Page 132 of Laird of Flint
To welcome it with anything but the utmost enthusiasm was shameful.
As the daughter of the clan, Lady Carenza must proclaim her satisfaction with the king’s choice. She must be thankful for his great care in choosing her bridegroom. She must convince the clan she was delighted with his royal decree.
Yet how could she?
For the first time in her life, Carenza couldn’t mask her feelings. Her control slipped. Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip quivered. Heartache spilled over her eyes and trickled down her cheek.
Her father’s brow darkened, and he swiftly pulled her into the shadows of the buttery before the clan could see her.
She was sure he was going to chastise her. Lady Carenza was supposed to be the clan’s ray of sunshine. Their inspiration. Their joy. She wasn’t supposed to frown or weep, show anger or cause unease.
But he didn’t chide her. He only held her by the shoulders and regarded her with tired, sad eyes.
“I know ye’re fond o’ Hew,” he murmured. “I am as well. And if ’twere in my power to give ye your heart’s desire, I’d do so. Ye know that, aye?”
She nodded. But his kind words only made her sob more.
“But I can tell ye this. Rivenloch is beyond reproach. They’re a clan o’ great integrity and honor. Deep loyalty and courage. If Sir Gellir is half the man that Hew has proved himself to be, ye’ll not be unhappy in this marriage.”
He was wrong. She would never be happy. Not while the one she loved with all her heart was not hers to have and hold.
She wouldfeignto be content. It was what was expected of her. It was what hadalwaysbeen expected of her. She would smile and nod, act gracious and grateful, amplify her small joys and hide her deep disappointments.
But she would never be happy.
As she’d always known, her life was not her own.
For a brief sliver of time, Hew had made her believe she could express her own desires, follow her own dreams, dance to her unique music. He had made her feel as if she were worthy, by virtue of simply being herself.
But now reality buffeted her in the face, waking her from her foolish dreams and reminding her she’d never truly been the free-spirited Carenza Hew adored. From the beginning, she’d been carved into the perfect wooden effigy of the daughter of Dunlop. Beneath her velvet gown, she’d always worn the iron shackles of her station. She’d always borne the terrible weight of the clan on her shoulders. And she always would.
She sniffed back her tears and wiped the tracks from her cheeks. “I’ll need a mo—”
“O’ course.” He turned to go, then returned to lean in close. “Would ye like me to break the news to him?”
She hesitated. His offer was tempting.
Hew would not take the news well. He’d likely explode. Bellow out in anger and fury. Rage against the king’s decree.
Desperation would drive him to do something far more dangerous. He’d look for a way to gainsay the document his own laird had signed. Perhaps challenge the king himself.
Carenza couldn’t let that happen. She and Hew had never been masters of their own fate. They’d denied it for weeks now. Believed they could make their own happily ever after.
But somewhere deep inside, she’d known all along it was just a fantasy. Kings played at chess, and nobles were merely their pawns. She’d only imagined it could be otherwise.
It was cowardly not to tell Hew herself. He deserved to hear the truth from her lips. Even if that truth was but a veiled reflection of what she truly felt.
“Nay, I’ll tell him,” she decided.
She swallowed down the last of her tears and gathered her courage. This would be the most demanding performance she ever pulled off. But everything depended upon it. The fate of her clan. The fate of Rivenloch. And the good will of the king.
Her heart caught once—when she saw Hew laughing and chatting by the fire with her clansmen. He looked so natural with them, they might have been his brothers.
How cold the hearth of Dunlop would be without the Viking warrior of Rivenloch.
She clutched the rolled parchment in her hands.
He glanced at it once when she came up, but said nothing.
