“Highly unlikely,” Cairstine dismissed him. “Why commit us both to the future of unhappiness when we know that’s a probability before we even start?”
“Because that’s what’s expected of us, Cairstine. We don’t always get what we want. You want to talk aboot dreams losing their shine and your wishes. Well, what aboot when we have duties people expect us to fulfill? We were both born into the laird’s family, so it was never aboot our choice. Why do you think you should have more choice than everybody else? What makes you so special?”
“I never said I think I’m special. I just see a different duty to serve the clan ahead for me.”
“How the bluidy hell can becoming a nun in a covenant help serve this clan at all? It sounds more like you insisting upon getting your way, Cairstine. I never knew you were so self-centered.”
Fingal stormed away. He entered the pasture and called to his stallion, swung onto the animal’s back without a saddle, and charged out of the field, through the bailey, and out through the gates. Cairstine knew he needed time to blow off steam. It had been this way ever since they were children. But she regretted that they’d argued. They’d done that very few times in all their lives. Cairstine might have disagreed with him, but he was still a lifelong friend and family member.
Cairstine couldn’t overlook Fingal’s words. She knew she was being self-centered with her wishes, and she knew they didn’t serve her clan as much as she might want to argue that they did. She’d felt guilty about her wishes and the choices she was clinging to even before she spoke with Fingal, but this conversation upset her more than any of the previous ones. Somehow hearing the words and accusations coming from Fingal made their message even more real, even more significant.
Maybe I need to give up on what I want and accept what’s better for the clan. Who am I to insist my wishes outweigh the needs of my clan? There are plenty of other women who experience what I have and go on to become wives and mothers. They weren’t given choices either, and perhaps that’s not as bad as it would seem.
* * *
The next week dragged on for Cairstine. The endless rounds of Mass offered her too much time to consider her options and what choice she should make instead of what she wanted to make. Her father continued to send messages to various clans, seeking a potential husband for her. It was during an evening meal that she felt her world crumble.
“Laird Gordon would make you a fine husband, Cairstine.” Her father turned to talk to her and smiled. “He’s been a widower for several years. His sons are full grown, so you wouldn’t have children to raise nor would he expect you to bear him any. He’s well respected and would never harm you. That I can be sure of that.”
Cairstine’s heart sunk even as she recognized the truth in her father’s words. Andrew Gordon was the best man her father had proposed thus far, but the idea of marrying Andrew and living at Huntley with Andrew as her husband made her stomach flip, and not in the way it would if she were excited. Instead, she felt nauseous knowing that she would share a home with Eoin while being expected to go to his father’s bed each night. She couldn’t do it.
I have no choice. I have to get Eoin’s help. He swore he would come if I ask. I have to imagine that me marrying his father would be as unsettling to him as it is to me. If it’s not, then I know he didn’t feel the same way aboot me as I have grown to feel aboot him.
Cairstine nodded her head yes to her father. “I discovered he is a highly honorable mon and would make a woman a fine husband.”Just not me.“I will surely give that some thought, Father.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I intend to send him a missive within the sennight. I will draft it in the morning. We will host the Highland Gathering in a few sennights. We can announce your betrothal then.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cairstine rushed to her chamber as soon as she could leave the evening meal. She went to her trunk and pulled out a sheath of parchment, a quill, and a small jar of ink. She’d packed them away the last time she was there to make it easier for the servants to dust. There was no need for them to lay about when she wasn’t there. She sat to the small table and pushed her combs and ribbons to the side as she laid out her writing utensils. She tapped the quill against her lips. She considered what she should say. All she knew at that moment was that she needed to ask for Eoin’s help, and she needed to do it faster than her father could write and send his missive.
Who can I trust to take this? The only mon I can think of is Bram. But I don’t know if he would agree. I’m not scared that he would tell Father, but he may turn my request down. If that happens, then I don’t know who to turn to.
Cairstine put the nib of the quill on the parchment, the scratch of it moving across the vellum somehow reassuring that she could solve this latest problem.
Eoin,
I hope this missive finds you safely arrived at Huntley. I am settling back into my routine here with nearly as many Masses as at the priory. My father continues to suggest candidates for me to marry. It is with great trepidation that I learned this evening that my father is considering yours as a potential husband.
Eoin, I can’t bear the thought of becoming your father’s wife, having to come live in your home, seeing you every day. I can’t be bound to your father. Not after what we’ve done and shared.
Christine considered striking out that last sentence or starting a fresh letter, knowing that if anybody intercepted the missive, the last sentence would sound far more incriminating than she intended. But she wanted him to know even if she didn’t say it in as many words that their time together, the kisses and touches they shared, had meant something to her.
I cannot come to Huntley to not only become your father’s wife, but to become your stepmother. How can I become your stepmother when I’m younger than you are? The only argument I could make for marrying your father is you and Ewan are both adults, so your father already has an heir. He has no reason for me to bear him children, and I feel he is an honorable man with whom I could share my secret without fear of judgement. But that doesn’t make it feel any more right to marry him while living in your home.
My need to avoid a betrothal has become even more dire than before. My father has sent missives to nearly every eligible man in Scotland. My courtly reputation precedes me, for which I’m grateful, but if no one else accepts his offer, he will force me to marry Fingal. The man may be like a brother to me, but he will expect me to make myself available at his whim. Eoin, I can’t tell Fingal. He might never strike me, but he would never understand, and he would remind me of my shame every time I went to his bed.
I’m growing more desperate by the day, so I am asking you again. Please consider agreeing to a betrothal until my sister marries. I don’t know what else to do. My father intends to announce a betrothal at the gathering. I need to do something before then, so Fenella can wed and I can retire to a convent.
Yours truly,
C
Cairstine waited for the ink to dry before folding it and pressing heated wax to seal it. She contemplated waiting until morning to seek Bram’s help, but the dark would lend her stealth. She pulled her arisaid over her head until the plaid concealed most of her face, then she slipped from her chamber and made her way belowstairs, avoiding the wooden planks that squeaked. The snores of people bedded down in the Great Hall drifted to her, reassuring her that she would go undetected. She peeked around the corner, scanning the sleeping bodies for anyone who appeared awake. When she spotted no one, she crept to the kitchens then through the side door. She kept her head down as she crossed the bailey to the barracks, and prayed she’d remembered the correct day of the week that Bram stood watch. She’d considered it divine intervention when she realized Bram, the only person she trusted as her messenger, was supposed to stand watch the night she needed to dispatch her missive.
Cairstine stood near the door to the barracks, hiding in the shadows until Bram walked through the door on his way to the battlements.
“Bram,” Cairstine hissed. The man swung around, eyes narrowed and immediately suspicious. When he recognized Cairstine, his hand moved away from the dirk sheathed to his belt. He glanced around before stepping into the shadows with her. If discovered, it would destroy them, and Bram risked serious consequences. He may have been her guard since she was a child, but she was now an adult woman meeting a man in seclusion.
