Page 50 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“I’d have asked why,” Ersie said with a grin, “but I think that blush on yer cheeks just gave me the answer.”
If that wasn’t bad enough, Ealasaid stifled a giggle and hurried over to the nearby side table, pretending to rearrange the hairbrushes and accouterments that lined it.
Freya cursed her pale cheeks, so quick to flush, and headed out without another word, tying her hair up with a ribbon as she went.
What Freya had not considered was how long it would take for Doughall to come and find her, if at all. Aware of his aversion to the library, she had taken one of her favorite books to the family hall, where she had previously been introduced to Isla, and curled up before the fire with the book in hand.
But the book of twelve short stories, theLais of Marie de France,was not long by any means, and by the time she gave in and sent Ersie to coax Doughall into coming to find her, she had read it three times.
As such, when he finally arrived, she struggled to feign the same sadness. In fact, she wasn’t even at the right story when he strode through the doors with a frown on his face, saying, “Ersie said ye werenae feelin’ well, though why she couldnae fetch Sorcha herself is beyond me.”
“I… have such a headache,” Freya stammered, for lying—even of the smallest kind—had never come easily to her. “She shouldnae have bothered ye. It’s a headache of me own makin’.”
He walked closer, all the tenderness and vulnerability from the night before nothing but a memory. A dream, perhaps, that she had imagined in such detail that she had tricked herself into believing it was real.
“Whatever do ye mean?” he asked bluntly. “Did ye knock yer head or somethin’?”
Discreetly turning to the story ofLes Deux Amants—The Two Lovers—she lightly patted the pages. “It’s more a matter of the heart. This story… I cannae help but weep every time I read it, and I fear I’ve wept meself into a headache. Have ye never done that before? Shed so many tears that yer head would start poundin’?”
“I havenae shed a tear since I was a babe,” he replied brusquely, evidently annoyed that he had been pulled from whatever he had been doing to attend to a tearful woman who was not, in fact, crying at that moment.
Freya tried, but she could not get the tears to come.
“Of course nae. Apologies, Ersie really shouldnae have bothered ye. Ye were obviously in the middle of somethin’,” she muttered, thoroughly embarrassed.
It had been a foolish idea. What sheshouldhave done was read the letter and, if it was suitably emotional, ask Doughall to read it with her.
Doughall stood over her, frowning at the book in her hands. “What are ye readin’?”
“TheLais of Marie de France.One, in particular,” she replied awkwardly. “It’s such a tragic tale.”
“Which one?”
Marginally encouraged by his questions, she showed him the first page. “It’s about a king who adores his daughter and doesnae want anyone to marry her, so he gives an impossible task to any suitors who come knockin’. They have to carry the princess up a hill without restin’, and if they manage it, they get to marry her. She falls in love with a boy and asks her aunt to brew him a potion for strength, so he’ll succeed, but?—”
“His pride doesnae allow him to take it, so he dies on the hill for nay good reason,” Doughall interrupted. “And she dies with him for nay reason at all, just to make lasses like ye cry.”
Freya blinked up at him, the awkwardness in her chest transforming into utter, burning embarrassment.Of coursehe would not be moved by a sad story written centuries ago, about fictional people, when he had lived through a tragedy far worse, far more real than anything written on that page. Especially not one about love.
I shall kill Ersie for lettin’ me go ahead with this! Why did she nae see the idiocy of it?
She cringed inwardly, while her mind scrambled for some way of salvaging the endeavor.
“I dinnae think it was pride,” she said somewhat haughtily, to cover her embarrassment. “I think he was too determined to reach the top and didnae want to slow down, or be seen cheatin’ in any way. That would mean losin’ her.”
Doughall sniffed. “It was pride. A man kens better than to ignore help when it’s offered. He lost everythin’ because he didnae want to admit he couldnae do it alone. He was tryin’ to impress the lass, and it was his downfall.”
“That’s really what ye think of that story?”
“It’s the truth of it, aye,” he replied. “So, wipe yer eyes. There’s nothin’ to cry over, unless ye like weepin’ over stupidity.”
I could weep over me own…
She closed the book with a satisfyingsnap. “Ye cannae feel a bit of sympathy for them?”
“Nae a bit.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Now, unless yedobash yer head or fall or have some good reason to be in tears, dinnae disturb me again. Summon yer maither instead.”
He moved to walk out, but reaching the door, he turned back and drew something out of the folded pockets of his belted plaid. He dropped it in Freya’s lap and returned the way he had come, leaving her alone, his footfalls echoing in the hallway beyond until there was silence again. The only sound beyond the rushing in Freya’s ears was the spit and crackle of the fire.
