Marissa’s cheeks flushed as she looked down at her plate “I dinnae ken about that.”
“Now isnae the time to be humble, lass,” Michael responded, waving off her words. “Freya has already told me the story, but I want to hear it from ye.”
“Why do ye want to hear me say it if Freya has already told ye?” Marissa mumbled.
She’d told enough lies tonight. And no part of her wanted to lie to Michael.
When the story had first begun to take shape, with Arthur masterfully weaving the tale that she would now have to claim, she’d thought it would be easy. But now, the reality of having to lie to all the people she loved, of having to make them believe her farce, was beginning to weigh on her.
She was suddenly very glad she would be leaving in the morning and would no longer have to keep up the ruse. At least, not in front of the people she loved the most.
“She only told me the basics,” Michael admitted. “But I want to hear the details. What was it like when ye met him? What type of man is he? What made ye fall in love as ye wrote to each other?”
Marissa’s mind began to race. It had been so easy for Arthur to talk about her. He’d read her letters, after all. Letters that she’d used to practice her storytelling, basing all the details on her own life and her own desires.
But she didn’t know anything about him. She didn’t know what his favorite color was, if he liked to read, if he liked to hunt, if he had any siblings.
How am I goin’ to pull this off? He’s goin’ to ken I’m lyin’.
Just as she’d crafted what she thought would be a sufficiently evasive answer, Abigail’s voice sounded from right beside her.
“Is that him?”
Abigail’s voice was high-pitched, drawing Marissa and Michael’s attention almost immediately. There was an edge to it that Marissa hadn’t expected, one that sounded almost… impressed?
Why would Abigail be impressed? Both Freya and I told her that he’d looked quite rugged and brutish when we’d seen him. I’m certain he?—
The thought evaporated, her mind emptying as she shifted her gaze and saw the man walking toward the head table.
At first, a flicker of disappointment rushed through her. She didn’t recognize the man now walking toward them. But then she looked harder. He was clean-shaven, revealing a sharp, chiseled jaw. His hair was clean, combed into submission and the ends still wet with the proof of a recent bath. But it was long and dark, curling around his shoulders just like Arthur’s.
And his clothes… weren’t they the same ones he had been wearing when he’d sat in the drawing room with her? They looked as if there had been an attempt to spruce them up a bit. There was less dirt and scuffs on them than before. But they were most assuredly the same clothes the Laird had been wearing when Marissa had first met him.
Her eyes darted up, landing once again on his face. Sparkling grey eyes met hers, swirling with the depths of a thousand storms.
Marissa’s stomach flipped as a knowing, sly smirk tugged up the corners of his mouth.
The man walking toward her was Arthur. And he was devilishly, unbelievably handsome.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Arthur’s eyes did not leave Marissa as he approached. He felt drawn to her. Pulled toward her like a moth to a flame.
Her hair, which had been unruly and wild when he’d first met her, had been styled in perfect ringlets that fell around her face. She looked so unbelievably lovely, and he couldn’t wait to speak with her.
He approached the head table, unable to look at anyone besides his betrothed. Her eyes were glinting with something he couldn’t quite place, but he couldn’t wait to talk to her and figure out what she was thinking.
A man’s voice sounded as soon as Arthur approached the table, and he turned his attention to him reluctantly.
“Ye must be Laird Reid?”
“Aye,” Arthur said. “And ye are Laird McEwan?”
Given where the man was sitting, and the air of authority that surrounded him, there was no one else he could be.
He nodded. “Me name is Michael.”
Arthur gave his own name, before extending his hand toward Michael. “Thank ye for lettin’ me stay.”
