He made a sound that she could only describe as a chuckle, but it was low and menacing. She had no trouble imagining it turning his enemies’ knees to mush if he laughed at a foe in that manner.
“I have nay worries, lass,” he said, his voice laced with dark, cold amusement. “Ye’ll nae be goin’ anywhere. Before our fifth night is over, I’ll have ye beggin’ for us to wed as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Heat flared in Marissa’s cheeks all over again, but just as she opened her mouth to tell him to mind his manners, the sound of footsteps rang out through the space. She nearly groaned, wanting nothing more than to have a few more moments to try and understand the Laird.
She glanced at the door, preparing herself to tell whatever maid had interrupted them to leave. But it was not a maid who entered the drawing room.
“Me deepest apologies!” Freya, Marissa’s older and heavily pregnant sister, announced as she breezed into the room in a swish of skirts. “I only just found out that me darlin’ sister has a visitor, or I would have come to greet ye meself!”
“Nothin’ to fret over, Freya,” Marissa assured, her voice light despite her mild annoyance at having been interrupted. “It’s all better, now that ye’re here.”
“Quite right it is.” Freya beamed at the two of them.
Marissa watched as her sister’s eyes, the same soft, golden brown as her own, swept over the Laird. She watched as Freya took him in, noting the moment his unkempt beard and dirt-smudged clothes registered.
Oh, she’ll have a fit when I tell her who he is.
“I’m Freya Hughes, Lady of Clan McEwan,” Freya declared.
Her voice had an uncharacteristic brusqueness to it, and Marissa had to stifle a laugh. Her sister had no doubt taken in Arthur’s appearance and marked him as some sort of savage.
Little does she ken that the savage will be her braither-in-law soon enough.
“And who might ye be?”
Freya’s auburn hair shone in the sunlight as she tilted her head to the side, still regarding Arthur with open curiosity. He pushed himself to his feet, the chair letting out a creak of relief now that his considerable heft had left it.
“Arthur Barkley, Laird of Clan Reid,” he announced, dipping his head in a reverent greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet ye, Lady McEwan.”
He noticed Freya’s eyes light up in recognition.
Freya opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Marissa interrupted her.
“He is me betrothed,” she blurted, pushing herself to her feet as well.
Freya, who until that moment had been focused solely on Arthur, whirled to face her. Her mouth dropped open in an ‘O’ of surprise, color rising high in her cheeks.
“Yer betrothed?” she parroted, her voice high and shrill as shock raced through her. “What do ye mean he’s yer betrothed? Ye didnae want to wed.”
Marissa felt the heat rising to her own face, a younger mirror of Freya’s. Her mind raced to come up with a plausible tale.
Stories typically came to her mind with ease, her tongue itching and her fingers tingling with the need to speak them aloud or to write them down. But, for once, at the worst possible time in her life, her mind was utterly and completely blank.
“We agreed it was best if she pretended she didnae want to be wed.” Arthur’s voice, deep and calm, filled the room, drawing the attention of both women. “Ye see, I’ve been away at war for quite a long time. We didnae ken if I would survive. And I didnae want her to have to deal with the whispers of others if they kenned she had been betrothed to a man who died at war.”
Freya’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, doubt plastering itself on her fair features. Her hand rose to her swollen belly, and she rubbed it absentmindedly as if trying to soothe herself.
“But if ye’ve been at war, how did ye meet? How did ye become betrothed?” Freya asked, the doubt clear in every word she spoke.
Arthur began to explain, the words rolling off his tongue so easily that Marissa could not help but be impressed.
“It was three years ago” he answered, his voice so even and so confident that one couldn’t help but believe him. “A few of me soldiers and I had fought in a battle nae far from here. We had to come to the village for supplies, and the lads needed to blow off some steam in a tavern. I came to the market to buy a few gifts to send home to me sister. I met her there.”
“It was the weekend after I bought ye the ribbons,” Marissa interjected.
Her sister had stood at the window with her, watching as that wretched man had followed her home and refused to leave. She would know the significance of the timing.
