Page 39 of The Highlander’s Fake Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #4)

A s Olivia made a few last touches to her appearance, she heard a pair of footsteps pass by her room.

She paused, hand hovering over her freshly-braided hair, and wondered if, perhaps, her mother had forgotten to include something in her look.

Or, perhaps it was Flora and the other ladies, hoping to get a sneak peek at the wedding gown.

Though, the footsteps sounded like they only belonged to one individual, and they seemed rather heavy for the ladies’ resigning in Marsden keep.

“Arthur…?”

It was possible, she supposed, that her soon-to-be husband wished to see her.

Perhaps apologize for the situation he put her in, assure once more that a marriage with him wouldn’t be the end of the world.

And, after discussions with her mother, Olivia wasn’t feeling as despaired as she was before.

Perhaps sad–mournful, still, of the child she wouldn’t have–but she did truly love Arthur.

And perhaps, at the end of it all, that’s all she really needed.

The footsteps continued past Olivia’s door, causing her brow to furrow.

“He didnae come in…?” She shook her head, feeling rather foolish after saying such a thing out loud.

“Oh, Olivia; ye daenae even ken it was him.” Still, something urged her to open the door and check, and thus, Olivia found herself crossing the room and pushing her door open, catching Arthur’s back as he rounded the corner of the hall.

Immediately, the hairs on her skin began to prickle.

Something was off about him; she couldn’t place it exactly, but the way he’d moved, the stiffness in his shoulder, didn’t seem entirely right.

Quietly, Olivia closed her door, mulling over her options.

On the one hand, it could simply be nerves talking.

He may have been mentally preparing for another meeting with the lairds, or was still thinking about ways to keep Olivia’s clan at bay.

“Or…” Olivia glanced under her bed, where another of her wedding presents lay.

Nathan had brought it for her from MacDonnell’s keep–a beautifully hand-carved bow and arrow set, made from the wood boarding the beaches and decorated in pieces of driftwood washed in by the sea.

It was meant to be symbolic, a reminder of where she came from and the perseverance that got her here, today.

Yet now, she was genuinely considering using it against another person.

Whoever, in particular, had put Arthur in such a foul mood before their wedding day.

Arthur did his best to keep his pace brisk, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but needing to get to his destination as quickly as possible.

The front of the castle was fairly empty, as most guests had already made their way toward the back for the celebration.

It was strange, walking through the empty streets of the keep.

If Arthur hadn’t known better, he would have thought the place were all but abandoned, inhabited only by the ghosts of past lairds and their clans.

Then, he saw it; the briefest flash of someone’s leg as they ducked behind a nearby vendor's stall.

Arthur gritted his teeth and followed after them, hand grasping the hilt of his sword while his mind settled into a familiar state.

Of focused intent, paying little attention to anything else but the task at hand.

The usual drive, the flair of excitement he felt when he spotted and began to stalk an enemy down…

it was entirely absent from his being. More than anything, he wanted this encounter to be done and over with as quickly as possible.

More than anything, he wanted to be at the ceremony, his beautiful bride revealed in her finest attire.

“Ah, Olivia, ye absolute stammerel–!” She swore as loudly as she could manage under her breath, the hem of her dress once more catching beneath her feet.

Olivia groaned, slipping her bow over her head as she bent down to try and knot her dress higher past her ankles.

The gown was breathtaking, yes, but for all that was good in the world, it was impossible to run in.

“In fair point, I wasnae meant to be running around in it,” Olivia reminded herself, freeing her bow once more before she continued after Arthur.

She kept a fair distance behind him, still off-put by the smoldering aura her soon-to-be exuded.

Not that Olivia believed Arthur would ever hurt her, but he absolutely would send her away, and something in her gut told her that would be an unwise option.

So, Olivia carefully plotted behind him, keeping herself to the shadows of buildings and vendor stalls.

Suddenly, his pace picked up and he took a sharp turn, leaving Olivia to scramble after in pursuit.

As she drew closer, she suddenly heard a number of voices, opting to drop to the ground and crawl beneath the covered table of the seller’s stall.

And now me gown’s smudged in dirt, she scolded herself. Even so, she shimmied her body as forward as she felt comfortable doing, just barely lifting the cloth to see whose voices she was overhearing.

Arthur pressed his back against a nearby wall, obscuring himself from the meeting taking place mere paces away.

Marcus was present, just as Duncan had predicted, but he was in conversation with a handful of men dressed in dark attire.

The briefest flicker of doubt crossed his mind–message carriers wouldn’t necessarily show their clan’s colors on full display while traveling–but Arthur’s suspicions were immediately confirmed once Marcus opened his mouth.

“Where the hell have ye all been?!” He spat absolute venom at the small party, hands against his hips while his usually calm and reserved demeanor gave way to an inexplicable anger. “I thought ye were sending far more of yer men to Marsden. Did I nay tell ye there would be multiple lairds here?!”

“Aye, ye did,” one of the man replied gruffly. “But ye also told us Laird MacDonnell would be too busy protectin’ that traitorous wench to be a threat.”

“He killed our first group without any help!” Another complained. “Yer message made it clear this would be easy!”

“And it would have, had ye nay footered about.” Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply before he spoke. “Ye had yer lass in yer hands, and ye decided to take yer time. Ye cannae blame me fer that.”

“We can blame ye fer not giving us all the information,” the first man snapped.

“MacCulloh’s keep is a fair distance to travel from Marsden,” Marcus retorted, explaining the concept as if trying to make a child understand it. “And the laird here has kin check messages before sending them out. What exactly was I supposed to write that wouldnae implicate us all?”

Arthur’s grip tightened, a rush of fire flowing from his chest and throughout his body.

With one, fluid motion, he stepped out from his hiding spot and drew his sword, cutting the closest member of MacCulloh’s without hesitation.

He flicked his wrist, blood scattering across the ground, and his eye immediately fixated on the traitorous laird, who seemed as equally stunned as the rest of the men present.

It took everything Olivia had not to throw up on the spot.

They were her people–her kinfolk–holding a conversation with an unfamiliar laird as if they’d been allies since the dawn of time.

The longer they spoke, the sicker Olivia felt; she was transported back to that terrible night, hidden beneath that cart as those loyal to her and her family were butchered mercilessly.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the lifeless eyes of the dead to leave her mind.

Then, a gurgled cry erupted from beyond the tablecloth, and as Olivia dared to peek, she bit back a gasp as Arthur flicked his sword clean of blood, standing like a specter of death beneath the corpse he’d just created.

“Marcus Hughes, Laird of clan MacGunn!” Arthur spat the title like it was venomous in his mouth, and Olivia watched as he shifted his stance in preparation for another swing.

One of her clanfolk lunged for him, and Arthur easily sidestepped the man, slicing diagonally across his chest as he crumpled a mere hand’s length away from his fallen comrade.

“Ye not only dared to plot me wife’s demise, but planned to do so on her happiest day? !”

Pride welled into Olivia’s chest, freeing her of the fearful haze she’d briefly been stunned into.

With a quiet grunt, she worked to crawl back out from beneath the table, bow in hand, and slipped off into the marketplace, eyes cast towards the sky in search of a higher vantage point.

Like hell she was going to stand by and let a stranger dictate her life.

“This is for the people who got me this far,” she swore under her breath.

Marcus drew his sword in an instant, the remaining members of MacCulloh charging in to try and attack all at once.

Arthur’s sword became a blur, clashing metal loudly ringing between his ears as the true fight began.

He twisted to the right to catch a blade, then the left to try and sweep at his opponent’s legs.

The pair stumbled back, catching their breath as Marcus barked out behind them.

“Ye make her sound far more important than she is, Laird MacDonnell.” With a wave of his hand, the men threw themselves back into combat, putting Arthur back on the defensive. “She just happened to stumble her way into the middle o’ things.”