Christina had been ordered to appear in MacDonald’s solar before the midday meal, uncertain of the fate that awaited her. Meaning that by the time she arrived, she was a tightly coiled bundle of nerves.
Outside the door, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of her sapphire silk cote-hardie anxiously, took a deep breath, and knocked. Bid to enter, she drew back her shoulders and—attempting to hold her head high—walked into the room.
Her bravado faltered immediately, her frazzled nerves coiling a little tighter. The room was small and dark, and hardly seemed big enough for one man to hold court let alone the four hulking warriors—and one bishop—gathered around a table, all watching her intently. She looked to her father, but his dark, somber expression gave no hint of what was to come.
She managed not to shuffle or fidget, but it was impossible not to be intimidated. She had the distinct feeling of a child being brought before her father for punishment, but instead of one judge, finding a tribunal. And it wasn’t simply punishment for a minor transgression but her future that hung in the balance.
In addition to her father, she recognized MacDonald, his pirate-looking henchman, the bishop, and, of course, the MacLeod chief. Whether his presence was a good or bad sign she didn’t know.
Though she was careful to avoid catching his gaze, she was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny. Not usually vain, she felt a smidgen of vanity now, aware that she looked horrible. Despite the cold water she’d dunked her face in that morning, the ravages of tears had been wrought on her face in swollen, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy, sallow skin.
Knowing that she didn’t look her best didn’t exactly give her any much-needed confidence. The dead silence in the solar didn’t help any either.
Not sure where to look, she kept her eyes fastened safely on her toes.
It was MacDonald who spoke first. He was seated on the long side of the table with Lamberton beside him and the blond giant of a henchman directly behind him, standing guard. She supposed she was grateful that the room was not large enough to hold any more of the Island chiefs’ large retinues. Both MacDonald and MacLeod had at least a dozen men that formed their personal guard. Not surprisingly, her father and MacLeod sat at opposite ends of the table, leaving as much distance between them as possible.
“No doubt you are aware of why you are here,” he said.
She nodded, her heart jumping with anticipation, knowing that the time had come. She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak, as she waited.
“Your father and MacLeod have come to terms, and under the circumstances, we think it’s best if the betrothal is a short one.”
Betrothal. She sucked in her breath. He’d agreed to marry her. The wave of relief that crashed over her was surprisingly strong—she’d wanted this more than she realized.
Beatrix was right. And she herself had been right about him. Even in the face of her father’s treachery, honor had won out.
Perhaps behind the cold façade beat the heart of a gallant knight. And maybe he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he appeared.
Her heart took a little leap. But then she chanced a glance in his direction and his expression put a hard check on her wild imagination. The knights in her books brimmed with charm and devotion to their lady, but there was nothing charming about this fierce barbarian warlord, and certainly nothing resembling devotion in his penetrating blue gaze. His expression was as hard and inscrutable as usual.
His thoughts about this marriage were impossible to fathom. If she hoped for a small sign of encouragement, she wouldn’t find it from him.
Deflated, she shifted her gaze back to MacDonald. “I see,” she said uncertainly.
It was the bishop who gave her an encouraging smile. She latched onto the small kindness like an anchor. “I will take care of the necessary dispensations,” he said, “as we don’t want to wait more than three weeks for the banns to be read.”
“The contracts will be signed and the ceremony can take place immediately thereafter,” MacDonald added.
“Tomorrow,” the MacLeod chief said flatly, the first word he’d spoken since she entered the room. “I must return to Dunvegan as soon as possible. I’ve delayed too long already. We will leave immediately following the ceremony.”
She blanched. “Tomorrow? But, I …” her voice dropped off. Her hands twisted. This was all happening so fast.Toofast.
“Everything has been agreed upon,” her father said brusquely, his annoyance with her reaction obvious. “You need do nothing.”
Lamberton gave him a scathing look, and then leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, child? You’ve been ill used in all of this, and despite what’s been decided here today, I’ll not see you forced into marriage.”
“She’ll do what she’s told,” her father said angrily.
“Enough,” MacLeod boomed. “Let the lass speak. She can answer for herself.”
Christina didn’t know whether to be grateful or not. His gaze was utterly inscrutable, so she focused her attention on the bishop’s kind face. Having never anticipated that she would have a voice in the matter, the unexpected opportunity gave her a reckless idea. A way to protect herself if she was wrong.
She swallowed. “Aye, I will marry him.”
The men visibly relaxed.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to the MacLeod chief. “But I would ask something of you in return.”
