Marissa reached out, careful not to let her hand shake as she plucked the piece of parchment atop the stack. It didn’t take her long to identify the broken wax seal she used on all her correspondence.
How did this brute get somethin’ with me seal on it?
She unfolded it, her eyes raking over the words written within. Almost immediately, her mouth went dry.
My beloved,
I hate that the only way we can correspond is by writing on this page. How I yearn to hear your voice and see the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. It is my sincerest wish…
She could not read any more. Refolding the parchment, she glared at him.
“How did ye get these?” she demanded, all pretense and decorum falling to the wayside.
These letters were not intended for him. They were not intended for anyone. The Laird to whom she’d addressed those letters did not exist.
“Is it nae clear?” the man asked, cocking his head to the side. “I’m yer future husband.”
Marissa snorted a laugh. “Ye are nay more me future husband than I am a bird.”
His eyes lit up with something that she couldn’t quite identify.
“I would be careful with speakin’ to me like that,” he warned, the challenge in his voice clear as day. “Ye dinnae ken what it does to a man.”
Marissa ignored his implications just as she ignored the way her cheeks flushed all over again.
“How did ye get these letters?” she demanded again. “They werenae meant for ye, so how come ye have them?”
Now it was the man’s turn to scoff. “If ye didnae want me to receive them,” he challenged, “then why did ye address them to me?”
Marissa shook her head. “The Laird I addressed them to doesnae exist!”
“Laird A. Reid?” he asked.
Almost as if on reflex, Marissa began to nod. But then she stopped. The man was staring at her expectantly, as if he’d given her all the information she needed and he was just waiting for her to put it all together.
I addressed those letters to Laird A. Reid. But the A could have been for any name. He’s sayin’ it was addressed to him. And that must mean…
Her eyes widened in recognition. “What is yer name?”
Marissa’s words were less of a demand this time. In fact, they’d fallen from her lips before she’d given much thought to speaking them.
“Me name…” the man said, taking a step forward so they were separated by only about a foot of distance.
His presence, which had been large when she’d first entered the room, was now almost oppressive. His grey eyes, which regarded her with all the passion of a tempest, sparked with amusement.
“Me name is Arthur Barkley, Laird Reid.”
Marissa’s stomach bottomed out at his words. She began speaking, but her brain was having difficulty forming entire sentences.
“They werenae… Ye cannae… Ye werenae supposed to be real…” Her sentences started and stopped with no real direction to them. Even she was having trouble making out what she was trying to say.
“Breathe, lass,” Laird Reid urged. “It will do nay one any good if ye pass out here on this rug.”
Marissa nodded. Her heart felt like it was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Her hand fluttered to her chest, and she worked to control her breathing as she made her way to one of the high-back chairs in the center of the room. Plopping down into it, she forced herself to draw in deep, measured breaths as she tried to get her heart rate to return to normal.
When she felt slightly more settled, Marissa turned her gaze back to the Laird.
“Those letters,” she began. “I thought Laird A. Reid didnae exist; the stories about him were too extravagant to be real. I thought he was just a cautionary tale. It’s the only reason I wrote the letters and sent them. I never imagined they would actually be delivered to someone.”
