Page 133 of Laird of Flint
It took all her will to maintain a calm expression. But she knew she had to be convincing. With a nod of her head, she beckoned him to follow her. She led him to the quiet alcove at the entrance of the great hall.
“Well?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he arched a brow at the scroll.
Her heart plunged even farther into the miserable mire. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not when she knew she was about to break his heart.
“We knew this day would come,” she said, twisting the scroll in her hands. “We always said our fate was not our own. Isn’t that right?”
She glanced up long enough to see a scowl furrow his brow.
“What has Malcolm done?” he growled.
She had to tame Hew’s ire before it erupted.
“He’s done what is his right to do,” she said with a detachment she didn’t feel. “He’s chosen a husband for me.”
Hew went absolutely silent.
The pulse in her ears was deafening. And her own flippant words sounded as cheap and meaningless as the jangling of a beggar’s bell in a thunderstorm.
“But I want ye to know I’ve truly enjoyed our time together,” she said. “I consider ye a cherished friend. And I will always—”
Hew snatched the scroll out of her hands.
The hammer blow to his heart had not yet landed. He was still numb. Or perhaps he had no heart left to break.
All he felt at this moment was fury as he frowned down at the document.
Bloody hell. Who did the English-loving King Malcolm think he was crossing?
Hew had written to his kin, singing Lady Carenza’s praises. Had Feiyan said nothing? Had Laird Deirdre failed to intercede with the king on Hew’s behalf?
Or had Malcolm slighted the clan, forgetting it was the Rivenlochs who protected his border?
What milksop of a husband had the child king chosen for his beautiful Carenza?
He scanned the words and let his eye fall on the signature at the bottom. His breath caught.
Laird Deirdre Cameliard of Rivenloch.
It was his aunt’s hand and her seal.
Whatever had been done had been done with her permission.
Then his gaze traveled back up the document.
There were the blows of the hammer. Striking his heart. Over and over and over again.
Gellir.
Gellir.
Gellir.
His cousin. Carenza had been promised to his cousin.
Still there was no pain.
Only cold and hollow death dwelt in his chest.
