Page 78 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“Nay, though she might argue otherwise,” he replied, swaying with her until the musicians stopped.
As soon as they did, a group of eager dancers took the quiet as permission to take to the dance floor, and the musicians quickly struck another boisterous tune. All along the feasting table,married men pushed back their chairs and offered their hands to their wives, while the eligible bachelors went in search of the ladies they had their eyes on, hoping for a dance.
Amid the entertaining chaos, Freya held tightly to her husband’s hand and allowed him to lead her back to their seats at the head of the feasting table. Although whathadbeen an elegant wedding feast was in as much disarray as the dance floor—the roast birds and haunches of venison picked apart, the dishes of buttery vegetables scraped clean, nothing on the trays of crisp potatoes aside from a few abandoned sprigs of rosemary.
As it should be.
Freya grinned, her stomach comfortably full. She had left enough room for the fruit tarts, clootie dumplings, and apple fritters that she knew would be served later.
Flopping down into her chair, she grabbed her cup and gulped down the pressed apple juice that she had specifically requested. On a night like this, she wanted to keep most of her wits about her, though shehadallowed herself a cup or two of spiced wine earlier, just until she felt warmed by it.
Everyone else, however, was indulging in all the wine, ale, and liquor they could get their hands on, throwing themselves headfirst into the festive spirit of the occasion.
“I’ll be with ye in a moment,” Doughall said, letting go of her other hand.
She grabbed it back. “Ye cannae leave me. Where are ye goin’?”
“To tend to somethin’ before it becomes an unpleasantness,” he replied, nodding toward the other side of the room, where a guard seemed to be trying to pull a reluctant maid into the hallway.
Freya released his hand at once. “See to it that she’s safe.”
“I will, lass.”
He slipped away while she returned to drinking her apple juice and watching the celebrations, overwhelmed in the best possible way by the merriment in the room.
Ersie was dancing with a man Freya did not know. Emily and Adam were standing off to the side, whispering and stealing kisses. Moira had joined a gaggle of older women to gossip loudly, while Isla and Flynn were pressed to one another, dancing with the passion of newlyweds. Freya wished Laura could be here. But at least she was safe, making her own choices. And soon, she’d get to see her again if Adam’s plan succeeded.
I hope this night never ends.
Freya sighed contentedly, reaching for the jug of apple juice to pour herself another cup.
She had not even taken a sip of the freshly refilled cup when her hand began to feel strangely weak. Puzzled, she set the cupdown and turned her wrist this way and that, wondering if she had sprained it somehow during all that vigorous dancing. Her fingers began to shake, that weak sensation slithering up her arms and down the center of her, pooling into her legs.
She swallowed, but her throat was thick, and as she looked out across the Great Hall, her vision blurred as if she had smeared butter on her spectacles. She took off her spectacles, but the blur remained, no matter how rapidly she blinked to try and clear it. Her throat itched all the way down to her lungs, her breathing ragged, her tongue suddenly too big for her mouth.
Somethin’ is wrong… Somethin’ is wrong and Doughall isnae here.
She squinted at the exit, hoping to spot him, but everyone and everything was melting together before her very eyes.
On violently shaking legs, she pushed herself up, determined to find her husband—he would know what to do to help her. Up on her feet, her head swam as if there was water where her brain should be, sloshing against the sides of her skull.
She took two stumbling steps away from the table, croaking Doughall’s name… and collapsed.
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Having chased off the guard who was up to no good, leaving the man with the surety of severe punishment come morning, and instructing the maid to go to the kitchens where she would be safe from further harassment, Doughall made his way back up the hallway to the Great Hall.
The abrupt, jarring halt of the music alerted him to something being amiss, the sudden clamor of raised, alarmed voices providing his second clue.
For pity’s sake—I leave the room for one second!he fumed inwardly, running the last stretch.
As he burst through the doors and skidded to a halt on the flagstones, his eyes made a quick assessment of the situation. There did not appear to be any blood, no one was brawling, but a small group of people had gathered at the far end of the feasting table.
Flynn was shooing others away. Adam was crouching so low that only the top of his head could be seen above the table, and Emily and Ersie were kneeling on the ground with him. Isla was holding Moira, who looked as if she had seen a ghost, her face stricken as she stared down at whatever had caught their attention.
Freya!
Doughall launched into a sprint, pushing aside anyone who stood in his way, shoving one man so hard that he fell into the remains of a roast pheasant.
