Page 87 of Taming the Highland Misfits
Freya’s eyes were swimming with tears as she looked at her new fiancé, and then, unable to help herself, she threw her arms around Alex’s neck and laughed with sheer joy.
“I am so happy!” she cried, then kissed Alex passionately in front of both her father and brother until the Laird cleared his throat loudly. Freya drew away from Alex, but there was a broad, beaming smile on her face, and she felt as if her whole body was laughing. She could not remember a time in her life when she had been so full of joy.
Aidan had been listening and looking on cynically. He had no doubt at all that her father would refuse Freya’s request, since he needed the alliance with another strong clan too much. However, his sister and Alex were putting up a strong case, and as the argument went on, he began to become more and more afraid that Freya was winning his father around. She had always been his favourite, but then she was the only daughter, and had always been able to twist the Laird around her little finger.
Nevertheless, when the Laird gave his permission for Freya and Alex to marry, he was astonished. How could his father be so stupid and so selfish? “You cannot be serious, Father!” he growled. “You are giving your daughter permission to make a useless marriage that will be of no advantage to the family or the clan. Are you perhaps becoming too old to be the Laird? Are you losing your mind?”
Laird Murdaugh’s expression became thunderous. He jumped up and rushed around the desk, then hauled his son to his feet by the front of his jacket.
Aidan’s face took on an expression of sheer terror as he stared into his father’s eyes, since they were now so close to each other that their noses were almost touching. He tried to push the Laird away, but anger had lent his father strength and he hung on grimly to his son’s jacket, his face a mask of fury.
Freya sat, transfixed, for a moment, then stood up to intervene, but Alex gently pulled her back down into her seat and shook his head.
“Aidan will not be happy if you interfere,” he murmured. “He already feels humiliated–you will only make it worse.”
Freya saw the wisdom in that, but she hated to see her menfolk at each other’s throats; she could not remember them ever behaving this way before. Was it her fault? She gripped Alex’s hand and turned her face the other way so that she could not see them fighting, but she could still hear them.
He put his arm around her and drew her close, making a nest for her with his body. He hated to see her in such distress, and wished he was able to obey his instinct to jump up and seek revenge for the damage Aidan had done to him the day before. He felt sure Freya would not blame him; she might even applaud.
“Donotsay any more, Son.” The Laird’s voice was throbbing with rage. “Alex saved our lives that night in the carriage while you stood by and did nothing. You are a coward, and sometimes I am ashamed to call you my son. Alex has proved himself to be a man more times than I can count, whereas the only way you can win a fight is by cheating.”
Aidan’s face was crimson with rage. He had been disgraced in front of Alex MacNeill, the man he hated most in the world, and by his father of all people, someone whom he had hitherto respected and loved. Not any more. At last, he managed to wrench himself free of the Laird’s grip and turned to run outside.
“I am not finished!” his father roared, but Aidan was already gone.
As the doors opened to let Aidan barge out, Freya looked up just in time to see a face she loathed peering into the room. Why was Gerald Patterson standing there? Had he been trying to listen to their conversation? She glanced at Alex, but he seemed not to have noticed, so she forced the odious man out of her mind and replaced him with something much more joyous.
“Father,” she said, smiling as she approached the Laird and holding out her hands to him, “when can we begin making preparations for the wedding?”
The Laird looked at his daughter’s eager face, but in spite of the happiness that he saw there, he found it hard to rejoice with her. In granting Freya’s dearest wish, he had alienated Aidan, whom he loved just as dearly. Now she was waiting for an answer and he had to give her one, or, knowing his daughter, she would make his life a misery until she received it. He sat down and smiled at both of them, then reached for a bottle of whisky and three glasses from the shelf behind him.
Freya and Alex exchanged glances, somewhat shocked, then she asked: “Father, is it not a wee bit early in the morning to be drinking usquabae?” She used the old word advisedly to draw the Laird’s attention to the oddity of the situation.
Laird Murdaugh shook his head, grinning. He had decided that the matter of his elder son’s fit of pique could wait till later. For a little while at least, he would celebrate with young people who were filled with love, hope and joy; he needed more of all three in his life.
“We are drinking usquabae before noon because this is not an ordinary day,” he answered as he poured out a measure of whisky for each of them. “We are celebrating!” He held up his glass in a toast. “Slàinte Mhath!”
“Slàinte Mhath!” Freya and Alex echoed, laughing as they took a sip.
Freya coughed as the fiery spirit coursed down her throat, and the Laird noticed how Alex hastened to help her by patting her back, though she waved him away. To his relief, he realised that he had made the right choice in allowing her to marry him.
“I suppose this is a stupid question,” he began. “But I assume I would be right in thinking that you would like to be wed as soon as possible?”
Freya giggled. “Indeed it is a silly question, Father,” she answered. “If it were possible, we would have been married yesterday!”
“Indeed we would, M’Laird,” Alex agreed, grinning, “but as that is clearly impossible, may we say,” he looked at Freya, “two weeks?”
The Laird looked down at the ledger on his desk. “I think that will be fine,” he answered, “providing a dress can be made in time? I know that the men could all show up wearing sacks and nobody would bat an eyelid, but the bride must be dressed befitting her status as queen for the day.”
Alex laughed heartily at that. “Freya does not need a fancy dress to make her look like a queen!” He put his arm around her shoulders, and Freya welcomed the strong sense of comfort and safety it gave her. She had chosen the right man.
“It should not take long to make a dress,” she stated firmly. “I am not one for frills and furbelows, Father, as you know. Something simple will be good enough.”
The Laird looked at his daughter doubtfully. “We shall see,” he said, “but I do not want our guests to go away thinking that we are mean with our choice of wine, so I will have to order the best.” He sighed. Weddings were an expensive business, but all that was for Freya, so it was money well spent.
“I don’t want a hundred people to come,” Freya said anxiously. “Just friends and family, Father.”
“Surely you want to show off your wedding dress?” her father asked, surprised. “I thought all young ladies wanted that. To impress the young men and make the young ladies jealous.”
