Safety for herself and her sisters. Her family’s legacy secured.
Phileas’ tone was gentler than that of his fierce son’s.
“It is the only way to protect both our clans,” he said. “A man who would kill his own kin to take control of his lands? A man who would demand to wed his own kinswoman?”
Ailsa flinched. She’d not focused on that part of this whole mess. She’d been thinking of Gordon as her parents’ murderer exclusively, but he was her—she shuddered to think of him thusly—uncle, too.
She might not claim him. She would never claim him. But blood didn’t lie.
“No,” the Laird continued. “That is not a man we can suffer to remain in any sort of power. He must be stopped. For the sake of you and your sisters, for the sake of your people, and for the sake of mine.”
Ailsa swallowed.
“Very well,” she said, proud that her voice came out steady. “What do we do, then?”
The Laird settled back in his seat with a paternal, self-satisfied air.
“We plan a wedding. For two days hence.”
Two days?
A surge of something that felt like panic coursed through Ailsa. It was ridiculous, of course, the sooner she was married, the sooner she would be safe.
But two days… It was a very short period of time.
She hated that part of her; the part that recalled all too well how it had felt to kiss Ewan, thrilled at the idea, even as the rest of her felt overwhelmed with the events of the past several days.
The urge to run was so strong that she barely managed to stammer her excuses before she fled.
“I-I understand. But if ye will pardon me?—”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Her breaths came fast and frantic as she moved blindly through the stone halls of the Keep. She didn’t even know where she was going, but it didn’t matter. As long as it was away; away from all these things that kept happening, all these decisions she kept having to make, away from the feelings she kept having.
“Ailsa!”
But of course Ewan—stubborn, fierce Ewan who had never met a problem he didn’t wish to face head on—couldn’t let her escape.
However, Ailsa had her own stubbornness. She kept going.
“Ailsa, stop. Christ, woman, would ye?—”
His words cut off as he grabbed her around the upper arm, his grip unyielding but not harsh.
“Ailsa.” When she didn’t look up at him, he touched two fingers gently under her chin, tipping her face up, until she had no choice but to meet his intense gaze. “I know it’s nae what ye planned, but it shall be fine.”
She wanted to believe him, she truly did.
She didn’t think she could, but she still let the littlest, tiniest part of herself sink into his words, let just a fraction of herself take the comfort he offered.
“It’s just all happening very quickly.”
“I know,” he soothed. “And I’m sure ye are displeased that ye willnae have a fine gown, and that we shan’t have time to send invitations?—”
“What?” Ailsa recoiled from the gentle touch on her face as if he’d slapped her. “Ye think I’m concerned about adress? About having the rightguests?”
She shook her head. This was why she couldn’t afford to take any of his comfort. Because he didn’t know her.
