Page 36 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
The obvious answer only served to pull the tension tighter between them. Anger bubbled deep in Gerald’s chest, and he made it clear with the dark, smoldering expression shot toward each of his supposed allies. But more than anything, his anger was directed inward; they were right, much as it pained him to admit it even to himself.
His behavior just then was deplorable, giving the obvious impression that he had only married the woman for the sake of her land. To gain the largest parts of Marcus’ territory, for revenge against the man who had killed his older brother.
“One might think the pair of ye would go to war for the sake of a woman ye daenae ken,” Gerald said icily. “For a woman whose brither ruined all our lives.”
Both lairds exchanged looks with each other, an unspoken agreement between them. “We would go to war against a tyrant whose views are clouded by revenge,” Duncan corrected.
“I’d go to war against anyone who hurts me wife,” Hector growled. “And me wife is quite taken by Aileen.”
Duncan nodded in agreement.
Gerald’s shoulders stiffened, his hand itching to grasp the hilt of his knife once more. This was ridiculous. The pair of them were fools, so easily swayed by their wives’ opinions. They’d only all just come to an alliance, and these two were willing to throw it away for her?
For her.The words turned Gerald’s blood to ice. When had Aileen become the enemy to him? The woman whose smile lifted his chest, whose soft demeanor and obvious pain filled him with an uncontrollable instinct to pull her into his arms and protect her from the world.
Whose little sister had filled a hole in his heart, whose presence had brightened a castle once fully entrenched in his territory’s cold, wintry grasp. The day he’d learned of Marcus’ betrayal nearly killed him, and the day he found Aileen hiding in her brother’s study brought him back.
When had she become the enemy to him?
“Gerald?”
He blinked, glancing toward Hector with surprise. He’d known the man just as long as he’d known Marcus—a fellow survivor of an alliance built on manipulation—and in all that time, Gerald had never heard concern enter Hector’s tone. Not until now, at any rate.
“I daenae claim to ken what yer sufferin’ is,” Hector began, the unfamiliar gentleness of his tone completely out of place from a man whose default emotion was anger. “Marcus hurt each of us in his own, twisted way. Of all the men within our buddin’ alliance, it’s ye who I …” he paused, obviously struggling to find the right words. “Of everyone, ye are still me closest friend. And watchin’ ye make yerself miserable for seemingly arbitrary reasons … it’s infuriatin’.”
Who on earth was the laird who sat across from Gerald?
“If I could simply take me axe and slice through whatever’s still causin’ ye grief, I would in a heartbeat.” Some of Hector’s familiar anger rose back up from his chest, but he was visibly fighting to keep his tone even. “But I daenae think this new world, this future we made this alliance for, can be made through violence alone. It’s the easier route, aye, but, since when have ye or I wanted easy?”
This had to be so hard for Aileen. To try to find hope in a world that didn’t want her. To try to connect with a man who wanted nothing to do with her. Gerald found his anger slowly twist into something unfamiliar. Guilt, perhaps?
Duncan’s laughter broke through Gerald’s self-reflection, and he watched as the Laird of Marsden clapped a hand against Hector’s shoulder. “Hector Kaysen, I didnae think I’d see the day when ye’d say somethin’ so sentimental.”
“Oh, get yer hand off me, ye old bampot!” Hector quickly shoved his arm away, shifting his chair to try to put distance between himself and the Laird of Marsden. “I daenae say it for yer sake.”
“Nay, of course nae,” Duncan smirked. “Ye just said it in front of me. Who ken marriage would make ye soft.”
“What about ye? Alison practically has ye wrapped around her finger!” Hector argued, face reddening as his temper once more bubbled to the surface. “Oh, if we werenae allies, I’d cleave ye straight in half, ye softie!”
“Ye daenae need the excuse of war between us to challenge me to a fight.” Duncan grinned. “I’m certain our gracious Laird would be happy to share his sparrin’ grounds with us.”
“Good! We can settle what we started, then!” Hector snarled. “I’ll wipe that smug look off yer face in two seconds flat!”
Duncan’s boisterous laughter soon filled the dining halls, and even Hector couldn’t hold back a smile. Gerald found himself completely taken by the pair’s banter, suddenly realizing how many allies—no, friends—he truly had.
This was no longer about the Highlands being torn apart by violence; he no longer had to hide his pain to protect himself and his clan. He had people to lean on, now, to share his worries and troubles with. And … Aileen could be one of those people as well.
“Ye wish to join us, Gerald?” Duncan asked. “I never had the honor of fighting ye on the battlefield.”
“Oh, daenae try to wriggle out of yer fate, scunner,” Hector teased. “Gerald will be busy talkin’ with his wife. Yer opponent’s goin’ to be me and me alone.”
Before Gerald could nod in agreement, the double doors suddenly flew open, slamming loudly against the stonework walls. Rory came practically sprinting inside, stumbling to a halt before doubling over and heaving. Blood covered his cloak and tabard, his face covered in growing bruises and cuts. All three lairds were immediately on their feet, the cheery atmosphere immediately iced as their expressions fell.
“Rory,” Gerald moved quickly from his chair, his goblet still in hand, as he offered it to his breathless man-at-arms. “What happened?”
Rory immediately grasped the ale and drained it in one go, dropping the goblet to the ground as he tried to find his words. “Laird Carswell! He attacked us. Killed the others … I’m the only one left.”
The frigid atmosphere plummeted further, rage bubbling deep within Gerald’s chest. “Why?”
