from the doorway, jolting the three women apart.

Freya’s head whipped toward the entrance, her gladdened heart deflating at the sight of her mother standing there. She should have known that the giddy contentment would not last, but she had not expected to see her mother at all until the wedding ceremony, considering how they had parted ways the day before.

Emily and Adam were not far behind, the latter coming to an abrupt halt as he laid eyes on his sister. He blinked, his mouth falling open, while Emily’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in astonishment.

“Good mornin’ to ye, Maither,” Freya said politely. “I didnae ken if ye wanted to be with me as I prepared for the day ahead, so I began without ye. Isla has been helpin’ me.”

Both Ersie and Isla took a half step backward, flanking her, offering their silent support against whatever storm was about to rage.

So, it came as something of a surprise when Moira Kane hiccupped and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, trembling as she looked upon her daughter.

“Ye shouldnae hug like that,” she said, her voice slightly muffled by the handkerchief. “Ye’ll crease that… perfect gown, and me sweet girl will get all red with the heat of all that jostlin’.”

Freya’s eyebrows rose slightly, confused by the response. “Ye… like the gown?”

“Dearest Freya, it is… the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Moira replied, walking closer. “ Ye are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Who did yer hair like that? And—Oh! Who gave ye that exquisite necklace?”

Freya nodded toward Isla. “She did.”

“Thank ye,” Moira said to Isla with a graceful bow of her head as she stopped in front of her daughter. With a shaky hand, she lightly cupped Freya’s cheek. “I cannae believe I missed it. I should’ve been here to help ye. I… I’m sorry, Freya. I’m sorry I was… so stubborn. I’m sorry I didnae seek ye out to make amends, but rest assured that seein’ ye like this, kennin’ I wasnae here to witness it all, is the cruelest of punishments. Me heart… is achin’.”

Freya swallowed past the lump in her throat, wondering if perhaps she was still asleep in her chambers, dreaming of impossible things. Had someone told her that she would one day receive an apology from her mother, she would have laughed until her sides were sore. But not only had Moira apologized, but she also seemed wracked with remorse.

“Can I hold ye, me sweet girl?” she asked hesitantly.

Freya mustered a soft smile. “I thought ye didnae want anythin’ to crease the dress?”

“Aye, well, maybe one crease would be all right.”

Freya opened her arms, giving permission, and Moira walked into them, embracing her daughter with the warmth and affection that Freya had always dreamed of.

As she held her tightly, Moira whispered, “Be happy, Freya.”

“I hope to be,” Freya whispered back.

“Forgive me.”

Freya embraced her mother with everything she had. “I do.”

It was the perfect beginning to what she hoped would be the perfect day, the perfect wedding, and perhaps not the perfect marriage, but their own kind of perfect, flaws and all. Her and Doughall. A man she had once feared, who now smiled. A man as exciting as he was formidable. A man capable of feeling after all, with so much more to discover.

A man she would soon be able to call hers.