Page 40 of Heather and the Highlander
“Six weeks with a MacNair, and then you’ll walk away?”
“That is my goal.”
“But I thought you and Niall…um…” Brenna suddenly flushed in embarrassment.
“Oh! No, we haven’t! I mean, I suppose if anyone wanted us to remain married, they could point to me being compromised in theory. We were alone…a lot, actually. But the marriage is not consummated and never will be.”
Brenna shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “I cannot believe that any of this happened. Is Niall truly agreeing to this?”
“He’s the one who proposed it…so to speak. Also, please don’t tell the earl. The laird, I mean.”
“As if I’d tell the MacNair that his son is duping him solely to get out of a marriage contract with me! I’d rather die of shame.”
“It’s not that Niall doesn’t care for you, you know,” Heather said. “He’s always spoken of you highly. As a sister.”
Brenna raised an eyebrow. “He told you that? Aye, that’s how it’s always been between Niall and me. It’s funny, really…” She trailed off, obviously lost in thought.
“So, Brenna? Can I count on you to keep my secret?”
“What?” Brenna asked, startled back into the moment.
“Can I rely upon you to not share the secret? Until my birthday next month.”
“I’ll take it to my grave,” Brenna pronounced, nodding once. Then she grew abstracted again. “Please excuse me. I have to…be by myself for a moment…”
Heather watched her go, hoping that she hadn’t made a huge mistake in trusting the other woman. Clearly, Brenna had something on her mind.
* * * *
Later that day, Heather sat in the large hall, now bright with sunlight from the clerestory windows. She had her paper and ink, and was trying (with great difficulty) to explain the latest developments of her life in a letter to Mrs. Bloomfield. Having spilled her secret to Brenna, it felt easier to write those same facts down on paper, a step she’d avoided thus far in her missives to her friends. But Mrs. Bloomfield was older and more experienced, and she might have good advice. Her former teacher had always said Heather was the most likely of her girls to do something more bold than wise, and Heather was sadly certain she was going to reaffirm all of Mrs. Bloomfield’s most dire prophecies in one letter.
Dear Mrs. Bloomfield,
I write to you from Carregness Castle in the northwest of Scotland. To say that I did not anticipate ever being here is an understatement, but it is nonetheless true that I am. What’s more, I’m afraid I have got married. The courtship was brief — about one day — but fortunately I suspect the marriage itself will be brief as well. The gentleman I call husband is Niall MacNair, son of the Earl of Carregness. The offer of marriage was a kindness to get me out of a family difficulty, by which I mean my uncle’s choice of bridegroom. (Not the other kind of family difficulty! I remember well your advice concerning that issue.)
Life here is as peaceful as one can expect, and though everyone treats me well, I believe that I will soon be back in England, looking for a position to support a modest life as a spinster. For if all goes according to our plan, the marriage will be annulled on my birthday, and I will be a free woman, and Niall will be a free man. I expect some awkwardness regarding my reputation, but as I never intend to listen to gossip or be moved by it, I shall endure.
You no doubt think me
A loud crash interrupted her writing. Dropping the pen, she looked to the double doors at the front of the room, and beheld a most unwelcome sight.
Uncle Cyril had pushed his way into the keep, trailed by two young servants running after.
“He just rode in! Didn’t say who he was or anything!” the boy on the left cried to the room in general, clearly distraught that the protocol hadn’t been observed.
“I know him,” Heather said, rising from the bench.
“Where’s my chit?” the intruder bellowed, obviously drunk. His expensive clothing was slightly rumpled, and his hard eyes, like agates, belied the florid cheeks and the rotund figure that could have been easily construed as gentle and even jolly.
Heather was mortified. “Uncle Cyril, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“What do you think, girl? I’m here to take you back. Mr. Webb is not at all pleased that you ran away. He should be arriving tomorrow.”
Just then, Brom strode up behind his employer, leering at Heather.
“Mr. Webb is coming here?” she asked, ignoring Brom entirely. “Why?”
“Because you’re meant to be his bride!”
