Iain fell silent, studying her with a wounded expression that cut deeper than harsh words from him might have. “I’m sorry ye’ve hated being wed to me all these years,” he said with a gruff voice. “And here I thought ye loved me.”
Marion brought her hands up to frame his weathered face. “Don’t try to twist my words. You know very well I love you. Loving you does not mean I love the edict that brought us together.”
His hands covered hers, warm and familiar. “Then what would ye have me do, Marion? Defy the king? Risk our clan?”
“I want you to fight for our granddaughters as fiercely as you fight for our clan.”
For a moment, his expression softened. Then his jaw set, and he stepped back from her touch. “A ruler must know when to fight and when to concede, wife, and now is the time to concede. The lasses will wed as the king commands.” His voice had the unyielding tone he used when acting as the king’s advisor rather than her husband. “One of them will be chosen by Rory Matheson, and they will learn, as we did, that duty often precedes desire.”
“And will you tell them so yourself?” Marion challenged, her own voice rising. “Will you look into Lillith’s fierce eyes or Lenora’s gentle ones and tell them their hearts mean nothing compared to royal decree?”
“If necessary, aye, but not those words. I’ll tell them the clan is in danger of losing a great deal if we do nae comply. That they must do their part, just as I do in serving the king and serving in battle,” Iain replied.
She wanted to scream as she stared at her stubborn, good-hearted husband. She could see in his eyes that his own words troubled him, but he refused to acknowledge that truth. She had to find a way to get him to admit what he knew in his heart, accept it, and face what may come, together as a combined force, as they had always faced everything.
But now was not the time. She needed reinforcements and to strategize, so instead she nodded slowly as her thoughts tumbled. She needed to find her lady’s maid and write missivesto her daughter and to her daughter-in-law, Sebille, calling them to Dunvegan Castle to aid her, and one to her daughter-in-law Eve, to give her a warning of what was to come and tell her she’d be there soon with help from Elena and Sebille.
She could feel Iain’s steady gaze on her as she thought. She drew her gaze to his, seeing desire there even amid their argument. As much as she hated to use Iain’s desire against him, there did not seem to be a choice.
“Shall we make our way to the great hall for supper?” he asked, and she could tell by his gentle tone that he was trying to create a bridge between them. How she longed to walk across it, but not just yet. “I think perhaps I’ll make my way to the great hall alone and sit with the women tonight.”
Shock flashed in her husband’s eyes, then anger. He stared at her for a long moment before offering a curt nod. “As ye wish,” he said.
She didn’t wish it, the mule-headed man! He’d forced her hand. The battle for their granddaughter’s futures was not over. It was only just beginning.
Much later that night, Iain stared at the canopy above his and Marion’s bed, as sleep eluded him, chased away by the memory of Marion’s cold looks cast his way during supper. It seemed the distance between them would remain for a while.
Moonlight spilled through the window, bathing the chamber in silver light. The fire had burned down to embers that cast a faint orange glow across the floor but offered little warmth. Or mayhap the chill he felt came from within, from the absence of Marion’s body curled against his.
He turned his head to look at the space beside him. Her pillow still bore the faint impression of her head, and he resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. Pride was a stubborn beast,and her earlier words and accusations had wounded his. How could his wife not see that it was his duty to be the shield between his clan and those who would harm it? She vexed him beyond all reason, and yet, he loved her beyond measure.
“Damn it all,” he muttered into the darkness, tossing back the covers and getting out of the bed. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warmth that usually radiated from Marion’s side of the bed. He shrugged into his clothes and moved to the writing desk near the window.
The king’s words echoed in his mind as he pulled parchment from the drawer. What choice did he truly have? The lasses would adjust, as he and Marion had, as countless others before them had done. Duty before desire—’twas the way of their world.
And yet, the thought of Lillith’s fierce spirit broken or Lenora’s gentle heart crushed beneath the weight of an unwanted marriage made his chest tighten. Marion’s accusations rang true—he had been there when Royce promised his daughters they could wed for love. He had nodded his approval then, pleased by his son’s progressive thinking. Now he would be party to breaking that promise.
With a sigh, he quickly penned a missive to his son, Royce, explaining the king’s decree and the position their clan was in, and he told Royce he’d be coming home with Marion to discuss things. To his other son, Brus, and his son-in-law, Rolland, he also explained the king’s edict, and he asked both men to come to Dunvegan immediately to give their counsel and support in the matter and aid Royce and him in avoiding a female rebellion.
As he was sealing the missives, the bedchamber door opened with a soft creak. Marion stood in the threshold. She glanced at the missives in his hand and frowned.
“I see you’ve been busy,” she said, her words clipped.
Iain nodded once, refusing to justify his actions. “I need to find a messenger,” he replied instead, rising from the desk.
“You’ll find young Malcolm in the kitchens,” she offered, stepping aside to let him pass. “He was fetching a late meal for himself when I saw him a few moments ago.”
The civility of the exchange felt worse somehow than shouting would have. This cold courtesy between them was foreign territory, unexplored in all their years together.
“Marion,” he began, pausing beside her, close enough to catch the faint scent of heather that always clung to her hair. Words failed him then—apologies seemed hollow when he did not truly regret his decision, only its effect on her.
“Say nothing you do not mean,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on some point beyond his shoulder. “We’ve never lied to one another. Let us not start now.”
He nodded again, continuing past her into the corridor. When he returned from dispatching his messenger, he found her already in bed, lying on her side with her back to his portion. Her breathing was too measured to be genuine sleep, but he allowed her the pretense.
Iain shed his clothing and slipped beneath the covers, acutely aware of the cold expanse between them. No whispered good nights, no sweet kisses or gentle caresses. The absence of these rituals left him feeling adrift, unanchored.
He stared once more at the canopy above. He was weary, but his mind was active. His fingers itched to reach across the divide, to touch her shoulder or stroke her hair, but his pride held him fast. She would come around, he told himself. Once she understood the full weight of the king’s threat, she would see reason.
