“Enough,” Sutherland snarled. “Ye’re mad.”
“Aye.” Ross turned a wide-eyed gaze to Sutherland. “And I’ll no’ be duped by a false marriage.”
“Fine,” Faye said abruptly. It didn’t matter if people saw her in her chemise.
But despite her attempt at bravery, a hum of nervousness vibrated within her.
Ross gave a low growl of irritation but finally held out his hand. Sutherland clasped forearms with him.
“To the chapel.” Ross indicated for Sutherland to lead them.
Moiré said from Faye’s side, “Surely ye can allow her a moment to prepare. It is her wedding day, after all.”
Faye regarded Ewan’s cousin, unable to say when she had approached. Especially in light of all that had transpired in the meeting.
“’Tis already late afternoon.” Ross indicated the large doorway of the Great Hall. “To the chapel, so there will be time to sup and celebrate our alliance.”
Moiré tossed a sympathetic frown in Faye’s direction. While it had been kind of Moiré to help, Faye was grateful her grandfather had insisted on their immediate wedding. For with time to consider her choices, she might find herself lacking the strength to go through with it all.
Her mind was a fog of exhaustion from her attempt to escape. Her limbs were weak with weariness, and her stomach growled with savage hunger. She scarcely had the fortitude to remain upright, let alone wed a man she didn’t know.
A husband she didn’t want.
She’d never wanted marriage. Not after having seen what her mother had gone through after loving a man, then losing him. When Faye’s da died, it had nearly killed her mum as well. Mum had never recovered, not fully. There was always sadness around her eyes, and an inability to truly laugh, to enjoy life. It was as though part of her had died along with Da.
Faye had long ago sworn to never be like her. No one would ever have such power over her so as to hurt her so deeply. Throughout Faye’s life, she’d had enough pain.
Sutherland approached her. “Ye dinna have to do this,” he said in a low voice.
She didn’t allow herself to soften lest she caved. “Aye, I do.”
“I’ll be a good husband to ye, Faye,” he vowed. “Nothing will happen to ye while with me. I’ll keep my promise to protect ye. Always.”
The image of the boy he’d been flashed in her mind again. His earnest gaze was so similar, despite how his boyish face and body had sharpened into that of a man.
She nodded, uncertain of what to say. He was too handsome, too considerate. The kind of man who would seek the heart she was so unwilling to give.
Even still, she could not stop her fingers from smoothing over her hair, which must be frightful after the hours she wandered through the brutal highlands. A glance down at her kirtle confirmed it was streaked with mud and had a tear at the neckline with several threads jutting out like sparse hairs. Aye, she looked a mess.
Sutherland didn’t appear at all bothered by her rumpled state and offered her his arm. She slid her hand into the warm crook of his elbow, and they walked through the castle toward their fate together. The castle was dark, its shutters locked tight, blocking out cold and light alike. Candles lit the corridors and cast heavy shadows within the thick walls as well as an odor of smoke. Their footsteps were silent on the thick layer of rushes, silencing their ominous march.
To be married.
The thought stole her breath.
Married.
Panic fluttered in her chest. Everything in her screamed to grab the dagger tucked into Ewan’s boot and escape. If she stole a horse, she could cover more ground. Mayhap find a village. Get help.
And then what?
Then, her grandfather would go back to Castleton and appeal to Clara. All he needed to say was that her sacrifice to move to the Highlands and wed a chieftain would save lives, and Clara would come without a moment’s hesitation.
Damn Clara for her goodness.
They entered a small stone chapel. Colorful glass lined either wall, providing more light than any candle within the castle. A man stood at the front, wearing dark robes. His head lifted in surprise at their approach, and his gaze flitted between their party before settling on Sutherland. “May I help ye, sir?”
Faye did not miss the way Sutherland’s body tensed before replying to the clergyman. “We’re here to be wed.”
Under the watchful gaze of Ewan’s enemy, he married a woman who was little more than a stranger. The ceremony was a short affair, rushed through by the local priest who’d had no time to prepare the vows properly.
While Faye had readily agreed to the vows, Ewan had faltered. She had been stolen from her family, chained for weeks of travel and hunted down like sport—all for this moment so that he might marry her. He hated the circumstances. No woman should be treated thus.
She met his eyes and nodded. Only then did he force the words from his mouth and allow their souls to be bound to one another.
The priest pronounced them man and wife and bade Ewan kiss his new bride. She regarded Ewan with a searching stare, as though trying to learn who he was in that brief span of time. Her blonde hair settled like gold cloth around her shoulders and fell over the small tear in her dress. He’d noticed her sweeping her fingers over her tresses to cover the spot, in an apparent self-conscious attempt to appear presentable despite the situation.
It warmed him to the core that she should care. It made a powerful yearning spring forth within him, one that longed to draw her against his body and let his lips play over hers. With a flash of regret, he recalled his ceremony to Lara. It had been well-planned, but he had not been hit with the same urges for his demure wife.
A fresh slice of pain twisted in Ewan’s heart at the thought of his late wife.
He lifted Faye’s slender hand to his mouth, rather than kissing her lips. He would not presume her affections, especially in light of how readily she’d already been taken advantage of.
Ross did not protest the kiss, and for that, Ewan was grateful. Maybe the old bastard had a heart after all.
Ewan offered Faye his arm once more, and they returned somberly to the Great Hall, where Moiré had done her best to create something of a celebration.
The costly table runners used for good company had been set on the trestle tables, and several silver candlesticks and salt cellars glinted in the firelight. The simple dinner of stewed vegetables and roasted quail the cook had prepared was laid out like a fine feast.
Moiré caught Ewan’s eye as he entered the Great Hall, conveying with her gaze the words he could hear in his head. I told ye so. And she had—before his departure to Balnagown, she had warned him not to consider Ross’s proposition.
If he’d wed Mistress Blair, he’d be with a woman who had wanted to be with him, under far better circumstances.
But he’d been too curious about Faye, his interest piqued by the pretty girl he’d known. What was worse, he’d been correct in his assumption that she had only become more attractive.
He walked her to the dais, where she sat at his right side. His clan members settled at the surrounding trestles in oppressive silence; their shuffling feet gave off a sound like the downpour of rain. They looked to him with solemn faces, expecting a grand speech, but what was he to say on such an occasion?
Instead, he lifted his goblet of hastily poured wine and said simply, “To peace.”
They all drank as a pathetic band of minstrels quickly set up and filled the silence with a tune far too cheerful for the occasion.
Beside Ewan, his bride maintained a smile that quivered at the corners and contrasted the dullness in her eyes. No doubt, her thoughts were reeling from the turn of events as much as his. It had all been done too fast to process fully.
“Would ye care to dance?” he asked.
Her gaze moved first to the empty square of space for dancing before turning her attention to him. “I suppose it is expected,” she replied at last.
“I dinna
think anything is expected in this madness,” he replied.
Her eyes brightened somewhat with a more earnest smile. “I think it should be a pleasant distraction.”
It was all the answer he needed. He got to his feet and extended his hand to her, which she readily took.
They approached the dance floor and stood opposite one another, where she curtseyed, and he bowed. Amid the trill of a pipe and the gentle pluck of stringed instruments, they came together and spun about to the sweet rhythm of the music.
“Do ye recall much of me from when we were children?” she asked as they stepped toward one another.
“Aye.” He caught her slender waist and lifted her briefly before setting her on the floor. Her breasts gave a slight bounce that he could not help but notice. “I only saw ye on the few occasions ye visited Scotland to see Ross. What of ye? Do ye remember anything of me?”
She studied his face with an openness he liked, as though trying in earnest to summon his younger self into her mind. “My only recollection is of a boy with brown hair and hazel eyes who promised he would always protect me.” Her cheeks had gone pink, but he could not tell if it was from a blush or the exertion of their dance. He found himself hoping for the former.
“I supposed I havena changed so verra much.” He smiled at the jest toward himself.
Her gaze dipped downward and shifted away as an unmistakable blush crept over her cheeks. “I wouldna say that,” she whispered.
His cock twitched in response. He was not an unattractive man, he knew. Women had offered to become his leman after Lara’s death, though he’d never accepted. There had been too much weighing down his thoughts with the ache of her death and the insistent press of his uncle’s desire for leadership of the clan.
Knowing his appearance pleased Faye, however, brought him more pride than he’d bothered to consider in a long time. For he certainly found her alluring.
The music drew to a close, and they drifted apart to bow and curtsey one final time. As he led her back to the dais, he caught sight of Moiré sitting at a table by herself. She lifted her brows and waved him over.
“Forgive me,” he said to his new wife. “I must speak with my cousin a moment.”
Faye nodded and lifted her waiting goblet to her lips as Ewan departed to join Moiré.
“She’s beautiful.” His cousin tilted her cup in celebration toward him. “Felicitations.”
He nodded his head in thanks as she drank deeply from the goblet. “I’d hoped for yer assistance in making her feel welcome.”
“Of course,” Moiré replied readily, as he knew she would.
“She’s been taken from her family and forced into this, as I’m sure ye’ve gathered.”
Moiré nodded, her eyes softening with sympathy. “Aye. The poor lass. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Including showing her duties as mistress of the castle, aye?” he pressed.
After Lara’s death, Moiré had taken on the responsibility of running the castle. Faye would, of course, be assuming the task now that she was his wife.
“Ye need no’ worry, Ewan.” Moiré gently patted his arm, her demeanor as good-natured as ever. “I’ll show her what she needs to know.”
The tension drained from his shoulders. He’d hoped she wouldn’t be offended at Faye assuming the role Moiré had spent almost two years handling with smooth efficiency. He should have known better. Moiré was always considerate and accommodating.
“If I might make a suggestion?” she offered.
Ewan nodded, grateful for any recommendation regarding his new wife and their marriage by unusual circumstance.
“Ye may wish to have a care with how ye handle Lady Sutherland,” she said. “To ensure she knows ye care for her.” She glanced toward Faye, her eyes sparkling. “As I feel ye will soon care for her greatly.”
“Let her know I care for her?” Ewan repeated with uncertainty. “What do ye mean?”
Moiré shook her head. “I shouldna have said anything.”
“I wish ye would.”
Moiré’s pleasant expression dropped, and she nibbled on her lower lip. “I dinna think Lara felt as though ye cared,” she replied slowly.
Ewan’s face went cool as the blood drained from it. “Why would ye say that?”
Moiré’s brow crumpled. “I shouldna—”
“Why would ye say that?” He demanded, more harshly than he’d intended. “Did she…” A band of tension squeezed at his chest. “Did she tell ye that?”
Moiré held her breath and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
An ache clawed within him, ripping old wounds open. He nodded and patted her shoulder, unable to summon anything to say.
“I’m sorry,” Moiré repeated in a horrified whisper.
“I needed to know.” He swallowed at the stubborn lump in his throat. “Was that why…” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. Instead, they hung in the air, unspoken.
Was that why Lara had taken her own life?
Moiré closed her eyes, and a tear trailed down her cheek. She blinked her eyes open and regarded Ewan with a pained expression. “Be good to yer new wife, aye?”
Ewan clenched his hand into a fist and vowed that he would care for Faye and leave no doubt in her mind that he fully intended to love her.
5
Faye didn’t want anyone to notice her discomfort, and yet how could they not when she was set on display? The dais sat higher than the trestles lining either side of the Great Hall.
It was finer than anything she’d ever dined on. Blue runners ran along the polished wood and silver glinted among bits of heater that had been plucked to adorn the table.
She had never been around such costly things, nor had she been put in a position where all eyes were set upon her. Sutherland was gone only minutes, though it truly felt like hours. He spoke first to his cousin, then to Monroe, before he returned to her. Through it all, she sat alone with only a goblet of wine and plate of food for company. And all those eyes, gazing up at her, wide with curiosity.
No doubt waiting for the bedding ceremony.
She wished they would start it, get the ordeal over with. Let those cold, curious eyes feast on her in her most vulnerable moment. A knot of emotion settled as an ache at the back of her throat, but she discreetly swallowed it away.
“Forgive me,” Sutherland said as he returned.
Faye relaxed somewhat as he settled by her side. Not that she knew him well enough to find comfort in his presence, but he was someone—anyone—who would take some of the gawping attention.
Her grandfather rose with his goblet of wine in hand, which he tapped with his open fingers, so his ring pinged sharply against the metal. The room went silent as people turned to him with expectations.
He lifted his drink high in the air in a silent toast toward the dais. “Felicitations to the happy new couple.” He smirked. “Let us put these two to bed.”
Faye’s stomach clenched, and her head swam with a lightheaded sensation that threatened to make her slide from her seat. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be in this situation. She didn’t want to be married.
But she was. And there was nothing for it, but to stand with her plastered smile and her quivering insides.
This was no battle she could win or conversation she could flirt her way out of. Sutherland got to his feet first and offered her his hand. She accepted and stood on shaky legs.
His people had consumed a good amount of spirits, and though some remained quiet at the stunning turn of events, others threw up raucous and ribald cheers. The chants and jeers filled the large room and buzzed in Faye’s ears.
The crowd followed them, pressing at their backs, forcing them up narrow stairs she had never climbed to a capacious chamber she had never entered. A bed stood at its center, a massive thing with thick posts at each corner and heavy curtains hanging from all sides. Her heartbeat slammed so hard in her chest that she was certain the revelers could hear it
over their own happy cries.
Two screens had been erected at opposite sides of the room, no doubt where they would prepare. Faye hesitated, uncertain of what to do. These were customs of the wealthy, and she’d not been wealthy a day in her life. Aye, they lived in a manor in Castleton, but it was for protection rather than power. A means of keeping them safe from reivers.
She was breathing too hard; her heart pounding too ferociously. White spots bloomed in her vision, and she regretted having had more wine than food. But her stomach had been nervous and her mouth dry.
A cool hand closed over hers, and Moiré was there with a gentle smile. “Come with me. I’ll see to ye.”
Faye allowed the other woman to lead her behind a screen, a flimsy barrier between her and the people who had so willingly invaded her privacy.
“This is wrong.” Moiré frowned and patted Faye’s forearm. “Ye’re doing fine. Mayhap better than I would, were I in yer situation.”
Faye simply nodded, too numb to say anything else. How had this happened? Just one month prior, she’d been at Castleton with her family, shelling beans and getting upset with Clara for bringing up the English. Clara, of all people, who didn’t deserve anyone’s scorn. Theirs had been a quiet, mundane life that had been violently upended to this shocking moment of undressing before strangers in lands she didn’t know.
That stubborn ache returned to the back of her throat.
“I brought ye one of my nightrails,” Moiré said. “’Tis all I could find with such sudden notice.”
The other woman was a good two inches shorter than Faye. Still, an ill-fitting garment was a far cry better than being naked.
“Mayhap, my chemise…” Faye glanced down at her mud-stained skirts, and the words died on her tongue. Her chemise would be in no order to be put on display.
Faye's Sacrifice Page 4