Page 68 of Taming the Highland Misfits
All that went through her mind as she watched him march towards the main entrance, wearing the uniform of the guards of the castle and looking almost criminally handsome.
At that moment, Alex looked up and saw her, then he raised his eyebrows and gave her a mischievous grin and a wink before moving on. She watched his back as he moved into the distance, then sighed. It was ridiculous, she thought. She had loved this man for ten years, first with the innocent adoration of a child, now with the full-blown passion of a grown woman. They had not yet made love, but they had come close to it once or twice. Then she smiled inwardly, knowing that it was only a matter of time.
Freya shook herself out of her reverie as she realised that she was almost at the door of the dining room, and she steeled herself for whatever awaited her on the other side. Whatever it was, it would not be pleasant, she felt.
She sighed deeply then opened the door.
* * *
Freya’s brother, Bearnard, looked up and smiled at her as soon as she came through the door. She smiled back, feeling warm and protective as she usually did towards him. He was nineteen years old now, taller than she was, with red hair like her own, but he was a man with a deep voice and whiskers; why did Freya feel the need to mother him all the time?
He poured her a cup of ale as she sat down. “You look very pretty this morning, Freya,” he said, running his gaze over her hair, which usually looked much more unkempt. He avoided her eyes, however, leaning down to pat his dog instead.
“I thought I would make an effort for a change,” she replied. She looked over at her father, who was finishing off his bannock while chatting to his steward, Gerald Patterson.
Patterson had been a close confidant of Callum Murdaugh ever since Freya could remember, and she had detested him all that time. She could never work out why, since he had always been perfectly amiable to her, but there was something about him that made her flesh creep. He was pleasant to look at, with even features, dark hair and brown eyes, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel uncomfortable. It was as though she was being weighed in the balance of his good opinion and found wanting in some way. For her father’s sake, Freya had never engaged in an argument with him, but she was beginning to feel that it was only a matter of time.
Freya began to eat her eggs and black pudding as she chatted inconsequentially with her brother about the young woman he was seeing, the health of his horse, which had been ill with colic, and other small matters. It did not escape her notice, however, that during the whole length of their conversation, he had not met her eyes once.
Just as Freya finished her breakfast, her father looked up and smiled at her. “Good morning, Freya,” he said pleasantly. “You look lovely, but I will not beat about the bush. I have an important matter to discuss with you.” He then looked at his hands, his face going beetroot red before he laughed. “Before I begin, did I tell you what Laird Fulton said to me the other day? He told me I should get myself a new horse! Can you imagine it? I would not part with my old mare for anything. We have been together too long.” He shook his head, frowning, and was about to open his mouth to speak again when Gerald Patterson spoke up.
“M’Laird,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “I am sorry to interrupt, but this is not what we are here for. I have work to do and so does Bearnard, so perhaps it is time to address the matter at hand.” His words were a careful mixture of deference and firmness, and despite her dislike of him, Freya found herself admiring of his diplomacy.
“I agree with Gerald, Father,” she said, glancing at the steward. “It really is time you stopped beating about the bush. I have better things to do than sit here listening to gossip about our neighbours.” She knew she was not being very respectful to her father, but she was impatient and irritable, and at that moment wanted nothing more than to be out in the fresh air with Lance. At least he never argued with her!
Her father nodded slightly, acknowledging the wisdom of their words, then he took a deep breath.
“You have been avoiding this issue for a long time,” he began, “but you can do so no longer. I have been lax in letting matters carry on for so long.” He took a deep breath. “It is time you were married. No, don’t interrupt me!” He raised a warning hand as Freya began to protest. “Every time we speak about this matter you invent another excuse for not finding some suitable young man. Tell me; are they all ogres? Surely there is one out there who could come up to your high standards?”
Freya took a sip of ale in order to give herself a moment to prepare, then she looked up at him. She had a strange expression on her face, something between a smile and a frown, which was one that he recognised at once. This was not going to be an easy conversation.
She closed her eyes and clenched her fists in an effort to calm down. When she opened them again, she found that the three men around the table were all gazing at her fixedly.
“I am sure most of what you would regard as ‘suitable’ young men are perfectly acceptable and pleasant, Father,” she began. “But you see, I don’t want a man like that. I would be bored to death in weeks. We would make each other’s lives a misery. Now, if that is all, will you please excuse me?”
“No!” Laird Murdaugh slapped his fist on the table, making the dishes rattle as the surface of the wood shook.
Freya’s eyes widened with shock. That was not like her father at all; she had seen him angry, but he had never worn a thunderous expression like that before. She had been half-standing, but she sat down and turned towards him, speechless for once.
“We are facing mounting aggression from the Baxters,” he began. “We need you to make a strategic marriage so that we have other allies. The Baxters are a strong clan and becoming stronger by the day. Every second we delay in facing up to them makes our position weaker.”
“But we are allied with the MacNeills!” Freya protested. “Surely that is enough?”
“The Baxters are allied with the Armstrongs and the McFadyens,” Gerald Patterson pointed out. “Both are strong families in their own right, but with the addition of the Baxters–well, Mistress, you see the position we find ourselves in.” He shrugged and spread his hands.
“I see,” Freya said grimly, glaring at him. “But what about my brothers? Will they not makestrategicmarriages too?” She stressed the word to express her contempt. “Or are men not to be used in this way? Only women?”
“Your brothers will do their duty as well as you,” the Laird answered. “We are already making enquiries about possible matches.”
“Possible matches?” Freya was both incredulous and furious. “You make us sound like pieces on a chess board, Father. Are we your children or pawns in your game?”
“It is no game, Mistress,” Gerald Patterson said calmly. “You must try to see the situation from his point of view and that of the whole Murdaugh clan. The Baxters are aggressive, and the border of their land lies only five miles away from us; they could make war against us in a matter of hours. We have good grazing here, and some of the best arable land for miles, which is a great prize for any Laird with ambition, and believe me, Archie Baxter has plenty of that!” His brows were drawn down over his dark eyes and his normally calm, pale face was ruddy with emotion as he glared at Freya with undisguised hostility.
“You seem to know him very well,” Freya remarked silkily. Her insinuation was not lost on Patterson, who was visibly shaking with rage. Freya knew that Patterson was not in clandestine collusion with the Baxters, but at that moment she hated him so much that it suited her to bait him.
“With the greatest of respect, Mistress,” Patterson said, his words dripping with sarcasm, since he quite clearly had no respect for Freya at all. “You are a woman, and you know nothing about warfare and diplomacy at all. Your duty in all of this is to marry well and bear many children. That has always been a woman’s purpose, and always will be. The business of warfare and violence is not suited to gentle beings like yourself.”
Gentle beings. Freya had never been called gentle by anyone, because the word simply did not apply to her. The condescension in the man’s voice sent her into such a fit of rage that she imagined herself jumping up from her chair to run around the table and claw at Gerald Patterson’s face. She clenched her hands together at the thought.
