Page 10 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
Then, Laird Ronson was there, grabbing his friend’s shoulder and giving it a friendly shake. He seemed to sense something amiss between Laird MacCabe and Helena, for his tone was far too light, and his smile was tight at the corners.
“Damien is right,” he said. “I was uncouth. Forgive me, Lady Helena, I am in a joyous mood and actin’ foolish.” Helena watched as he expertly and politely shoved his friend away, then bowed. “Welcome to Banrose. Ye are welcome to all our books, always. And I ken Emma has been anxiously waitin’ for ye.”
This was the Grant in Emma’s letters, and she chided herself for not realizing he’d been attempting levity. Something she would’ve appreciated more if she did not feel the Queen’s Edict hanging over her head while an unmarried laird glared at her as though he’d like to challenge her to a duel.
Somehow, she managed to grasp a remnant of herself, to act as everyone expected Lady Highbrow to act, and said to Laird Ronson, “Oh, Emma said that you like to jest.”
Unable to help himself, Laird Ronson smiled, genuine joy lighting up his face, and she knew that he loved her dearest friend with all his heart.
“Yes, I can see how you two are well suited,” she mused aloud. “I am glad that you found each other, truly.” She smiled, then.
At least Emma, the most deserving and kindest person she’d ever known, had her happy ending.
“I can show ye inside,” Laird Ronson said, offering her his arm, but she shook her head.
It was clear that he was not up early on his wedding day to escort errant bookworms around Banrose.
“No, I can find my way.”
At that, she saw Laird MacCabe move, stalking off in the direction of the stables, and she lifted her chin higher. Good, she would have immediately refused if he’d thought to make such an offer.
“Thank you,” she said to Laird Ronson, hoping that he thought it was the cold causing her cheeks to flush and not his unruly friend.
Still, his calculating gaze and drawn eyebrows suggested otherwise, so she hurried in, telling herself not to mind the sense that he watched her go.
Even if her heart sank with the certainty that Laird Ronson meant to ask his friend how he’d met Lady Highbrow.
Overbearing, mercurial fool.
She turned on the top step just in time to see a rider pushing a horse hard through the snowy fields, his bad temper evident from here.
Wait.Her eyes went wide.Laird MacCabe clearly did not forget about me even though he pretended to.
She sagged against the stone entryway, her very breath stolen, and her shaking, gloved hand touched her lips.
Why?
CHAPTER 5
Music filled the wintry air,along with the intoxicating scents of woodsmoke, whisky, and sweets. Helena walked along, taking in the sights, the merry folk, the toasts, and the children underfoot. It seemed that no one should have a heavy heart on such a night. And yet she found herself struggling to smile.
On the other side of the lines of whirling dancers, it was easy enough to spot the wide shoulders of Laird Ronson, grinning as he conversed with an equally massive and muscular laird. This man had terrible scars on one side of his face, yet they did not detract from how handsome he was, and he was softened by the absolute love in his eyes as he gazed at his pretty, plump wife, Agnes.
It had been a shock to meet Emma’s twin, though Helena had, of course, heard of her, and how Agnes had married Laird MacLarsen in Emma’s stead. Though the twins were not identical, they were similar enough that even Helena, who’d known Emma all her life, had looked twice.
The sisters stood together now, laughing at their husbands and leaning into each other.
Helena’s heart gave a fierce throb of joy. Ah, but she was so happy for her friend and her sister. The two of them had defied the Queen’s Edict in a way, and yet when they’d married, they’d also found love and protection—and respect.
Deep down, Helena’s heartstrings got tangled as the cold, sick intuition filled her. Of course, these two good, sweet women would have these strong, brutal warriors worshipping the ground they walked on. Those men had the sense to—and good hearts tucked under that muscle to love those good, wonderful women.
Meanwhile, Helena had always known that she’d be lucky to get a husband who tolerated her and gave her a bit of respect on occasion. But never love.
Her throat tightened. Even if she was “pretty enough, despite being so tall,” as more than one suitor had said, her sharp mind, her quick wit, and her aloofness were more than any man could bear.
And those had been Englishmen.
Helena put a hand on her cheek, unable to even imagine how she and Laird Ronson would’ve been wed, never mind any others of his ilk. It was bloody unfair to force Scots to marry English ladies, never mind a bluestocking like her.
