Page 48 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“None, and I willnae raise any bastards as me own, either,” he replied, wondering why his chest felt so tight at the sight of her dismay. Like he wanted to cheer her up and smooth those perplexed lines from her face.
But to do that, to give her hope, would waste all his painful honesty.
Before he could stop himself, he was speaking again. “Listen, I may nae be what ye dreamed of, I may nae be able to give ye what ye likely assumed ye’d have one day, but I’ll be decent to ye. I willnae be cruel. I’ll be good to ye—to our people. That’s me promise to ye.”
Freya hugged the furs tighter to herself and nodded slowly, resignation lacing every movement of her head. If this were a barter between clans and he had been offered the equivalent, he would have laughed at the haggler or strung them up by their boots for the insult. But what was agreed upon could not be undone—they would marry, and those were the terms.
Still, that did not mean he wanted life to be unpleasant for her. Anything she wanted other than bairns would be hers. He would make sure of it.
“Can I ask one more question?” she said, those lines of disappointment still not quite gone from her face.
He shrugged. “Aye, I suppose so.”
“What is it about that library that makes ye forbid me from enterin’ it?”
If he was being honest, he had expected the question to come sooner. He had often thought it a flaw in humanity that when something was declared forbidden, it raised one’s curiosity to unbearable heights. He knew that all too well, and firsthand, thanks to the woman sitting on the bed in front of him. The more he forbade himself, the more he craved her. Why would she be any different with the library?
“Because it was me maither’s,” he replied, willing his voice to remain even. “I have kept it untouched since I lost her. It is swept and cleaned, aye, but that is all. Why it was open that day, I dinnae ken, and I’ve yet to discover who left it unlocked.”
Freya’s eyes lit up unexpectedly. “Did anyone enter that library other than yer maither when she was alive?”
“Rarely.” He frowned, uncertain of where the conversation was headed. “Me faither, now and then. Me aunt, more often, bein’ me maither’s sister and all. A friend or two. That’s all.”
She shuffled even closer to the edge of the bed, all of her disappointment and concern replaced by a thrumming excitement—the giddiness of someone who had just received excellent news.
“What if I told ye there might be a way for ye to still be close to those ye lost, even if they cannae be here with us anymore?” she said, her eyes positively glowing now.
He raised a dubious eyebrow. “If ye’re suggestin’ I read me maither’s books, ye neednae. I’ve read them. None were to me taste.”
“Ye readallof those books?” Her mouth dropped open, but she hurriedly shook her head as if to set herself back on course. “The other day, I found a letter in one of the books. If I were to go and retrieve it, maybe ye could read it and… feel closer to yer parents again. I ken it helped me when I lost me faither, and I dinnae think I was nearly as fond of him as ye were with yer parents.”
Doughall had almost forgotten that Freya probably understood what he felt about the loss of his parents. He had known the former Laird MacNiall well and had thought him a decent laird, but not much of a father. The sort of man who had craved more and more and more in terms of wealth and power for his clan, always at war with someone or another, unaware that being agood father, cherished by one’s children, was probably the most powerful role a man could ever have.
It's nae the same, he wanted to tell Freya, but that would mean telling her just how much his father had meant to him, just how much he had adored the man. However, that love would never compare to the love Doughall had had for his mother.
“Dinnae bother,” he said roughly. “A letter would be a reminder I dinnae want, nor need, so it doesnae really matter what it says.”
He would deny his curiosity to avoid the heartache it could bring. In fact, unless the letter was a detailed list of who had murdered his parents, he was content for it to stay hidden wherever Freya had found it.
“But ye can use the library,” he added firmly. “I’ll leave the key for ye tomorrow. Just put back whatever ye take. Dinnae start movin’ things around.”
She seemed shocked by the generous gift, and more surprised still when he got up and scooped her around the waist, laying her back down on the bed.
“Sleep now,” he said, a light warning in his voice. “Ye’ve had all the stories ye’re goin’ to get.”
He was about to pull away when she suddenly sat up and kissed his cheek—a soft, clumsy graze of her lips on his stubbled skin. A moment later, she flopped back onto the bed with a pleasedsmile, gazing up at him in a way that made him want to throw all caution to the wind and bed her right there and then.
“Thank ye,” she said quietly.
With a grunt, he turned and left the room, realizing with some trepidation that it was going to be harder than he thought to get through marriage to her without running the risk of siring a child.
If she wrapped her legs tight around him at the wrong moment, pleading with him to stay where he was, he did not know that he would be able to resist.
19
“Did he admit it to ye, in the end?” Ersie asked from the armchair as Freya prepared herself for the day ahead.
The maid, Ealasaid, was fastening Freya’s stays. A beautiful gown of dark red wool, finely woven and perfect for the autumn chill, was draped over the back of the chair where Doughall had sat the night before. Freya still could not look at it without blushing, not merely because of what they had done together in his study, but because of the revelations he had willingly made at her bedside.
