His heart stuttered in his chest. Of course she thought that.Of course.Jesus God, he was a bloody fool. She was no tavern trull to be ravished on the battlements. Of course she expected something more from him.
He let out a slightly incredulous breath. “Rose…”
She drew back as if he’d slapped her.
He reached a placating hand toward her, but she just stared at it, brows drawn together in disbelief and horror. He could see the understanding dawning in her eyes before he said the words.
“I will not marry again. I…won’t do that again, make that choice…”
“Aye. I understand.” Her words were crisp, frozen. She still stared stiffly at his hand. “You will breathe not a word of this…considering.”
“Of course.”Considering?Considering what? What did she mean?
Before he could ask, she turned away from him, a dreamer caught in a nightmare of his creation. He stood in the dark for a time after she left, until his labored breathing calmed and a more calculated anger at thewhims of fate smothered the flush of passion. He felt strangely hollow, detached from himself, as if he’d dreamed it all. He heard the approach of another man-at-arms, so he left, following her down to the hall.
The castle had come alive. The smell of cooking meat and bread being heated filled the great hall. Drake leaned against a wall, watching it all grimly. William joined him.
“It’s a wee bit crowded here, aye?” Drake said. “Mayhap we should be on our way. You ken who has arrived? It will be ugly.”
“I know, but I still have work here.”
His brother knew him well enough to realize that arguing was futile, but still he sighed dramatically so that William was aware of his displeasure.
William scanned the hall. All the fireplaces blazed, and torches lit the walls. The great wooden candelabras that hung from the ceiling by chains were lit with hundreds of candles. Rose and her sisters were absent, as were their husbands. A lass with her arms piled high with clean sheets and bedding hurried across the hall, disappearing into a corridor. Two other lasses sprinkled sprigs of herbs onto the rush-strewn floor. Two lads dragged a brass tub across the floor.
“You’d think he was royalty,” Drake murmured. He sent William a sidelong look. “You don’t plan to be standing here when he arrives, do you?”
“Aye, I do.”
Drake straightened from the wall to look at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious? Let him hear of it from someone else.”
“No.”
Drake swore and cajoled some more, but William remained adamant. Perhaps it was some penance he thought he deserved, but he had to see Rose’s face when she discovered the truth about him. He did not want her to hear it from someone else.
It seemed like an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—before Rose entered the hall, flanked by her sisters. William straightened from the wall, his mouth suddenly dry. She’d changed. The gown was sapphire and fit her body like a kid glove—the body he’d had his hands all over just moments before, which had flushed in passion and want. It was now wrapped coldly, beautifully, for another man. A single ribbon graced the delicate skin of her neck and chest, the silver locket resting against her rounded breasts. A blue-and-red arisaid swept over one shoulder, secured with a sapphire brooch. Her hair was down, cleverly braided at the sides with ribbons. It gleamed in the firelit hall, a long, sleek fall of amber and cinnamon. She was the most beautiful woman in the room—in any room that William had ever been in. He slumped back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his melancholy mood taking a black turn.
He glowered at her visage, cool and beautiful and proud. She was solemn and stiff, chin held high, the skin of her neck tight with strain. Her head turned slightly toward the door leading to the quay.
The hall fell silent, and William heard what had captured her attention—the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the steps from the quay to the hall. The man who emerged from the doorway was tall, his shoulderswide and heavy with muscle. He had a strong, tanned face women no doubt tripped over themselves for. A golden god, his thick blond hair—not a gray streak in it—was pulled away from his face to hang in a lovelock.
Roderick emerged beside him, nattering on, but the big blond man did not listen. His gaze scanned the hall, then stopped, arrested. William looked at Rose. She stared at her betrothed with wide eyes, hands clasped hard before her. A hopeful bride. William’s hand curled into a fist as the pointless anger rose again. It wouldn’t be long now. Minutes, seconds even, before he was introduced to MacPherson and everyone knew the truth.
The people of Lochlaire crowded forward to better see the reunion of Rose and her childhood sweetheart, reminding William of how many people would witness the scene that was about to transpire. A sobering thought. Perhaps thiswasunwise. Drake was right. He should leave the hall. Let her hear it from someone else. William moved along the edge of the crowd, hoping to disappear in a room or corridor unnoticed.
Jamie MacPherson crossed the hall, his stride eating up ground, his gaze fixated on Rose. Then suddenly he glanced around, and his pale eyes fell on William. MacPherson stopped. He pivoted toward William, peering at him in the dim light. Rose and everyone else in the hall turned to see what had engaged MacPherson’s attention.
William had wondered if the lad would even remember what he looked like. It had been a very long time ago, after all. But then, he supposed, one did not easily forget their father’s murderer.
Rose watched her betrothed’s approach, the whole while aware of William, standing against the wall. She did not want to be here, did not want to face Jamie tonight. She’d tried to plead illness and exhaustion, which wasn’t so far from the truth, but her sisters had convinced her of the importance of this moment, and so she’d allowed them to dress her.
She’d thought, on the battlements when William had embraced her, when he’d said such fine things to her, that she’d been wrong about him, that he didn’t think her a loose woman. That perhaps he too saw a future with the two of them together.
But she’d been wrong. He’d been ready to bed her, she’d seen it in his eyes, tasted it in his kiss. But he had no more use for her past that. Her humiliation and anger froze to hate. She hated him and men like him. Hated Fagan MacLean, hated his skinny wife and Fagan’s son, who’d used her just as William had intended to. But most of all, at that moment she hated her father for sending her to Skye and leaving her there and, when she’d escaped, sending her back. And even now, when she should well and truly be free of the MacLeans, somehow they still trapped her.
All of this swirled inside her, making her sick with suppressed resentment and fury and disgust. She didn’t want to marry and be touched by any man. They were all the same and she could not understand them, or how she could still ache for one of them so painfully.
Then Jamie had emerged from the doorway. She had not recognized him, had not seen in him the boy she’d once known. He didn’t even look like the miniatureshe’d so faithfully worn. But he’d looked at her with a sort of wonderment that had lightened her spirit somewhat. He’d known her before she’d gone to Skye; perhaps he still saw in her the girl she’d once been, all innocence, knowing nothing of the vile nature of men, nothing of hate.
