“You have met him. He is a savage and barbaric Highlander. Your sisters have spent half of their childhood at the French court, when we were allies of the French king, and some of the past year at the English court, to please King Edward when he came to the throne. I do not think Margaret will be happy married to a Highlander, especially if he takes her to Islay to live.”
She felt so hurt. Did he know that when he spoke of Margaret’s happiness, it was like a knife stabbing through her? What of her happiness? He clearly cared about her sisters, and as clearly, he did not care about her. “But they can live at Tarredale and at Nairn.”
Sir Alexander stared closely at her. “Are you about to cry?”
She was choking on tears. She shook her head and managed to find composure. “What is she like?”
“Margaret?” He seemed surprised. “She is fifteen and very sweet. She is blonde and very pretty—but not as pretty as you.”
Alana rubbed her forearms. “But what is she like? What pleases her? Is she well liked?”
“She is skilled with the needle, and she loves to embroider and sew. She plays the harp beautifully. She has the voice of an angel. She never argues, and is fond of poetry. Everyone likes Margaret.”
Alana looked at her hands, clasped in her lap. She could not imagine Iain with a wife who played the harp beautifully, who liked poetry, and never argued. “And Alice?”
“Alice is dark-haired, although not as dark-haired as you. She is pretty, and very clever and very strong. She will make a fine countess one day.”
She could not stand it. He was so proud of Margaret and Alice—or so it seemed. “Does Alice like poetry? Does she sing? Does she voice her opinions?”
“She has a poor singing voice, she dislikes poetry and she is always ready to tell me what she thinks.”
Iain might like Alice—he might like her very much!
“You and Alice are very much alike,” Sir Alexander mused.
They were alike? Alice was a great heiress. Alice had grown up with both of her parents—in the lap of luxury, of privilege. She had spent half her childhood at the French court! She would be the countess of Buchan one day!
And she had never been molested by an older man—never been sexually assaulted by her own guardian. She had never been struck by her uncle.
Nor had she ever been jeered at by her peers, or insulted and mocked for being a witch.
Alike? They were nothing alike!
“I would like it if you met your sisters one day,” Sir Alexander said suddenly.
Alana slowly looked up into his blue eyes—the same bright shade as her own.Why?She almost asked. She wanted to scream at him, to demand why he had abandoned her. Why didn’t he love her the way he loved his other daughters?
Instead, very quietly, she asked, “Do they know about me?”
“No.”
She looked away.
“Alana.” He reached across the table and pulled her arm forward, taking her hand. “There is nothing I regret more than your mother’s death.”
Alana felt moisture arise in her eyes. She must not cry now. She willed the tears away. “Why?”
“I loved her.” He smiled. “I fell in love with her at first sight.”
Alana pulled her hand away and stared at him.
“You seem doubtful.”
“She was a widow for over a year when you met. If you loved her, why didn’t you marry her?”
His smile faded. “My father had already decided upon my betrothal to Joan. I knew of his wishes, and that I would one day wed her. But we could not ignore how we felt about one another. We never meant to fall in love, but we did.”
Alana did not know if she wanted to know more. And she hadn’t realized he had all but been promised to Joan at the time. She could only hope he had really loved her mother. And she desperately wanted to know what had happened when he had learned of Elisabeth’s pregnancy.
