Page 25 of Kilted Sins

“I’m glad I found ye,” said the woman as she came to a halt in front of her, thrusting the tray into her hands. Enya barely managed to wrap her fingers around the handles and hold onto it, eyes wide with surprise at the generous, yet unexpected gift. “I wanted tae thank ye. Me husband told me everythin’ ye did fer him. We’re both so grateful.”

“Yer husband?” Enya asked in confusion.

“Samuel,” the woman said. “He told me that ye helped him when he fell from the roof. He says without ye, he doesnae ken what would have happened tae him.”

Realization dawned on Enya and she instinctively took a step back as if to flee before she could stop herself. She never liked it when the people she had helped or their loved ones came to thank her, not because she didn’t appreciate their gratitude, but rather because almost without fail, she had to come up with an excuse for the reason why healing took such a short time. Though she had a roster of excuses to use, whenever Enya was under pressure like this, it seemed that her mind stopped working almost immediately, leaving her with little choice other than to stammer and flee as quickly as she could.

“Ach, like I told him, he was lucky!” Enya said. “I didnae really dae anythin’, I only made sure he could stand an’ the men took him tae the healer. It is Skye ye should be thankin’, nae me.”

“Samuel says ye helped him,” the woman insisted and it was then that Enya knew she was not going to avoid this interaction, so instead of trying, she surrendered herself to the fact that she would have to come up with a plausible excuse if the woman questioned her. “I thanked Miss MacThomas, but I wished tae thank ye, as well. I’m afraid I dinnae have anythin’ else tae give ye, but I thought ye might enjoy some o’ this.”

With a warm smile, Enya carefully balanced the tray on one arm and reached for the woman’s hand, holding it securely in her grip. “Thank ye,” she said. “It is more than enough. I only did what anyone would have done.”

“Nae everyone is as kind as ye, me lady,” said the woman. “But we are all glad ye are here. Ye’ll be a wonderful Lady of the Clan.”

Enya’s smile froze on her lips, her blood running cold in her veins, but she tried her best not to show any of it, even as guilt gnawed at her insides, making it difficult to breathe. All this time, she had been deceiving not only Cillian, but everyone who was part of his clan and they were all under the impression that she would soon be wedded to him. No one there knew the truth. In fact, no one but her and Thora knew the truth, and her sister was so far away. Enya longed to speak with her, to have someone who could share this burden, but the situation would only become even more complicated if Thora made it to Jura before Enya managed to convince Cillian he didn’t want this marriage.

Everyone here thinks I will be the Lady o’ the Clan. This woman . . . she even brought me a gift.

What have I done?

From the moment she stepped foot in MacDonald Castle, Enya’s only concern had been to save her sister no matter what it took, so she had never given much thought to the fact that the people of Cillian’s clan could come to care about her. Now that she was confronted with this woman’s kindness and enthusiasm, she couldn’t help but be flooded with guilt at the thought of the deception she was weaving.

“Ye’re very kind,” said Enya, for lack of anything better to say. “I hope… I hope I can live up tae yer expectations.”

The words were like glass in her throat, painful to push out. Enya gave the woman a small, shaky smile and hoped it would be enough to convey just how moved she was by the gesture while at the same time hiding the inner turmoil that she seemed unable to escape. When they parted, the woman bidding her goodbye as she turned to leave, Enya was alone once again in the hallway, with that gargantuan tray in her hands.

She looked down at it. The tarts seemed particularly fresh, as though they had just been baked.

I have nae one to whom I can turn. I have nae one tae talk tae about this.

Even writing to Thora was not an option, not only because Enya didn’t know where, precisely, she was—whether she was still with Ava or if she had returned home or even if she had begun the journey to Jura—but also because she didn’t want to risk the letter falling into the wrong hands and exposing her entire plan. Cillian knew some of it, of course, as he had figured out on his own that Enya was trying to put an end to this marriage, but she didn’t know how he would react if he found out her true identity.

In the grander scheme of things, she supposed it didn’t really matter. He had been promised a MacLeod sister and Enya was one of them. It wasn’t as though he had met Thora before or that he had expressed any desire to be wedded to her. And yet, a deception was a deception, and Enya didn’t want to complicate things further by accidentally revealing she wasn’t his true betrothed.

With a weight on her body that had nothing to do with the heavy tray she was carrying, Enya continued on her way to the drawing room. She had no appetite for the feast the woman had prepared for her, but at the same time, she didn’t want any of it to go to waste, so when she passed by one of the guards, she offered him a treat and asked him to call the maids.

At least then, someone could appreciate all the hard work that went into baking all those sweets and Enya could let herself be absorbed into the maids’ conversation, talking idly about Yule decorations and lush fabrics and extravagant hunts—all things expected of a Lady of the Clan. All things she was once going to ruin on purpose, just to rile Cillian up, but which now she couldn’t help but take seriously.

The frost had seeped into every corner of the forest and though the ground held only patches of snow, as most of it was covered by the thick branches which domed the entire area, creating a protective canopy of twigs and leaves, every step of Cillian’s horse was uncertain, the mare slipping over the frozen soil. Cillian had never liked venturing too far from the castle in deep winter. They all knew the perils of even a short trip, the way one careless step could prove dangerous, or even fatal. That day, though, he had no choice but to gather some of his men and head out into the woods, looking for the party he had sent to scout for places that could be suitable for the celebratory hunt.

A report had come in not too long after they had departed—one of the men had escaped to rush back to the castle and ask for reinforcements as bandits had attacked the group. Upon hearing the news, Archibald and Duncan wanted to assemble a party of soldiers and go after them, but Cillian wanted to go there himself. It had been a long time since bandits had been spotted so close to the castle. Eradicating them was impossible; there was always a group of them somewhere in the far reaches of the forest, waiting for unsuspecting or weaker travelers, people who would be easy targets. This time, though, was different. Not only had they come too close to the castle, but they had attacked his soldiers. They had attacked men trained in battle, their skills honed day after day on the training grounds.

It could only mean that they were either just as skilled, if not more, or that they were in greater numbers, and both scenarios sounded unpleasant to Cillian.

“Ye should have taken Archibald,” Duncan grouched as he pulled his horse right up next to Cillian’s. “I will freeze tae death out here.”

“I trust Archibald tae dae the right thing if somethin’ happens tae me more than I trust ye,” Cillian teased, just to see the indignant look on Duncan’s face as he turned to look at him in mock offence. “What? It is true. Ye would drink the clan out o’ wine.”

“But then I would still have the ale,” Duncan countered.

“An’ ye would surely drink that, too.”

“If drinkin’ makes me unfit tae be a laird, then I never wish tae become one,” Duncan said and though Cillian was staring ahead, looking for any signs of his men, he could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Dae ye ken what I think?” Cillian asked, sparing his friend a quick glance. “I think ye should be quiet. The brigands could be anywhere.”

“Even a fight would be better than this, me friend,” Duncan said. “At least it will get the blood flowin’.”