Page 40 of Deceived by the Highlander (Daughters of the Isle #2)

A lasdair rode through the gatehouse of Dunochty, the image of Freyja standing by the doors of the castle etched in his mind. Anyone observing her would think nothing was wrong. She had smiled and said the right things as he’d kissed her hand in farewell, but he’d seen the ice in her eyes.

The hurt.

And the wretched certainty settled in his chest that no matter what he did, she would never forgive him.

They rode in silence, the two men he’d brought with him as disinclined to converse as he was himself, and the earl’s messenger was never one for idle talk.

But his cursed thoughts wouldn’t quiet, and no matter how he tried to distract his mind, Freyja’s contemptuous accusation haunted him with every tortured breath he took.

“What a grand prize I was. Kilvenie Tower and Dunochty Castle in one fell swoop.”

He couldn’t deny the truth of it, not even to himself. She had been a grand prize. He’d known it from the moment the earl had shared his strategy. Freyja MacDonald was a noblewoman with an ancient bloodline she could trace back to a fierce Pict queen, and he’d never been good enough for her.

As she’d accused him, Dunochty Castle had been a fine reward for carrying out his half-brother’s plans. But just as importantly, it had been another step closer to his dream of a barony.

He’d ignored any reservations he’d harbored over keeping the full truth from her. The Campbells, after all, were renowned for making advantageous alliances, and their brides invariably brought great estates and impressive residences with them.

But then he’d got to know Freyja, and even the promise of the castle had paled beside his burning need for her to willingly agree to be his bride.

“Is that why ye coerced me when I was at my most vulnerable, Alasdair, as a way to ensure I couldn’t change my mind and ye wouldn’t lose yer fine estates?”

An iron band compressed his chest as he once again heard the contempt in her voice. As he once again recalled their frenzied lovemaking, when he had made her his and he’d believed nothing could tear them apart.

Archibald had more than implied that if nothing else worked to win Lady Freyja, then seduction was a viable solution.

Yet that wasn’t the reason Alasdair had taken her into his arms that day in the stables.

The earl’s strategy hadn’t even crossed his mind.

All he had wanted was to comfort her on the loss of Ranulph.

But God knew, she’d been vulnerable. And afterwards, she had been left with no choice but to wed him, in case he’d given her a bairn.

The afternoon was warm and the sky blue, but a chill crawled over his arms and a blanket of dark fog wrapped itself around him.

Had Freyja’s every smile and laugh since they wed been false?

While he had blindly imagined they had something special between them, had she secretly resented him for taking away her choices?

*

They stopped for the night at an inn, and after the four of them had eaten a hearty stew, he escaped from the men’s ale-induced banter and retired to his room. He placed his oil lamp on the table and sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his thighs and fingers interlocked between his knees.

Whenever he’d traveled to see the earl before, there had always been a sense of anticipation and, aye, excitement.

Archibald inhabited a world that could have been his, had his father acknowledged him.

But now, thanks to his half-brother’s support during the last four years, he’d been welcomed and accepted into that world and nobody cared about his past.

But tonight, all he wanted to do was return to Freyja. To wrap his arms around her and tell her—no, to hell with it— beg her to give him another chance.

When he returned from Edinburgh, that was exactly what he’d do. Christ, he’d do anything to win back her trust. If only he knew how.

The glow from the oil lamp flickered on the whitewashed walls, and in his mind’s eye he was transported back to Rum, just after he’d watched Freyja race along the beach, heedless of anything but the pure joy of her freedom.

A freedom she could never have at Dunochty. Or Oban. Or anywhere in the Highlands, if it came to that. She’d told him how thankful she was that she didn’t need to heed the restrictions imposed beyond the Small Isles, and he hadn’t thought much about it since.

“Eigg is where my heart lies, and Rum is very dear to me, too.”

Guilt speared through him. Not once since they’d moved to Dunochty had she breathed a word on how she felt about leaving her home and everyone she loved behind. Yet on the two occasions they’d made arrangements to visit her sister at Creagdoun, he’d had to cancel.

He should have allowed her to visit her sister, even if he wasn’t there. They both knew she’d be well protected in his absence, and it was just his damn pride getting in the way. Well, it was too late for that regret now. He’d tell her when he returned from Edinburgh.

But disquiet still lingered, gnawing into the edges of his mind, and he couldn’t dislodge the suspicion he was missing something vital. Something that would show her, without any doubt, just how dear she was to him.

The Small Isles. If he told her she could visit her isle whenever she wished, whether he accompanied her or not, would that be enough to show her he wanted only her happiness?

But still something did not feel right, and he gripped his fingers together as an inkling of an idea too outrageous to consider hovered just beyond his grasp.

And then it fell into place, and he exhaled a ragged breath.

She loved the Isle of Rum almost as much as she loved the Isle of Eigg.

And until he’d entered her life, Ranulph had planned to bequeath Kilvenie Tower to her.

Her own home, where she would be mistress and answer to no one, somewhere she could run along the beach if she pleased, and no one would condemn her for it.

The earl had appointed him custodian of Kilvenie Tower. He would transfer the custodianship into Freyja’s name. It wasn’t the same as her owning it outright, but it was all he could do to return what he could of her birthright.

The earl would not be happy. But then, the earl did not need to know everything. Alasdair found his writing case, went over to the table, and picked up his quill.

*

It had been a torturous night, filled with broken dreams and haunting echoes of the last conversation he’d had with Freyja.

As the first pale streaks of dawn illuminated the room through the gaps in the shutters, he remained in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to summon even a flicker of urgency to make haste to Edinburgh.

There was little doubt in his mind that Archibald planned to bestow upon him the barony of Glenchonnel. But no anticipation fired his blood. No fierce pride filled his chest at the prospect that his dream would soon be granted.

There was only a bleak certainty that the wondrous delight he had discovered with Freyja had irrevocably shattered.

Lately, he’d told himself he needed the barony because it was no less than she deserved. But Freyja didn’t care about becoming a baroness. It was all about his own ambition and burning need to prove himself good enough in the face of his peers.

But what goddamn use was that if he wasn’t good enough for Freyja?

“Ambition is not a bad thing.”

He’d said that to Lady Helga, the first time he’d met her, when he’d been sure she was judging him for who he was.

“I agree. But sometimes it can blind us to what is truly important.”

He hadn’t understood what she meant. What could be more important than acquiring power and prestige, of gaining the respect of those who had once derided him?

It was the only way he’d never be vulnerable again.

His ambition had fueled every breath he took, every action he’d taken, since he was nine years old. His loyalty to the earl was absolute.

But Freyja held his heart. There was no point in possessing a barony, or a dozen castles, if she wasn’t by his side because she wanted to be there.

How could he survive, knowing she was with him only because she couldn’t leave, if she believed he put Archibald before her, that if it ever came to a choice, he’d choose his half-brother over the woman who had transformed his life in ways he’d never even imagined could be possible?

And finally, he understood what Lady Helga had always known: Ambition was not a bad thing.

But it wasn’t the most important thing. And while his thirst for power had set him on the path to winning Freyja, if the choice before him was losing her and gaining a barony, or once again earning her respect and affection and turning his back on his half-brother, there was, in the end, no choice to be made.

Freyja was the one he’d choose. Every time.

She alone was his vulnerability.

Once he’d been so certain he needed to hide from the world how much his bride enthralled him. He’d believed it wrong that a woman could have that kind of power over a man. It wasn’t the way the world worked.

How sure he’d been of that. How wrong he had been. It was the way his world worked, and God help him, he’d have it no other way. But she didn’t know that. And she never would, unless he showed her.

*

He found the earl’s messenger downstairs, having breakfast with his men, and the man made his way over to him.

“Is all well?” he said.

“I must return to Dunochty.”

The man stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.

Maybe he had. And there was no guarantee Freyja would listen to him when he arrived home so unexpectedly, but that was a chance he had to take.

All he knew for sure was if he didn’t see her for another three weeks, the likelihood of her forgiving him was remote.

“But the earl is expecting ye.”

“Aye. But there’s a matter I must speak to my wife about.” He handed the man a succinct letter he’d composed before leaving his room. Archibald deserved that, at least. “Give the earl this, with my sincerest apologies.”

The messenger took the letter with obvious reluctance. “This is unprecedented.” He sounded vaguely unnerved.

“The earl is a fair man. He won’t blame ye for my non-appearance.”

With that, he turned on his heel, summoned his men, and departed.

*

It was midmorning when Dunochty came into view, and instead of the usual surge of pride that consumed him at the sight, only apprehension gripped his gut.

Would the gift of Kilvenie Tower, a stronghold that should, by rights, be Freyja’s anyway, be enough to soften her anger against him?

At least enough for her to listen to what he needed to say?

Christ, the things he needed to say. He hoped this time, unlike yesterday, he would be able to find the right words, so she’d know how much she meant to him.

As soon as he reached the courtyard he leaped from his horse and hailed a passing maid. “Where is Lady Freyja?”

The girl stared at him, wide-eyed, as though she had no idea what he was talking about. Luckily, Seoc emerged from the castle, and Alasdair repeated his question.

“Lady Freyja?” Seoc frowned. “But she left for the Isle of Eigg this morning, Alasdair.”

Blankly, he stared at Seoc as his words thundered around his brain. Freyja had gone to Eigg?

She had left him?

“What?” His voice was hoarse, and he only just stopped himself from grabbing the other man’s shoulders.

He knew, as laird, he shouldn’t allow his feeling to show so readily, but God help him, he couldn’t hide the cold sense of finality that slithered through his veins and squeezed his heart like the deadliest of poison.

“My lady planned to visit Eigg. She booked passage for this afternoon.” It was obvious Seoc had believed Alasdair knew all about that plan, and now realized he’d been in error.

If his world wasn’t falling about his feet, he would’ve felt sympathy for the other man.

“But then Colban MacDonald and his men arrived with word that Lady Helga was ill, and my lady left earlier with him.”

Lady Helga was ill? That would be reason enough for Freyja to depart Dunochty, but that wasn’t the case. She’d already made arrangements to leave before she had received the message from Colban.

Whatever her reasons had been, and unfortunately he could guess them, she was now facing the prospect of her beloved grandmother’s ill health. It wasn’t ideal, but since there was no other option, he’d join her in Eigg.

“How long ago did she leave?”

“A good two hours. But the wagon will slow them down.”

Aye. A wagon would slow them down considerably. If he left now with a fresh horse, the chances were good he could catch them at the port before they sailed.

He hailed a stable lad and while a horse was readied for himself, he prayed to God, and to Freyja’s formidable foremothers, that he hadn’t left it too late to try and make amends.