It seemed his bride-to-be was much more impatient than he was, though, because it only took a few moments before she heaved a sigh and began to speak.
“I needed a fake betrothal to deal with a personal issue,” she explained, her tone clipped and curt.
“And what was that personal issue?” Arthur prompted.
Marissa shot him a pointed look. “It’s personal.”
They stared at each other. Arthur wanted to see if she would cave. He didn’t like poking and prodding people to get his way, but it seemed like Marissa would require a bit more work than usual.
“A betrothal is also personal,” he argued. “And yet ye were throwin’ that around like it didnae mean a thing to ye. So, clearly, ye have nay problem with things of that nature.”
Marissa blinked at him. “Ye’re makin’ me regret even tryin’ to save meself. I should have just made up another lie. Made up another name. Why did I nae just write to Laird B. McDougal.”
Ah. So, whatever made her lie was puttin’ her in danger. She thought she had to do it to save herself. Mayhap I can use that.
He filed that information away before speaking again.
“Laird B. McDougal is a wizened old man who farts every three seconds. Smells like death. But if savin’ yerself is what ye were interested in, the man does command a vast army. So, mayhap he was a better choice.”
Marissa pressed her lips into a thin line, and he got the feeling that she was trying very hard not to laugh. But the urge won out, as a chuckle rose low in her throat.
Shaking her head, she looked down at her hands.
“I dinnae want to talk about it,” she murmured.
The reluctance in her voice was almost enough to dampen Arthur’s curiosity.
Almost.
“Whether ye want to talk about it or nae,” he said, working to keep his voice even and placating, “it’s somethin’ I need to ken.”
She opened her mouth, and for the briefest of moments, Arthur thought he had won. He thought that was going to be themoment when Marissa told him exactly why she had fabricated the lie.
But then her expression shifted. It went from one of defeat to one of challenge… and he knew. Marissa was not planning on answering his questions. Instead, she looked like she was poised to argue some more.
“Ye may as well tell me,” he interjected, not even giving her the opportunity to argue. “It’s yer fault that I’m in this mess, and ye lyin’ about this is the reason why I now have to deal with me council after returnin’ from the war. So, the least ye could do is give me an explanation.”
Her mouth closed, her jaw working as she considered his words.
He paused once more, settling into that quiet, stubborn patience that simmered within him. But, thankfully, it did not take Marissa long to consider his words.
“Three years ago…” she began.
He sat forward, placing his elbows on his thighs as he listened intently.
“Three years ago, there was a man. I was at a market, buyin’ ribbons and considerin’ flowers for me sisters, Freya and Abigail. He spotted me there. Claimed he fell in love with me, and that it was me responsibility to marry him, since it was me fault that he was besotted.”
“So ye decided to lie,” Arthur supplied.
It was not a question, but Marissa nodded anyway. Her short, auburn hair glinted in the sunlight that streamed through the window a few feet from where they sat. Curly wisps burned in the sunrays like golden flecks of fire as they framed her face.
“I did,” she continued. “He was so insistent that I marry him. He followed me home. He wouldnae leave, nay matter how much I protested. Freya offered to have me braither-in-law step in, and it occurred to me that he might respect another man’s claim to me more than he would respect me wishes. So I made up a laird.”
“Only, I’m real.”
Marissa rolled her eyes, prompting him to scowl. “Aye, we’ve well established that ye’re real,” she scoffed.
Arthur didn’t rise to the challenge like he normally would. Biting his tongue, he kept his gaze fixed on her face, waiting for her to continue. It didn’t take long before she did.
