Page 78 of The Highlander's Auctioned Wife
Gordon glared at his Man-at-Arms. “She willnae let the same thing happen to her twice. She’ll find a way to be free. I daenae have to care anymore; she’s nay longer me concern.”
It was all a lie; the very thought of Thomas Lane putting his daughter through yet another auction made Gordon’s blood boil. Yet, he didn’t know what to do.
If he went to her, what good would it do? It wasn’t as if he had a right to stop the auction. But if he left her to the ravenous wolves of the unwed Highland Lairds who wished to bid for her, she would never be free, or happy for that matter.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that Beathan would have offered sage advice on such matters, talking sense into him, helping him to see the clearest path.
“Fine, then ye willnae mind if I burn the drawin’ one of the maids found under her bed,” David said, removing something that had been tucked into his belt. Slowly, he unfolded the creased piece of paper, holding it out with a sly grin upon his face.
Gordon’s heart stuttered at the sight of that precious, painful drawing: him, horned and fanged and unnatural, holding his broken human bride in his arms, while an army of glinting-eyed child-demons swarmed behind.
At least, that was what he thought the drawing was, at first. But as he took a closer look, he saw that the original had been altered slightly, detailed additions made with a talented hand.
The bride in his arms had her eyes slightly opened, peering up at the monster with a slight, soft smile upon her lips, while the monster gazed back down at her with his one eye, no cruelty in the expression, only determination. And Gordon noticed that the monster’s shoulders were curved inward, as if to protect his bride, like he was carrying her away from danger, rather than being the source of it.
Or, perhaps, the drawing hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps, he was just looking at it in a different light.
David walked to the nearest candle and touched the edge of the drawing to it, a teardrop of flame licking the paper.
Before he knew it, Gordon was right there, snatching the drawing out of David’s hand, clamping his own hand down onthe hungry flame to extinguish it. The burn stung his palm, but Gordon didn’t flinch, turning cold eyes on his m an-at-a rms.
“Leave,” he growled.
A flicker of true fear passed across David’s face, his head bowing. “Aye, M’Laird.”
He backed out of the forge without another word, leaving Gordon alone, staring down at the burnt drawing, seeing a few more details he hadn’t noticed before: that the bride’s hand was resting on her heart, and that a shard of light seemed to be coming down from the heavens, falling on the monster and his beloved.
I shall tear the last pages out of every single one of Faither’s books for this, so he never kens the endin’ of any.
Anna tucked herself into the slight hollow at the base of the huge ash tree that towered over the gardens of Castle MacTorrach, hiding in the shade between the castle wall and the trunk, praying no one would find her there.
I havenae hidden here since I was a lassie.
The thought saddened her, her hand reaching out to touch the thick limb of a root that grew toward the wall, before disappearing beneath it. Both had grown with the years, yetneither had changed their fate; the ash tree could never leave this corner of the gardens, and she would never get to choose which corner of the world she lived in, nor with whom.
“Are ye certain she came out here?” a male voice asked, making her cringe.
“She mustnae be,” another replied. “The wee minx obviously wants us to chase her.”
“I’d wager she’s in the library, like yesterday,” a third voice declared. “Probably pretendin’ to read, though there’ll be none of that when she’s me bride. She’ll nae have the time for readin’; I’ll make sure of that.”
Anger flared in Anna’s chest,almostboiling hot enough to make her emerge from her hiding place to give those vile men a piece of her mind, but sense prevailed, keeping her in that safe gap between the tree and the wall.
Soon enough, their voices faded, and she heard the slam of the door that led out into the gardens. Relaxing back against the tree, she tilted her head up to the boughs, sunlight dappling through the leaves and onto her face. It was a beautiful afternoon, the skies blue, the breeze mild, the gardens as perfect as they had ever been, but she could draw no joy from any of it.
I wish I was on the beach, in that secret cove, with him…
It would have been a lovely day for a picnic there, and she neverdidget to see the rockpools… or enjoy her wedding night with the man she couldn’t seem to stop loving.
More than a week had gone by since she’d departed Castle Lyall, all of her belongings returning with her, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d left something important behind.Twoimportant things, in truth: her heart and her mind.
Morning, noon, and night, she thought of Gordon, daydreamed of Gordon, imagined what he might be doing, imagined whatshemight be doing if she was still there with him.
In the evenings, alone in her room, she poured her feelings onto the pages in her portfolio, cursing when her tears splashed onto the drawings, ruining parts of them.
At night, she dreamed vividly of him, so that awakening became a brutal, crushing disappointment: a harsh reminder of her renewed situation as ‘that eligible Lane lass with the blessed womb.’
Would I still feel this way if Faither hadnae organized another auction, the moment I came back?She frowned, quietly removing her portfolio from the bag she’d brought out into the gardens with her.If I was truly free, would I be grateful to Gordon for this? Happy, even?
