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Ó Riagáin shook his head, “Matter of fact, I prefer ye being how ye are. It gives me hope that, God forbid, if anyone dares to try and take ye like they did to me—” He broke off abruptly and she saw raw pain tighten his face and darken his eyes.
Olivia felt her jaw stiffening as well; she knew quite well about the words he had not spoken— his missing mother and sister and that Ó Riagáin still believed her clan to be responsible. Her head turned to the side, to give Ó Riagáin a measure of privacy. Secretly, she doubted the two women were still alive after nearly ten years.
“Ye daenae have to say it,” she murmured.
He said it anyhow, but his tone was hard and unforgiving, and she wondered how much of that pain was directed at her, “Me maither and sister being taken from me, from me home, from under me watch.”
This time, Olivia was grave, “And ye still think me faither had a hand in it.”
His gaze pinned hers. “There is nay other explanation. Yer faither had come to put up a resistance to the treaty, but it was only after I managed to change his mind that he decided to agree. All that time he had used to defer on the decision was time the abductors could have come and gone. And because of the damned treaty, there was nothing I could have done against yer faither for it.”
“It’s a lie, me faither had nothing to do with it,” she said.
His eyes cut into hers. “And how d’ye ken that? Ye were a child when it happened.”
“I was old enough to ken that it dinnae happen,” she said, feeling it her duty to defend her father, and her clan.
His face took on the consistency of stone, as was his tone. “I have nay other enemies except yer faither, and nay other person was in me castle or in my grounds at the time. I have gone over those twelve hours incessantly, picking through every detail of it, nay matter how tiny or seemingly insignificant it was.”
“But—”
Ó Riagáin shot up, his arms dropping to cage her where she stood against the window. His face was a mix of insult and rage and Olivia’s gaze was trembling with the force of her hurt pride, her body as tense as a bowstring.
With his eyes a hairsbreadth away from her, she was not prepared for how her heart leaped into her chest. His harsh breathing skittered over her cheek before the passion in his eyes vanished and his face went still. It was as if an impenetrable wall slammed down behind his eyes while his jaw twitched.
“Nay buts,” he growled, his voice as cold as a winter storm. “There is nay other explanation.”
Swallowing tightly, Olivia knew it was not wise to try and change his mind. What good would that do when he had already fixed it in his mind? Ó Riagáin stepped away and scrubbed his hands over his face, as a tense silence descended between them.
“I’ll leave ye be, lass. Yer maid will be along soon, I expect.”
He stood and then, with a parting bow, left the room. When the door closed behind him, Olivia slumped into her seat—the man was still hurting. It was as clear as day to see the pain etched into his face, but it was not only that his family had been taken from him. No, she sensed that he was stuck in a void, unable to accept it. He did not know whether they were alive or dead and so he felt trapped.
Perhaps he is still searching. I would too, if I were him. But what shall I do about this… attraction?
* * *
Notching her head up, Olivia walked into the meeting room dressed in a dark green arisaid and a pale green kirtle, with her plaid pinned at her shoulder by her clan’s brooch. Her hair was tied in a circle around her head with her long pin stuck between the dark strands. She had Ó Riagáin’s promise that she was safe in the castle, but she was not going anywhere without her weapons.
Even as she walked, she felt the rub of the leather sheath, holding her daggers, against her ankles. Walking into the room, Olivia knew she was going to be met with hostility. For as long as the two clans had occupied Scotland, they had been at war. Elders had long memories as far as she was aware.
Seven elders sat around the table, three wizened women, four men, all wearing some variation of the Ó Riagáin green and gold tartan. One of the women, Olivia noted, had white, murky eyes—she was blind, but that did not stop the hateful, wary, and uninviting glares shot at her as she came into the room. As she stopped a few feet from the table, Ó Riagáin turned from the window.
Before he did though, his body, framed by an unusually tall bow window, had looked... alone. As if he carried the weight of the dark heavens upon his broad shoulders. Pity rested resonant on her chest—but when he turned, his face was fixed.
“Members of the council,” Ó Riagáin said calmly; he did not even look perturbed about the looks she was given. “I am sure ye are aware of the edict given by our king. As ordered, the marriage between Lady Olivia and I will be done in three days’ time and—”
A shout from the doorway had her turning, just as Ó Riagáin yanked her behind him and a guard slid out his sword.
“Ye cannae go inside there!” someone shouted.
“The Devil I cannae—” her father’s voice had both her and Ó Riagáin’s shock dropping. “Me daughter is in there. Let me pass, boy, or I willnae be responsible for me actions!”
Ó Riagáin stepped forward and yanked the door in, then stood as Niel stomped into the room, “Ó Riagáin, why did ye nae tell me that ye were attacked on the way here!”
“I sent ye a missive this morning,” Ó Riagáin said calmly.
“Aye,” her father grated. “But t’would have been better if ye had sent it last night!”
