Page 21 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Moira walked toward her, her head held high and her shoulders pulled back. The same way she had taught her daughters to move, pose and behave. But there was a look in her eyes that made Freya’s stomach churn.
“I believe ye and I have some things to discuss about Laird MacGordon,” Moira said.
Freya swallowed hard. “I didnae mean to keep it from ye.”
She wasn’t sure what to expect from her mother, but the look on her face wasn’t something she had considered. Her mother was smiling, and Freya wasn’t sure if she was convinced or if she was seeing completely through her.
Looping her arm through Freya’s, Moira began to walk slowly in the direction she had come. “Yer betrothed’s aunt has kindly invited us to discuss the feast.”
“What feast?”
“Why, the feast to celebrate the love ye have found.”
What have I gotten meself into…
“Ah, finally!” Isla’s voice was warm and welcoming as they stepped into a small hall, the kind where a family might gather on a winter evening.
She was sitting before the fireplace, two empty chairs on either side of her. She stood up and quickly crossed the hall, unable to hide her excitement.
“We have so much to discuss, lassie.”
Freya could hardly muster a smile, but somehow she managed. How could she get out of this? What could she say or do to make this stop?
“I dinnae think Doughall and I would care for a feast. Maither was just tellin’ me about yer… plans.”
“Nonsense!” Isla declared, her voice tinkling like a bell.
Freya felt his presence behind her—she knew immediately that it was him without even having to look.
His voice was a deep rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. “I agree with me bride. Nay celebrations.”
Her cheeks flushed at the way he spoke.
Me bride.
She was saved, she was sure. As the Laird, he had the final say.
Or so she hoped.
Her mother turned around slowly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she took a step forward, her gaze never leaving Doughall. “It’s nae proper to nae do such things, Laird MacGordon. Ye do intend to honor me daughter, aye?”
It wasn’t a question—it was a demand. And Freya was beginning to learn just how much Doughall hated those.
She held her breath, waiting for his response. His jaw tightened, his eyes cold and unreadable as always. Then, without a word, he merely grunted and turned on his heel, leaving the room without a second glance.
Now back by the fireplace, Isla clucked and smiled. “Well, that is the closest thing we will get to an agreement.”
She chuckled, glancing between Freya and her mother as if this was all perfectly ordinary.
Freya wanted to protest again, to scream thatnoneof this was what she wanted. She even considered telling the truth, all of it, as the two older women sat down and began to make plans while she stood there, half listening and half devising a way to get out of this mess.
“Will ye excuse me? I think I should lie down,” she murmured, uncertain if they would even hear her over their excited chatter.
Her mother gave her a quick glance, then waved her off. Isla barely seemed to realize that she had spoken at all.
Freya watched for a moment as the two prattled on about what food would be served, who would entertain, and what music would be played.
As she walked out and down the hallway, she tried to recall the last time she had seen her mother excited about… well, much of anything. Since the passing of her husband, Moira Kane had become a shell of herself, a shadow of the woman she had once been.
