Page 47 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
He let out a strained sigh. “The two are intertwined.”
“Marryin’ and sirin’ children?”
He nodded. “The matter of the weddin’ and marriage is what it is, but I doubt there are too many who enter into it kennin’ that they willnae sire any children. Many marry just to sire children and heirs.”
“Aye, I’m aware,” Freya replied with a slight catch in her voice, averting her gaze.
After what had just happened between them, he did not know whether to find her sudden shyness endearing or ridiculous. She could enjoy the pleasure of his touch and his tongue, but she could not mention the idea of having children without blushing furiously? It made little sense to him.
“Iwillnaehave bairns because I would never want them to… be where I am now,” he replied, cursing the brief hesitation in his voice.
This was precisely what he had feared would happen when he had turned around to answer her plea: that she would weaken him somehow, putting an even bigger crack in the defensive walls that surrounded his vulnerabilities.
She swiveled slightly, turning to face him. “What do ye mean?”
Doughall half-rose to leave before he said something he would regret, a squirming sensation roiling in the pit of his stomach. This was territory he did not even dip a toe into for good reason,yet her sweet voice seemed to be pulling on an invisible tether, tugging him over that perilous boundary against his will.
It might compel her nae to marry ye at all, though…
He weighed up the possible effects of his personal history and decided to be honest. If that pushed her away and made her defy her brother’s wishes, good. If that did not push her away, he had already prepared himself for the marriage he did not want, so it would not change much.
“When ye care for somethin’ or someone, when they’re a part of yer heart,” he began in a rumbling voice that was almost a snarl, “the loss of them will take part of ye with it, so ye’re never the same. I wouldnae put that same burden on the shoulders of a bairn of mine for the sake of legacy. Damn legacy. It’s naught but history repeatin’ itself.”
Freya shuffled closer. “Who did ye lose?”
He eyed her suspiciously, certain she already knew the answer. If not, then she must be a fool indeed, for one would assume that if there was no father or mother to meet, then there was a sorrowful reason for that.
“I saw me maither and faither get killed,” he replied, forcing strength into his voice. “Nay rhyme or reason for it. One evenin’, they went to the loch as they often did and crossed paths with the wrong people at the wrong time. Dinnae ken who they were—just brigands passin’ through who stopped to talk to me parents, likely pretendin’ they were in need or somethin’.
“I saw them slay me faither, and me maither saw me. I must’ve yelled or somethin’. She told me to run, so I did, ‘cause I was a lad who didnae ken any better. I couldnae do a damn thing to protect either one, though I’ve wished every day of me life since that I hadnae fled when she told me to. I should’ve been the warrior me faither kenned I could be and fought for me maither’s life or died tryin’.”
He balked, realizing how much he had said. He had not meant to, but that was the trouble with the stories of his past. That was why he never even began to relay that particular tale, for once it started coming out of his mouth, it became a torrent that could not be stopped. Ersie had learned that the hard way, as had Isla. But he had not opened the floodgates in years, and he had not realized there was still such a reservoir of pain behind them.
“Aye, so that’s why,” he said, clearing his throat. “I dinnae want history to repeat itself. I wouldnae want any bairns of mine to suffer like that. Besides, when ye’re a laird’s bairn, ye’re born with a target on yer back. I wouldnae want a bairn losin’ me, nor would I want to lose a bairn. The best way to prevent it is to never have bairns.”
Freya said nothing, pulling the coverlets and furs up to her chin, gazing at him so intently that it took every shred of willpower he possessed not to turn his gaze away. There was sorrow in her teary brown eyes, and her breaths were shakier than before.
He prayed she would not pity him—he could not stand pity. It was a wretched emotion that made him want to flip a table ortake his sword to one of the wooden figures in the training yard until it was little more than a pile of splinters.
“Forgive me,” she choked out a moment later. “I dinnae think I’ve ever heard ye say so much at once.”
He stayed silent, making up for the verbal cascade he had unleashed.
“Nor have I ever heard ye speak… with such feelin’. I wasnae expectin’ it from someone like ye,” she continued ruefully, her tonealmostveering into the pity he despised.
In a bid to avoid it, he did something else he never did.
“Aye, well, dinnae get used to it. I willnae be makin’ a habit of it,” he replied, his voice surprisingly light. “I reckon it’ll take me days to fix the damage I’ve done to yer perception of me.”
Her eyes lit up, hesitant laughter spilling past her lips. “Did ye just make ajoke, Doughall?”
“I willnae be makin’ a habit ofthat, either,” he replied, not quite cracking a smile but offering a faint smirk.
If she thought she was marrying someone other than the Doughall he presented himself as, she would be sorely disappointed. He figured it was better to lower her expectations now, for once he left that bedchamber, she would not see himjoke or reveal the missing pieces of his heart again. He would not allow it.
Just once. Call it a weddin’ gift.
“So, ye never wish to have bairns?” she asked, her laughter trailing off into a pensive realization, disappointment already etched across her forehead in shallow creases.
