Page 55 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Irritation coursed through the center of Freya as she quickly put the pieces together. Doughall could not have left the castle too long after he placed the book on the chair for her, so he must have known already that he would be riding out somewhere.
“Ye ken him well, do ye nae?” she asked Isla, though she still did not take a seat beside the friendly woman.
Isla chuckled softly. “I’d say so. I all but raised him for many years.”
“Is this what he does, then?” Freya did not find the situation amusing. “Is this what I should expect from me husband—that he’ll just leave without a word, while I worry, nae kennin’ where he might be?”
Isla stopped laughing immediately, sorrow pinching her eyes. “Freya, me dear, I doubt he’s left ye to worry deliberately.” She paused, chewing on her lower lip. “What ye have to understand is that he has been the Laird of this clan for nigh-on twenty years. He’s accustomed to answerin’ to nay one, to actin’ without hesitation. This will be… new for him, but if ye talk to him, I’m certain he’ll consider yer worries in the future.”
“Ye’re certain?” Freya asked, her voice laced with doubt.
Isla’s lengthy pause was all the answer that Freya needed.
If Doughall’s aunt, who had spent so many years at his side, did not think he would change to accommodate his wife, then why would Freya? He had already informed her that he would not be having children, that he did not want to marry, and that she was not to have any expectations beyond a lack of cruelty.
And I, the fool that I am, let meself be tricked into thinkin’ that this wouldnae be so awful.
The book did not negate the paltry offer that Adam had forced her to accept. Perhaps that was all shewouldhave to make things seem less miserable once vows were taken and she was truly bound to him—the library.
“Freya,” Isla began haltingly. “I ken that his… demeanor isnae exactly friendly or invitin’, but hewilltake care of ye. Ye’ll want for very little.”
Freya met the older woman’s eyes with a sad smile. “What if the things I want, that he cannae give, arenae so little? Nae to me, anyway.”
“Oh, Freya…” Isla pushed back her chair.
“Nay, dinnae get up,” Freya insisted. “Now that I think about it, I dinnae have an appetite. Ye enjoy yer breakfast. I’m sorry to have intruded.”
She turned and rushed out of the room, ignoring Isla’s calls as she walked quickly down the hallway, her shoes clicking on the flagstones. There was only one place that could offer her the comfort she needed, and she planned to stay there until her betrothed mustered the enthusiasm to come looking for her. If that took days, then so be it.
It’s nae different from bein’ at MacNiall Castle.
Her heart was heavy as she descended, pulling the library key out of her pocket. At home, her brother had often placated her with a new book or a new ribbon for her collection, while Laura was given adventures, endless time in Adam’s company, and permission to do wild, thrilling things that would have seen Freya soundly scolded if she had asked for them.
Ye probably got the idea from me braither…
She cursed both men under her breath, feeling no calmer as she arrived at the ancient oak door of her private library.
Stepping inside, however, inhaling the familiar scent of paper and leather and wood and the indelible perfume of dust, was akin to being embraced by loving arms after a tiring day. She relaxed into the peace of the room, walking slowly up and down the aisles between the bookcases, deciding what she might like to read.
Then, she saw it—the eye-catching dark green spine of the book she had unceremoniously stuffed back onto the shelf sideways. The book she had been meaning to return for. The book with the yellowed parchment inside, the wax seal broken, tempting her to take a look.
Glancing at the door, though she knew no one would disturb her in there, she retrieved the slim book and took it over to the reading chair.
Her heart pounded giddily in her chest as she settled down and opened the cover, excitement bristling through her as she plucked out the timeworn letter.
Who looked at ye last, eh? How long have ye been hidden up there on the shelves?
She looked toward the seemingly endless bookcases.
How many more of ye are there?
She intended to investigate if the letter before her was exciting enough.
With no further reason to delay, she took a deep breath and unfolded the letter. Initial disappointment at the shortness of the note gave way to breathless shock, her eyes drinking in the seven potent words scratched onto the parchment in spiky lettering:If I can’t have you, neither can he.
“What?” she whispered, turning the parchment over in case there was anything she had missed—initials in the corner, a mark that might give away the writer. But even the wax seal bore no sign of the writer’s identity. It was just a plain, smooth circle.
She sat there for a moment, bewildered, pushing her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose, trying to gauge the age of the letter. It was certainly old, the ink faded, the handwriting unfamiliar. It wasn’t Doughall’s; she had seen his handwriting in the study.
