Mother hesitated, clearly deciding how to phrase what she had to say. “Did yer father no’ inform ye, lass?”
Annista MacRowan shook her head. She looked more upset than ever.
Aye, so he was no prize. A second son rarely was and him no exception. But unless she wanted to end up like her sister—
He could scarcely tell her that, now could he? Nor could he tell her that he felt no happier than she about their situation.
Indeed, he’d hoped to marry—one day, a day far in the future when he could perhaps see his way out of their murky and tangled family circumstances. He’d hoped to marry for love if at all possible—one of the few benefits that existed for a younger son. Snatched from him now.
He grimaced savagely to himself. What, in God’s name, made him fool enough to hope for love? He had few enough examples before him. His ma cared about Da, aye. But he wasn’t sure but she cared for preserving his status more than his life.
Growing up, Alan could remember very few demonstrations of actual love between them. Partnership, aye, but that was all.
And Evan—what he’d observed between Evan and Robena could never go by so bastardized a name as love.
A fool he’d been for even imagining he could achieve anything different. And now that possibility had slipped from his hands.
Mistress Annista did not appear to possess any of the attributes he might choose in a wife. Angry and indignant, with a hard edge, and not even—
Well, he could not say but she was attractive, if not in a way that had ever particularly appealed to him.
“I must speak wi’ my father,” Annista said, a spark of what might be panic showing in her eyes.
She moved off from them and approached the men still in a huddle at the door.
Alan’s own anger rose. He did not want the woman, nay. But he was tired of being brushed aside.
He needn’t stay for this—this farce of a situation. He made to step away and his mother seized his arm.
“Please, Alan.”
He hissed at her, barely above a whisper, “Let Evan clear awa’ his own messes.”
“I would if I could.”
Lord MacRowan spoke to his daughter now, in an equally low tone, Alan’s father listening. She did not want to hear whatever he said and gestured dismissively at Alan.
It made him feel his lack of worth, so it did. The steer left in the pen at the end of the trading fair, the one nobody wanted. Inferior stock. Was that what she thought him?
Mayhap if the lass made enough of a fuss, she would get her way and he could escape this onerous duty. The thought crossed his mind that he could leave this place after all, pack up the few belongings that mattered to him and go make his fortune.
Only, leaving here—leaving Kallan—would rip his heart out by the roots.
Lord MacRowan took his daughter’s shoulders between his hands and spoke to her low and steady. Gazing into his eyes, she nodded reluctantly.
Alan’s heart sank.
All three of them walked to the hearth where Ma still anchored Alan with a death grip on his arm.
“Master Alan,” MacRowan said and gave Alan a brief nod. “Are we all in agreement?”
Alan, standing stiff as if made of iron, said nothing. He looked at his bride to be, who still appeared—
Rebellious. That was the word for which he’d been searching all the while. Was he prepared to take a rebellious bride?
“I ha’ a clergyman on hand and standing by,” Father said a bit too quickly. “He is no’ a priest.” He frowned fretfully. “I hope that will do.”
“We will mak’ it do,” MacRowan said tersely.
