Page 41 of The Highlander’s Fake Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #4)
O livia almost couldn’t believe she had made that shot. The spot she’d found wasn’t exactly as close to the market square as she had wanted, and climbing up the stonework onto a domicile’s balcony had only caused her dress further harm.
Seams had popped from her hem, and the skirt had begun fraying from rubbing up against said stone. She was somewhat disturbed how easily she managed to scale the wall, though such a short distance was child's play in comparison to MacCulloh’s castle.
Her biggest worry had been somehow shooting Arthur entirely by mistake.
But just like he did, Olivia bided her time, waiting for some form of opening.
Whether that horrible man, Marcus, would cause it, or Arthur would instigate it, she wasn’t sure.
But as Marcus lowered his sword, his guard, she knew her time had come. And, amazingly, she had made the shot.
Olivia watched as absolute chaos erupted below her, crouching below the balcony’s railing in an attempt to stay hidden.
As Marcus’ scream filled the air, Arthur became a living work of art, slicing through her traitorous clan as if he were decapitating a field of flowers.
His sword glinted against rays of sunlight, and as he practically flew across the ground, quickly closing the distance between himself and Marcus, Olivia couldn’t help but be reminded of their dancing during Rosie’s ceilidh.
The way he carried his powerful frame. The way his body effortlessly obeyed his every command, how his sword had practically become an extension of his arm.
For a moment, she could clearly picture herself in those arms, being led across the dance floor with the same level of confidence Arthur held on display now.
A rush flooded across her body, and she suddenly realized with a start that this, perhaps, was the feeling Arthur had been speaking of.
That feeling of life during a conflict that teetered on the brink of death; it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Finally, Arthur reached the end of the line, facing down Marcus with his blade pointed forward.
The traitorous laird had scrambled to re-adjust his grip on his sword’s hilt, but ultimately couldn’t manage it in time.
With one sweep of his arm, Arthur easily disarmed his opponent and kicked him to the ground, foot pressing against his chest while his sword pointed at Marcus’ neck.
“Arthur, wait!”
The voice pulled Arthur from his frenzy, and he blinked furiously, uncertain what he’d just bore witness to.
It had started as a flicker of movement from the corner of his good eye, and as he glanced up, he watched his selkie–an undeniable goddess of the sea–leap over the railing of a balcony and stick the landing without wobbling or stumbling forward.
For a moment, he could only take in the regal sight; his soon-to-be-wife, hair now a tangled mess of partially-done braids and face smeared in dirt, with an expensively-dyed gown now ruined by her roughhousing.
It was the fairest sight he’d ever seen, the most beautiful she’d ever appeared.
And it only got better when, upon landing, she immediately drew her bow and aimed it at Marcus.
Truly, his selkie had learned how to defend herself.
But then her words–her request–fully sunk in, and Arthur found some of the spark fading slightly.
He shook his head, pressing his foot against Marcus’ chest as the traitor gasped painfully.
“It’s been him, Olivia. He orchestrated all the suffering between our clans–the highlands are in this state because of him! ”
Arthur’s wrist twitched; a stream of blood ran down Marcus’ neck. If it wasn’t for Marcus, he wouldn’t have been trapped in an endless cycle of violence. He wouldn’t have needed to defend himself against Olivia’s clan–he wouldn’t have…have…
“Killing him willnae bring back me faither an’ braither, Arthur.”
Arthur exhaled sharply; it was as if she’d shot that arrow directly into his chest. He looked at Olivia, her expression wavering between stern resilience and heartwrenching empathy.
“Nay, selkie. But it will protect ye. This ends here.”
Olivia was more scared than she’d ever been before in her life. The terror of watching her keep fall apart, the panic of being chased through the woods, the eerie dread of drowning–none of that compared to this moment of breathless anticipation.
She watched emotions flitter past Arthur’s face–anger, despair, a desperate desire to fix everything–and she couldn’t say for certain what choice he would make.
His attention drifted back to Marcus, and he moved his arm, running Marcus’ neck through.
A gurgled stammering escaped Marcus’ throat, and then, his head dropped to the ground, body growing limp.
“I could have let ye live if ye hadnae threatened her,” he said as he wiped his blade on the grass.
She couldn’t help but gasp out a sigh of relief, legs trembling and finally giving out beneath her.
In an instant, Arthur’s arms were around her, his sword clattering to the ground as he caught her mid-fall.
They stared at each other for a long moment, the buzz of combat still audible in the air.
Olivia found it difficult to catch her breath, and the longer she looked at Arthur, the more she was certain he was feeling the same way.
A loud clamoring rang out from within the keep, and Olivia only now realized how much commotion their skirmish must have caused.
In a matter of seconds, hordes of warriors from each of the major clans came rushing in, weapons drawn and expressions aghast at the bloody scene.
Arthur pulled Olivia close to his side, his own face dark and lingering with murderous intent.
The lairds finally made their way to the front of the crowd. Hector had eagerly taken the lead, sword out and ready to swing into the nearest enemy. Duncan followed close behind, his sword lowered at his side, but poised for striking if need be.
“What happened here, Arthur?” Duncan spotted Marcus amidst the dead, eyes raising along with his sword.
“Given me an excuse to finally work the ol’ sword arm, he has!” Hector replied a bit too cheerfully.
Olivia immediately wiggled free from Arthur’s grasp, standing between him and the remaining two lairds. “W-Wait! Arthur had no choice–traitors from MacCulloh came to attack me once more.”
“But, Marcus,” Duncan began.
“Was behind this and the previous attempt on me life.” Olivia glanced back at Arthur, who looked genuinely surprised–genuinely touched–for her defense.
“Marcus also admitted he was behind all of yer feuds. He set Evander’s castle on fire…
And he had someone kill yer first wife, so that ye and Hector would go back to war.
He had some crazy plan to unite all the clans of Braeriach under his hand.
Arthur is nay the perpetrator in this horrible mess; he’s me husband to be. ”
Both Hector and Duncan exchanged questioning looks between each other. Hector looked devastated as he dropped his sword and faced her again. “Me sister…he killed her? He told ye that?” “He did. He blamed Duncan first and used Johnson afterwards when ye signed the peace treaty.”
Arthur sighed, his exhaustion suddenly made quite visible. “If ye must, lock me away in one of yer guest rooms, Duncan. But the lass is right.”
Duncan sighed. “Ye had to do this on yer wedding day, Arthur?”
“I like to keep the laird of Marsden on his toes,” Arthur replied with a fatigued chuckle.
Olivia immediately wrapped her arms around Arthur’s waist, glaring daggers at any man who got too close for her liking.
That was why she had tried to stop him in the first place.
To protect him. She didn’t need him to have any more enemies.
But the truth was out there in the open now.
Noone could touch him. And, much to her surprise, Arthur set a gentle hand against her head, a reassuring smile crossing his lips.
“It’s alright, selkie.”
As expected, the wedding was called off as they returned to the castle and the Lairds locked themselves up to the study to discuss.
When she was given a moment to collect herself, she was swarmed by Flora and Katie though it was Olivia’s mother who first hurried to her side, asking again and again if she was truly, sincerely alright.
“I’m just glad y-ye’re not cross about the dress,” Olivia admitted, her voice wobbling with tears that had threatened to fall throughout the rest of the day.
Her mother simply scoffed in reply, muttering something about utter foolishness and material things before pulling Olivia into another tight hug.
More than anything, Olivia wanted to know how Arthur was fairing.
The children had long-since been taken out of the keep, taken to the grove of rowans once Alison was told of the terrible tragedy within her own home.
The cooks had hastily packed a picnic from the wedding’s banquet, and the small group was accompanied by a number of Duncan’s best and brightest–there was no telling how far the murder plot stretched, how many of MacCulloh’s traitors still lurked in the shadows.
“I wish ye could come,” Rosie grumbled as the stablehands readied their horses.
“I ken, love. But Arthur needs me help here to clean up the mess.” Olivia smiled sadly, ruffling the girl’s hair with a wink. “But once we’re done, I’m certain Arthur will do whatever ye ask of him.”
“Really?” Rosie asked, eyes wide as her mind raced with possibilities.
“I truly believe that, Rosie-dear.”
Those were words Olivia held fast to as the afternoon tumbled into the evening. Belief was hard to maintain, but Arthur had been right; both lairds were reasonable men, and they would certainly believe the truth, once it was presented to them.
Nighttime fell over Marsden’s keep, and Olivia had nodded off on a chair outside the study. She only stirred at the sound of footsteps, immediately straightening herself, in hopes of seeing Arthur.
It was her mother, again.
“Perhaps ye should wait for him in his room. Ye shouldnae tire yerself like that.”
Or not. This was one time Olivia wouldn’t listen to her mother’s advice.