Page 49 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
“I think we need more time to plan, Damien,” Lady Merie said, and he started, staring down at her. “Could we nae wait for a month or two? Or till Spring?”
“Aye, a Spring wedding, just like yers, Merie!” Aunt Heather exclaimed. “Now,that’sa lovely idea.”
“Nay, it bloody is not,” Damien snapped and was met with several reproachful glances. “Dinnae even think about it. I want to wed Lady Helena as soon as possible. I’d wed her tomorrow if I could.” He made a curt motion with his hand. “Nay delays. We wed in three weeks to the goddamn day.”
“People need more time to travel, Damien,” his mother began.
“If folk dinnae make in time, then it’s their loss. It willnae be mine.”
“Ye act as though Helena might vanish,” Lady Merie said and glanced at Helena, who was slowly rising to her feet, her hand outstretched. “Tis nae fair to her, me son. I dinnae care for this…” she trailed off, her eyes widening, as she looked between Helena and Lady Merie again.
If he didn’t know better, Damien would swear that his mother thought she had discovered something, something that he did not yet know himself, or so she had thought. He did not care for that a whit.
“We’ll wed as per the Queen’s Edict,” Damien said in a rough voice. “Nae for love. ‘Tis nae yer story, Maither, and I’d appreciate it if ye could remember that. We wed soon because this—” He gestured to Helena, who was giving him a reproachful look. “This is an alliance. Nothin’ more.”
For a moment, his mother looked stunned and even a bit glassy-eyed. Then, she recovered and glared at him, before snapping in Gaelic, “An alliance and nothin’ more, me foot. Damien Gray, I see the way ye look at her.”
“Ye are wrong,” Damien replied, also in Gaelic. He glanced at Helena, who’d narrowed her eyes at them. “And I apologize if I was rude, but I am bloody exhausted, so enough.” His body sagged toward the floor. “Enough. She doesnae even want a real dress. Is that nae proof enough that this isnae like yer wedding?”
“Damien—”
“Nay.” He gazed at his mother for a second, debating whether to add,And aye, Maither, I do fear that she might take it into her head and vanish. She ran more than once. She doesnae want this.
But I do.
“Feck me, I need a drink,” he muttered.
And then, feeling like a royal arse, even more than the bloody English Queen, Damien strode out of the room.
CHAPTER 20
After a long bath,a snack, and a good dram, Damien had been restored to himself. He’d meant to go through his correspondence, which had piled up, but instead had reclined in a chair, his feet up, with a good book. Too soon, though, in the comfort of his rooms, with the fire crackling, he found his eyes growing heavy.
Rain lashed in through broken, open windows, and Damien raced down the empty halls of a place that seemed to be a mockery of Morighe. Not quite his clan’s castle, but similar and strange. He rounded a corner and came to a dead end, rather than a hallway.
His heart began to pound in his throat. Were his kin here?
He glanced over his shoulder and jolted when he thought he saw a shadow pass there. Stepping forward, for he was no coward, he pulled out his sword and then glanced down. His feet were bare.
Movement again and he turned, the figure doing the same.
A mirror. Damien approached it and then stumbled back with a curse, nearly dropping his blade. But his face was unscarred, and both his eyes were blue.
Yet, when he reached up to touch his face, he felt the familiar leather, and then the figure in the mirror grinned. His hair became red, and his countenance changed.
“Lachlan,” Damien snarled and leveled his blade. “Come out of there and fight.”
“I think nae,” came a whisper. “Why would I, when I’ve already won?”
Shadows leaped around his cousin, and Damien stumbled back in horror. What power did his cousin possess? He’d long suspected that his cousin had sold his soul long ago, but this?—
And then his cousin seemed to reach into the shadow, his grin becoming manic, before yanking a woman back. A woman who fought and twisted to get away, the light glancing off her glasses. Her hair was unkempt, the hem of her dress dirty, and yet she still had a poise to her.
Damien’s sword clattered to the floor, and he leaped forward, only to slam up against the mirror’s glass. A glass that was becoming fogged over. He slammed his hands on it, and Helena looked up. Fear leaped into her eyes, and she shook her head.
“No, Damien, I told you—” She tried to smile, and a growl tore from his throat, while Lachlan laughed. He held Helena lazily with one hand and with infuriating ease. “Let me go, I’ll be alright.”
“Will ye?” Lachlan purred, and a wicked blade appeared in his hand. The very same that had felled the former Laird, Damien’s father. The blade that Damien had thrown into the sea with curses.
