Back then, Marissa had only told her sister that she’d had a plan, but she’d never divulged what it was. For all Freya knew, Marissa’s suitor had simply accepted that she was not interested in marrying and had finally given up.
But this added news, much of a farce as it was, seemed to make things make sense for Freya. Her eyes went wide, and Marissa watched as she made the connection of exactly the time she was referencing.
“We met near the flower stall,” Marissa continued, hoping to provide just enough details that her sister couldn’t help but believe them. “Since I wasnae able to buy ye one the week before, I had gone back. But I ended up meetin’ Arthur instead.”
“We chatted at the flower stall,” Arthur picked up.
Marissa couldn’t help but admire the way the two of them were working together, seamlessly weaving a story as her sister stared at them, lapping up every word.
“For nearly a half hour we stood there, discussin’ the blooms. We agreed to write to each other, and we became pen pals in a way.”
“Those letters ye were always sendin’ out…” Freya’s words were hushed, spoken as if they were meant for only herself.
But, finally, it was something that Marissa could reply to without having to lie.
“They were for him,” she explained, and her sister nodded.
“We were friends for nearly two years,” Arthur continued in a steady tone. “I got to ken more about her. It wasnae until a littlemore than a year ago that we realized we’d come to care for one another as more than friends, and we agreed to wed.”
“But ye were still at war,” Freya murmured, swept up in the story Marissa and Arthur were weaving for her.
Arthur’s expression was still grave as he nodded. “Aye. And I already explained why we agreed to keep it to ourselves. We didnae ken if I’d ever return. But I did. Marissa herself couldnae have written a better story.”
Marissa’s mouth dropped open. She’d never told him that she was a writer. Had not even alluded to it throughout their conversation.
Arthur’s sharp gaze flicked to hers, a knowing look dancing in his stormy eyes. It made Marissa want to demand how he knew that. How did he know such a specific detail about her when they’d only just met?
But she couldn’t question him in front of her sister.
Speaking of Freya. Apparently, Arthur’s last comment, the acknowledgment of Marissa’s passion for writing, had been all she needed. Any final shred of doubt had vanished from her face.
“It’s so romantic,” she half whispered.
Marissa had to hide a laugh by forcing a cough when she noticed her sister’s eyes had welled with tears.
Apparently, she hadn’t done a good enough job of hiding it though, because Freya’s eyes flashed as they landed on her.
“Dinnae laugh!” she scoffed, swiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “It’s this bairn in me belly! Got me all out of sorts!”
“It’s sweet,” Marissa offered, giving her sister a wry, apologetic smile.
“So is yer story,” Freya said pointedly.
She walked forward, taking Marissa’s hands in her own. She rubbed the backs of them with her thumbs—something she’d done since Marissa had been little.
“This is what ye want?” she asked solemnly.
Marissa didn’t give herself time to hesitate as she nodded.
Her sister’s eyes flicked to the Laird as she let go of her hands.
“Then we must celebrate!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together excitedly. “I’ll throw a feast tonight in yer honor, and ye can stay here for the night. I’ll have me servants prepare a room for ye.”
Arthur opened his mouth, no doubt to protest.
Freya was stubborn during the best of times. But while she was pregnant, there was not a soul on this earth that could sway her once she set her mind to something.
Seeming to sense what the man was about to say, she put her hand up before his lips could form the words.
