The cold certainty in her voice chilled him to the bone. She’d cut him off. He reached for her, but she recoiled from his touch. His chest twisted at her rejection, and he dropped his hand to his side. He would make it up to her. She just needed time.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t look at him again, but turned on her heel and left him—alone and emptier than he’d ever felt in his life.
The ceremony and feast passed in a haze. Sitting at the dais that had been set up for the celebration, Flora watched the festivities taking place before her, but they sped by in a blurred whirl of color.
She was detached, an observer. She felt cold and empty, like a marble statue on display.
Not once did she give a hint of the bitterness and heartbreak churning inside. She’d plastered a serene smile on her face and weathered the storm of congratulations from the seemingly endless stream of well-wishers that passed before the table. Only Rory and Mary had sensed there might be something wrong. But she’d dismissed their concerns with a plea of exhaustion—from all the excitement.
Sitting next to him was excruciating. Her unrelenting awareness of him seemed yet another betrayal. That her body could still crave him after what she’d learned was shameful. Every word of their confrontation seemed branded on her consciousness. He’d arranged their marriage with her uncle, tricked her, and then lashed out at her, accusing her of being selfish and not seeing reality. Had he actually thought she would understand that he’d used her?
She’d avoided his gaze all day, not daring to look at him—her husband—because then she might fall apart. Might give way to the agony she’d bottled up inside when she’d realized that she had to go through with this. What should have been the happiest day of her life had turned into a slog through hell. A cruel farce of what might have been.
But it wasn’t over. Not yet. She would do her part, but that was all.
So she’d suffered through the agony of her own wedding feast, waiting for the moment when she could leave.
The sounds of revelry seemed smothering: the laughing, the dancing, the lilting sound of the pipes. It was too much. She couldn’t bear another moment.
She stood up, legs unsteady. The strain of the day seemed to overwhelm her at once. It had taken every ounce of her strength to make it to this point, and she felt she might crumple to the floor in a sobbing heap at any moment. She’d lost everything.
“I find the excitement of the day has gotten to me,” she said to Lachlan on her left and her cousin on her right. “I think I shall retire for the evening.”
Argyll frowned. “You look a little pale and have seemed a bit subdued all day. Is something wrong?”
Everything. After what he’d done, her cousin’s concern seemed laughable. Argyll had played just as much a part in this as Lachlan. The difference was that from him, she’d expected the manipulation.
“I’m fine,” she said a bit too harshly. Then, seeing Lachlan stiffen at her side, she said more evenly, “Nothing that a good night’s rest won’t cure. I’ll send for the healer and see if she has something that might help me rest.”
Argyll gave Lachlan a knowing look. “Rest?” She heard the amusement in his voice. “I’m sure your new husband will ensure that you are well rested.”
Lachlan ignored Argyll’s suggestive remark and gave her a meaningful glance. “I will send for Seonaid and join you soon.”
She bit back the angry retort that sprang to her lips. If he thought…She stiffened.Never.
Aware of their audience, she forced a brittle smile to her face. “No need to rush.”
From the angry flicker in his eyes, she knew he understood.
It was a few hours later when Lachlan made his way up the tower stairs to Flora’s chamber. It had been one of the most difficult days of his life. The only bright spot was the moment Argyll had handed him the writ. Even now, Allan and a group of guardsmen were preparing to ride to Blackness. If all went as planned, John would be back at Drimnin by sunrise. Only the fact that it was his wedding night prevented him from joining them.
Watching Flora float through the day as if she were a ghost had been hell. Each time she’d forced a shaky smile to her lips was like an arrow darting in his chest. All he wanted to do was enfold her in his arms and soothe the hurt, but he was the last person she wanted comfort from.
She’d looked heartbreakingly beautiful, like a faerie princess in her golden gown and jeweled headpiece. But never had she looked more fragile. As if she were a piece of decorative glass that might break if touched.
And she hadn’t worn the shoes. The rejection of his gift stung because he knew it was not the slippers she rejected, but him.
He’d expected anger, but not this haunting cold resolve—cold resolve that was infinitely more worrisome because he didn’t know how to break through it. He’d never felt so damn helpless. It was almost as if she’d cut him out of her heart.
He wouldn’t believe it.
Once he held her in his arms again, it would all come back. She would never be able to deny what was between them. She was angry, hurt, and stubborn—not a promising combination—but he would make her understand. They’d taken vows, after all.
He stood before her door. For a moment, he hesitated. Perhaps he should give her some time and let her rest tonight?
No. No matter how it had happened, they were man and wife. The sooner she realized there was no changing that fact, the better. He couldn’t take the chance that she would slip further from him. This was their wedding night.
