The air inside the church where the crowd was whispering and gossiping wafted over her as she lingered right outside the wide-open main doors, hot waves that made it difficult to think. What were they saying? Why were they all staring?
From behind her, right inside the narthex, she heard her father turn his fury onto poor Rabbie who was bent over, his hands on his thighs. Bright red pinpoints alighted his sweaty cheeks. His wild hair matched his windblown tunic.
He had ridden like a fury to reach them.
“What do ye mean, he’s gone? Where’s he gone?”
“’Tis just it,” the lad responded, having caught his breath. “He’s gone. No one knows where he is.”
Seamus’s confused fury faded into the background as Adaira tried to understand Rabbie’s words.
A low grumble reached Adaira’s numb ears, drowning out all other sounds. Every part of her was numb. This surely was not happening. It must be a nightmare and she’d wake from this distressing dream.
Wake up, Adaira! Wake up for your wedding day! ‘Tis a dream, naught more!
The rumble broke through her clouded mind — Reade’s deep voice, commenting on the news. “I’m no’ surprise, the feckin goat’s arse.”
“Reade, that does no’ help,” Sorcha chastised him.
Reade’s insult was not part of her dream. His harsh words were reality, the truth of how he felt about Sawny.
Nay. ‘Twas no dream . . .
Reade would not be silenced. “Mother, I dinna care. The man has been a lawless rogue since the day he was born, and we trusted him with Ada’s heart? Her care? The future of Highland politics? What were ye thinking?”
“Reade!” her father shouted. Now her brother would be silenced. Seamus brokered no contrary words when it came to his wife.
The fighting behind her fell again into a steady din as Adaira stared into the distance, as if she stared hard enough, she could make Sawny appear. That if she just focused long and hard, she’d see his wolfish grin and easy stride kicking up dust around his boots as he approached her.
But the dirt did not move. Nothing on the horizon. Nobody walking down the road.
The bright spring light started to gray around the edges, and the last thing she heard before the ground slid out from under her feet was her mother calling her name.
When Adaira opened her eyes, she was no longer at the church. Her wedding gown was a rumpled mess around her legs and hips where she lay.
Where was she laying?
A bed, but not her bed.
She turned her head toward the voices drifting into her slow understanding. Her vision slowly brightened. The voices were a mix of anger and concern, and her name was mentioned more than once.
Hers and Sawny’s.
Sawny!
She sat up quickly, too quickly, and her mind spun again.
Sorcha was immediately at her side, patting her mussed hair that fell around her shoulders.
“Are ye well, lass? Ye had a bit of a spill.”
Someone must have caught her, because she did not hurt or ache. Not her head or skin, at least. Every part of her insides hurt, conversely, like her insides were decaying.
“What about Sawny?” Adaira asked. “What’s happened?”
Sorcha, normally so strong, so controlled, dropped her deep green gaze to Adaira’s mussed skirts. She traced one slender blue line with her fingertip.
The rest of the voices in the room fell silent at Adaira’s question. Sorcha cleared her throat.
