Page 81 of Taming the Highland Misfits
Gerald took a deep breath, then looked up at Alex. “Very well,” he answered evenly. “I want you to stop seeing Freya.”
Alex could not believe what he was hearing. Was this conceited oaf giving him orders? “Pardon me,” he said politely, “but I do not think I heard you properly. What did you say?”
“I said I want you to stop seeing Freya.” Gerald repeated, looking at the floor because he did not have the courage to look at Alex.
“And who told you I was ‘seeing’ her?” Alex challenged him.
“I saw you together earlier,” Gerald answered. “You were kneeling on one knee in front of her. I do not know what you were saying, but judging by the look of you, it seemed to be a proposal of marriage. Was it not?”
At that moment, Alex felt very inclined to punch Gerald in his smug nose. In fact, if it were not for the pain he knew it would cause him, he would have done so.
Gerald saw the look in his eyes and cowered back in his seat, his eyes wide with fear.
However, at that moment, Alex decided that it would be best to calm down. The question of his marriage would be addressed the next morning. He finished his wine, which he had found to be singularly unremarkable, and gave the glass to Gerald. Gerald declined the unspoken invitation to have some, but put the glass back on the table.
“I think what I was saying to Freya was a matter between her and me,” he replied. “If we had wanted you to join in our conversation, we would have invited you.”
“Nevertheless,” Gerald said, standing up, “if you do not stop the relationship with her, you and your clan will suffer the consequences, and I will not be responsible for anything that happens.”
“Please tell me what you mean by ‘consequences’,” Alex demanded. “I want to know what will happen if I do not stop seeing her. What will you do?”
“Wait and see,” Gerald replied cryptically before walking out. “If you do not stop the relationship with her, you and your clan will suffer, and I will not be responsible for anything that happens,” he repeated.
8
Freya spent the rest of the day with Caitrin, trying not to show how restless she was. The day seemed endless, and she had been unable to go out riding, since the weather had become so foul that any outdoor activity was impossible.
As well as that, she simply could not keep her mind off Alex and what was going to happen in the morning. It was unlikely that the Laird would give in straight away, so she was mentally prepared for a long, hard verbal tussle. Her father had the same stubborn streak as she did, and she could not see him giving in without a huge fight.
“You are daydreaming,” Caitrin said, smiling at Freya as she moved one of the bishops on the chessboard. Chess was a passion with both of them, but Freya had always been accustomed to winning until Caitrin came on the scene. Now it was a constant battle for supremacy, but she enjoyed the mental tussle, since they seemed to share the same level of skill. Neither could ever be assured of beating the other, like warriors on a battlefield.
When her father had first engaged the woman when Freya was fourteen, she had been furiously angry, thinking, in her youthful arrogance, that she knew everything about how to fit into the rarified air of the top stratum of society. How wrong she had been!
Caitrin had been able to school her in manners, etiquette, and all the nuances of how to behave among people who judged everyone by the way they looked and acted. Without her, Freya would have been akin to a sheep in a pack of wolves.
Freya blinked. She had indeed been in a reverie about Alex, because she had been unable to think about anything else since she left him. She pasted a little smile on her face and shook her head as if to clear the unwanted dreams out of it, then she laughed.
“I’m sorry, Caitrin,” she said ruefully. “I cannot seem to concentrate on anything today.”
“If I were to hazard a guess,” Caitrin said dryly, “I would probably be right in thinking this has something to do with Alex MacNeill. Would I be right, Freya?”
Freya looked up into her companion’s shrewd green eyes. She had long ago dropped the formality of calling her “mistress” since they had become friends a long time before. She felt herself blushing and nodded. “Yes,” she answered, then she hugged herself, jumped to her feet, and began to walk excitedly around the room, unable to stay still.
“Yes, Caitrin, it would,” she answered. “Because he is the best man I know, and I love him. Tomorrow we are both going to see my father so that he can ask for my hand in marriage.”
To Freya’s surprise, Caitrin did not put up an argument, merely smiled and said, “I hope things go smoothly, then.”
“I thought you might raise an objection,” she said warily, frowning as she sat down again. “Do you approve?”
“Does it matter what I think?” Caitrin shrugged and gave her an uncharacteristic grin. “You will do what suits you best, regardless of my opinion. I know this from losing thousands of arguments with you over the years.”
Freya laughed heartily at that. “I have lost just as many to you!” Her eyes flicked back to the chessboard for a moment, then she shook her head in frustration, flipped her king over and said: “I resign. I simply cannot concentrate tonight.”
Caitrin was studying her closely. “I think I would feel the same in your place.”
Freya was curious. “Was there never a love in your life, Caitrin?” she asked.
She looked surprised at the question, and hesitated for a moment before answering. “Only one,” she replied, with a sad smile. “His name was Roy, and we were both twenty. We were actually engaged to be married, and had set a date, but suddenly my father lost all his money. When I say ‘suddenly’, I do not mean overnight, but it was sudden for my family. We had no idea that my father was such a heavy gambler, and we lost everything.” She was on the verge of tears, and Freya felt deeply sorry for her. “Roy was not interested in me after that.”
