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As if sensing her gaze, he turned to look at her. The mirth in his eyes faded to something hotter. It was so intense that she had to look away, over his shoulder.
And there she found Ewan, leaning against the wall, nursing a cup, his eyes fixed on her with a dark, resentful look.
It was all too much. The noise, the smiles, Lady Moira’s expectations, Ewan’s open hatred. And Alisdair… he was definitely too much.
She was overwhelmed. Every emotion fought for space inside her without one ever winning out. Her breath came short, and her palms grew damp.
She rose from her chair and smiled at Lady Moira, so as not to worry her. She ignored the look Alisdair gave her and made her way to the side entrance.
A moment alone, that was all she needed. Just a moment to take a breath and put her mask back on. The mask of the happy bride, of the lady of the castle.
She found a quiet corridor and leaned against the stone wall, letting its cold bite ground her. The torches flickered, and the noise of the feast had faded into a low hum.
She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a deep breath. She felt full and empty at the same time, too many emotions battling for dominance inside her.
“Ye got this far, Isla,” she told herself. “Ye can do it.”
She was still leaning against the wall, eyes closed, when she heard heavy footsteps. She composed herself quickly. She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this, like a little girl cowering.
She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and wiped away tears she hadn’t even realized she had shed. She was ready to step away when Alisdair appeared around the corner.
She paused and took a deep breath. His body was blocking the corridor, and he looked straight at her with an unreadable expression. Was he angry that she left the table? Why would he come looking for her?
She tried to seem unaffected as he approached her, but her eyes betrayed her by roaming over his figure. He crossed the distance between them with long, deliberate strides. She felt the need to run, but whether to or away from him, she did not know.
“Are ye alright?” he asked, drawing closer. “Did anyone offend ye?”
His eyes were blazing with a fierce protectiveness that both scared and warmed her. His square jaw was set, looking more menacing with the dark beard shadowing it, and his brow was furrowed.
“N-Nay,” she said. “I just needed a moment. A little dizzy.”
“Lies. Ye havenae touched yer ale; I watched ye.”
“Ye did?”
The anger drained slowly from his body. But with that threat gone, a different one took its place, one far more dangerous to her sanity.
“Ye are me wife, are ye nae?”
His eyes narrowed on her, trying to decipher her, and she looked away. Perhaps he was trying to figure out if he trusted her.
“How noble of ye,” she scoffed.
His low chuckle echoed in the empty corridor, and she cursed herself for choosing such a remote place.
He took another step toward her. “So, tell me, wife,” he said, his voice a smooth challenge, “what made ye run away from our table?”
“I told ye I needed a moment.” She glared at him.
“Who kent that the lass who rode all the way from Sinclair Castle on her own could be timid?”
“Timid?”
“Aye, timid,” he said, towering over her.
“I am nae timid!” She lifted her chin.
“Perhaps nae,” he chuckled, “but ye are shy for sure.” He tilted his head and leaned close. “Or else why was our kiss at the kirk so brief, Isla?”
