Page 17 of Deceived by the Highlander (Daughters of the Isle #2)

A lasdair Campbell?

The name whirled around Freyja’s mind as she stared at her grandfather in stunned disbelief. To be sure he appeared in full command of his senses, but how deceptive that had proved to be.

He wanted her to wed Alasdair Campbell.

As the roar in her head eased, she realized the bedchamber throbbed with a silence so profound that it hurt her ears. And a horrifying awareness slithered through her.

Blessed Eir. Alasdair stood not a stone’s throw behind her, and he’d heard every word.

Her cheeks heated and fire burned her veins as mortification blazed through her. Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth, but since it was painfully apparent no one else planned on breaking this ear-splitting silence, she needed to say something. Anything.

“Afi.” Lord, was that really her voice? She sounded like a wizened crone.

“Ye cannot expect Alasdair Campbell to wed me. Ye—” Her thoughts splintered at what she’d just said.

Why hadn’t she simply told Afi there was no way she could marry Alasdair?

Flustered, she scrambled to cover her inexplicable mistake. “It cannot happen, Afi.”

The last thing she wanted was to look at Alasdair, but she couldn’t help herself.

He stood a short distance from the bed, as though he was frozen to the spot, and she’d never in her life seen such shock on a man’s face.

His gaze was fixed on her grandfather as though he’d just grown two heads and truly, she couldn’t blame him.

It was simply a wonder Alasdair hadn’t bolted from the chamber already.

“Give me yer word, Freyja.”

“Ranulph.” Her grandmother’s voice was low but infused with regal authority. Finally, Amma would make her grandfather see reason, but why had she taken so long about it? “Ye must let Freyja and Alasdair Campbell digest this news. ’Tis not something they can decide in the blink of an eye.”

It wasn’t the response she’d hoped for, but at least it offered a respite from Afi’s alarming fixation. She rose from the bed as Amma turned to her. “Go into the courtyard with Alasdair. Ye have a great deal to discuss. I’ll wait for ye in the great hall.”

A great deal to discuss? She was quite sure that when they reached the courtyard, Alasdair would make his excuses and escape this madness as soon as he could.

How she hoped he didn’t, though. As tangled as the situation was, she dearly wanted him by her side when the inevitable time came and Afi drew his final breath.

As she turned to Alasdair, Roisin took her hand, but her sister didn’t appear startled by their grandfather’s pronouncement. She seemed strangely tranquil.

Unnerved by that thought, although to be sure there were times she didn’t understand Roisin at all, she released her hand and braced herself to meet Alasdair’s gaze.

Instead of horror at the predicament her grandfather had put him in, he looked strangely wary.

Almost as if he expected her to blame him for this mess.

What nonsense was she imagining? She took a steadying breath which only resulted in making her lightheaded and offered him a strained smile. “Will ye accompany me for some fresh air, Alasdair?”

“Aye.” He responded so fast it sent a sharp pain through her breast. It couldn’t be more obvious he wanted to leave Kilvenie without delay.

In silence, they descended the stairs and crossed the hall. Once they were in the courtyard, she tugged her shawl tightly about herself, as though that might give her the courage to face him again.

“Freyja.” His voice was low, troubled, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, attempting to gather herself, but it didn’t work.

Her thoughts remained fragmented, trapped in that excruciating encounter with her grandfather, but she had to ensure Alasdair knew she would never hold him to such a bizarre request.

She turned towards him but couldn’t quite gather the nerve to meet his eyes, so she stared at his chest. The fine white linen molded his magnificent muscles perfectly and her gaze strayed to his impressive biceps before dropping to his plaid.

Sweet Eir. The power of speech had deserted her.

“Freyja,” he said again, before sliding his finger beneath her chin and tilting her face so she had no option but to look at him. Why did the touch of one finger cause her heart to hammer so? If she didn’t manage to drag more air into her lungs instantly, she feared she might faint.

A fine spectacle that would make.

She sucked in a ragged breath and Alasdair’s thumb grazed her jaw in a tender caress. He was being kind, and while it was better than him marching off without a backward glance, the prospect that he now felt sorry for her made her feel ill.

Because there was no choice, she could bear him leaving the Isles, but she couldn’t bear the idea that if he ever thought of her in the future, it would be with a sense of pity.

“Alasdair, I cannot apologize enough that ye were put in such a mortifying position.” Well, she guessed he was mortified. She certainly was. “I’d no idea he was thinking of such things and can only conclude ’tis the poppy talking.”

Except the frightening truth was, she didn’t believe that. Afi’s mind hadn’t been wandering and his wishes had been more than coherent. He knew exactly what he’d said and had meant every word.

She could hardly tell Alasdair that. It was clear the poor man already felt trapped enough.

Do I feel trapped?

“Freyja,” he said for the third time, and it finally occurred to her that he was trying to tell her something but was obviously having trouble finding the right words. She should make it easy for him by stepping back and telling him that of course they should not wed.

Why hadn’t she done that already?

Do I want to marry him?

Her cheeks burned but there was nowhere to hide from Alasdair’s penetrating gaze. What a question. Of course she didn’t.

Are ye sure about that?

“Are ye all right?”

His solicitous question pulled her forcibly back to the present, and the fact that far from sounding irked by the position Afi had put him in, Alasdair instead seemed concerned for her feelings, somehow eased her embarrassment.

“’Twas a shock, I’ll not deny. But I’m all right.

” He still cradled her face between one finger and his thumb, and she really should break contact before she melted into a puddle at his feet.

But since this was undoubtedly the last time she’d ever feel his touch, she couldn’t bring herself to end it. “Are ye?”

*

Alasdair gazed into Freyja’s anxious blue eyes and her question thundered around his head.

Was he all right?

When Ranulph made his announcement, Alasdair was certain he was about to be denounced. He’d braced himself for Freyja’s scorn, but Ranulph had said nothing of the earl’s desire to unite their clans.

He’d spoken as though the idea was his own. What in the name of God had happened to change his mind?

And Freyja still waited for his answer.

He exhaled a long breath and stroked his thumb along the line of her jaw.

Her cheeks were flushed a fascinating shade of rose and she gripped the edges of her shawl as though her life depended on it.

One of the biggest obstacles that had stood between him claiming her for his bride had just handed her to him on a silver platter, yet he couldn’t find the words to press his advantage.

But he had to reassure her all was well.

“I’m fine. And there’s no need to apologize, Freyja. ’Tis an honor that Ranulph would even consider me worthy to take ye as my bride.”

“Ah.” She shook her head, but a small smile chased the worry from her face. “Ye cannot help but flirt, can ye, Alasdair? But I thank ye for it, and for not taking offense.”

“’Tis the truth.” He wasn’t sure why it rubbed him the wrong way whenever she accused him of flirting. But that was nothing compared to the thread of guilt that stirred deep inside at how she believed the original idea for them to wed came from her grandfather.

What was he thinking? Surely, now victory was within his grasp, he wasn’t seriously considering ruining it all by confessing to his part in it?

No. It would amount to little more than betrayal against the earl, and he’d never do that. And yet disquiet gnawed through him like a canker. It didn’t sit right with him to let her believe Ranulph’s edict came as a bolt from the blue to him.

Unable to help himself, he cradled her face with both hands. She looked up at him with such trust, and his gaze lingered on her lips as he recalled how sweet she tasted.

God, he wanted her. Wanted the right to call her his wife, to make her mistress of Dunochty Castle.

Most of all, he didn’t want to risk losing this intriguing connection between them.

And if he knew one thing about Freyja MacDonald, it was that she’d never forgive him for keeping the real reason of why he’d traveled to Rum from her.

“Are ye so set against the idea of a marriage between us, Freyja?”

Her smile froze. He doubted that was a good sign. “What?”

“Ranulph has set his mind on it.” That was the truth, however unexpected it was.

“He has, and it’s true he’s taken a shine to ye. But ye mustn’t think any of us would hold ye to such an outlandish decree. Ye’re free to leave whenever ye wish.”

“Do ye want me to leave?” Christ, what was wrong with him? Why was he giving her the opportunity to tell him to go? Because if she did, where did that leave his plans?

“I...” she hesitated before releasing her death grip on her shawl and pressing her hands over his, their fingers interlocking. “No, I don’t. But I can’t expect ye to stay after this.”

He bent his head, so their breaths mingled. It wasn’t the best idea he’d had, since now all he could think about was kissing her again, when he needed a clear head to persuade her of the merits of Ranulph’s wishes.

The elusive scent of roses and rain that would forever conjure up the image of her in his mind swirled about them and he tossed caution to the wind as his mouth captured hers.