Page 63 of Beguiled By the Highlander
Pain squeezed her heart. She didn’t want to face it, but the truth was stark. William’s highhanded behavior hurt. But then, he was a Campbell. What else could she expect?
Just because the truth had become blurred since they had wed didn’t mean anything had changed. He was not Njord, even though he so very often reminded her of that illusory warrior. But she wouldn’t let him see how easily he could wound her.
“And what if ye never find this so-called assassin?” She coated each word with the contempt they deserved. Even if, deep inside, she now questioned her conviction that his loss of memory had been nothing but a masquerade. “Will ye keep me a prisoner within yer castle forever?”
“A prisoner?” Finally, something she’d said appeared to have struck a nerve. “Ye’re not a prisoner. Ye’re my wife.”
“Aye. And I fail to see a difference in the two states.”
He expelled a patently irritated breath. “Ye’re impossible to reason with when ye’re in such a mood. I trust when I return, ye’ll be more amenable.”
With that, he gave a stiff bow before leaving the solar.
She gripped her fingers together and glowered after his retreating back. Damn the arrogance of the man. She wasnotin a mood. How dare he suggest she was, simply because she craved a sliver of freedom?
A moment to escape the shadow of the castle, so she could merelybe?
But no. He could not even allow her that small consideration. Instead, he expected her to be happy to be tethered to a crumbling castle, far from everything she had ever known. Maybe he had never lied to her, but in his heart he was, and had always been, William. Not Njord.
She sucked in a jagged breath and attempted to compose herself before she started her day. But it didn’t matter how she tried to push William from her mind, his imperious words haunted her.
“Ye’re my wife and as such the final word rests with me.”
After dinner, she escaped to the courtyard with Sjor, who enjoyed exploring every nook and cranny he could find. Not that it was much of an escape, since Emer trailed in her wake and several of the men she’d brought with her from Sgur stood guard.
How different married life would’ve been, had she remained on Eigg.
She pulled her shawl more securely about herself and glanced at the gray clouds that hid all signs of the sun. She was used to gray skies, damp mist, and the bitter chill of winter. But she wasn’t used to being confined. And how she missed the tang of salt in the air and the sound of the sea in her ears.
Anxiety swirled low in her stomach, and she took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help. She fought the overpowering urge to sink to her knees and dig her fingers into the earth, because it wouldn’t ease her panic or quiet her mind.
All it would do was make the servants and everyone else in the castle think she was mad.
The earth here at Creagdoun couldn’t help to ground her. Her foremothers had lived and died on Eigg, and that was where the source of her strength resided, and always would.
“My lady.” The low voice behind her caused her to swing about. Patric gave her a half smile, but she saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she hated that he knew how lost she felt.
Almost as much as she hated how he had lately started to address her asmy lady.
“Patric.” At least she didn’t sound as if she were falling apart, which was a relief. And then she noticed what he held. Her claymore. And another wave of panic swept through her at the prospect of trying to use the sword when she knew, in her heart, how dismally she’d fail. Her skill, after all, was tired to the land of her birth.
He held out her claymore. “I’ve been slack. Ye’ll be losing yer edge.”
She didn’t take the sword from him. “Not today.”
“Aye, today. There’s a perfect spot yonder.”
When she shook her head, he stepped closer, and his voice dropped to a coaxing whisper. “Come, lass. Ye must keep up yer skills.”
His kindly tone, the one he’d used with her since she was a child, was almost her undoing. He reminded her so much of home, and everything she’d left behind.
She cleared her throat. It would never do to show any weakness when she was surrounded by those who had long ago pledged their loyalty to Clan Campbell. She carried the honor of Clan MacDonald on her shoulders, and she would not disgrace her kin.
Once again, he offered her the sword, and with reluctance, she took it. Its familiar weight was bittersweet, but the fear that she no longer deserved her father’s claymore remained.
Patric led her to an area beyond the stables where a well had been dug long ago, and turned to face her. All the training she’d undergone during the last ten years fled, and she stared at him, mute, as he raised his sword.
“Isolde.” His voice was calm but with a thread of steel, and slowly she raised her claymore.
