Page 85 of Taming the Highland Misfits
Freya speared him with a hostile glance. “I was not talking to you,” she snapped, then turned back to her father. “He wants to ask you something, Father.” She was beginning to run out of words when suddenly she noticed a picture of her mother on the wall.
She pointed to it. “Was she not the most beautiful woman you ever saw, Father? Did you not once tell me that when you met it was love at first sight?”
The Laird turned around to look at the portrait of his late wife and Freya immediately saw the glitter of tears in his eyes. After all these years he still missed her, and although she pitied him, she could not help feeling a little jealous too. She sensed that theirs had been the kind of love that was strong enough to last forever, but her mother had died too soon. Indeed it had, because her father had never sought another wife since his beloved died. He had never even looked at another woman.
“She was. I was only sixteen when we met, and she was fifteen, but as soon as our eyes met, both of us knew.” He smiled as his eyes gazed backwards into the past, and he saw for the first time the woman he would adore for all eternity, for even death could not separate them. “When Caroline died, I wanted to die too, Freya. That was how much I loved her.”
“But you did not die, Father,” Freya said lovingly, reaching out for his hand across the table. “You stayed alive for us. For Aidan, Bearnard and me, because you loved us too.”
“You are the part of her that lives on.” The Laird gazed at her and smiled. “You look so much like her that sometimes when I walk into the room and you are sitting there I am startled because for a second I think my Caroline has come back to me.”
“Tell us about when you asked her to marry you.” Freya’s eyes were beginning to prickle with tears now too. “It is so romantic.”
“But you have heard that story a hundred times.” Her father was laughing, but his expression was affectionate. In truth, he could have told Freya the story of his proposal to his wife many more times and never become tired of it.
“Then I want to hear it a hundred more!” Freya insisted, smiling.
The Laird sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, then began to summon his memories from the past, and as he did so, Freya fancied that she saw his youth coming back as the years fell away.
“I saw her for the first time at a ceilidh,” he began. “She was wearing a dress that was so pale blue it was almost white, and her beautiful hair had a pearl comb in it, the one you are wearing now, Freya. I remember that she wore a heart-shaped pendant too. I thought that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and I could not keep my eyes off her. She turned and looked at me, and I will never forget the expression on her face. Her eyes widened and her lips parted; it seemed that I had the same effect on her as she had on me. It was a magical moment.” He smiled, a great, joyous beam that lit up his face, then he returned to his story.
“I asked her to dance, and she accepted, but she was so shy she would hardly talk to me. I was determined not to give up, though, so I bided my time until the next ceilidh, hoping I would see her again. She was not there that time, or the next time, or the one after that. I gave up, and thought perhaps her parents were keeping her away, but I was only sixteen and I could hardly go and demand that they bring her just because I wanted to see her. I gave up hope.
Anyway, I went to the next ceilidh, and there she was! We smiled at each other, and it seemed for a moment as if we were the only two people in the room. We danced again, and arranged to meet outside, and then we kissed for the first time. Caroline’s parents kept trying to introduce her to other young men who they deemed were more suitable than I was, and by that I mean richer of course, but she rejected all of them. She wanted to be with me.
Both our parents tried to stop us seeing each other, but it was no good, because we were determined.” He grinned mischievously as he said, “I asked her to marry me in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
Freya laughed, because a thunderstorm was as rare as hen’s teeth in the Highlands. Indeed, many people had never seen one in their lifetimes.
“We were in the middle of a ceilidh, but the music had stopped because nobody could hear it, and that was when we slipped away. We were both quite scared of the thunder and lightning, but being a young man, I had to pretend to be brave. We went outside because we knew nobody else would be there, and we sheltered in a deep alcove just inside the main gate, where we only just managed to stay out of the rain.
We held each other and kissed, and that was when I asked her to marry me. She did not look surprised, and as she said “yes” there was a great flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. It was like a sign.”
“You were eighteen, and she was seventeen, is that right?” Freya asked. No matter how many times she heard the story, it always enchanted her.
“Indeed,” the Laird replied, nodding. “When we told our families they were not happy, but we did not give up, and a few months later they relented, but made us wait until I was twenty-one and Caroline was twenty. We had Aidan exactly nine months after we were wed.”
“You were a wedding night baby, Aidan,” Freya told him, grinning.
Aidan’s face might have been carved out of stone for all the reaction he showed to Freya’s words. She had always secretly envied her brother because he might well have been conceived the first time their parents made love to each other.
However, it seemed that Aidan did not care, or perhaps it embarrassed him. At any rate, he showed no emotion, merely poured himself some more ale and directed his gaze at the window, which had a less-than-spectacular view of the rainy sky.
“Now, back to the matter at hand, Freya.” Her father leaned over the table and laced his fingers together in front of him while he frowned at his daughter. “I have found some young men among whom you may find a suitable husband. I will not force you to do anything you don’t want to do, of course, but remember that you are twenty-two years old. Many young women of your age have already been married for a few years, and some even have children.”
“I am not in my dotage yet, Father!” Freya said hotly. “There is still plenty of time for children.” She stood up and walked restlessly to the window, then saw Alex in the distance, running as fast as he could towards the castle. He had obviously been delayed in some way, but was now trying to reach her as fast as possible. She breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“You may regret saying that,” the Laird warned.
“Father, I want to marry for love, just as you did,” Freya replied. “Do you not want me to be as happy as you two were?”
Her father was annoyed by her accusation. “Of course I do!” he replied. “But there are many fine men out there, Freya. Perhaps you will fall in love with one of those I choose for you. At any rate, if you find a decent husband who treats you well, does love really matter so much?”
“It mattered to you,” Freya pointed out. “And I doubt I will ever be able to love any of the ones you consider suitable for me.”
“Why not?” the Laird demanded. “How can you be so certain?”
For a long moment Freya and her father stared at each other. Freya opened her mouth to answer his question, but before she could say anything they were startled by the sound of the door opening. Then a very dishevelled and sweaty Alex came in, breathing heavily with exertion.
