It mattered not. Nothing mattered any longer.
Her life was over with.
2
The next morning, Ferra dressed in her most somber attire, pulling her hair up in a severe bun that did nothing to help the paleness of her face. She hadn’t slept well after her mother had visited her, holding her while she cried before helping Ferra pack her belongings. It seemed that her new soon-to-be husband was eager to get back to his lands, and after the simple binding ceremony, they would leave for his home.
She had no time for anything, and barely enough time to gather her thoughts.
A knock on her door broke Ferra out of her thoughts, and she opened it to find her mother standing there, her own face drawn. “Are ye ready, lass?” she asked softly.
Ferra squared her shoulders. “As much as I am going tae be.”
“Mah daughter,” her mother said, placing a hand on Ferra’s cheek, “I am so proud of ye.”
Ferra didn’t allow herself to lean into her mother’s touch, stepping away before the tears fell once more. This was her fate. “Will ye tell Sorcha wot happened?”
“Of course,” her mother stated, knowing the friendship between her daughter and the healer. “If she wishes tae follow ye, I wilnae stop her.”
“Nay,” Ferra replied, “please dinnae let her. This clan needs a healer.”
Her mother swallowed, tears sparkling in her own eyes. “Yer new husband, he will be kind tae ye. Yer da wouldnae have allowed anything else.”
Her father couldn’t know what sort of man she was about to wed. It was easy to put on a brave front as she was now, to show a side that everyone wanted to see. While Ferra wanted to trust in her father, it would be hard to believe that he would know everything about her soon-to-be husband.
“Come,” her mother was saying, reaching out her hand. “’Tis time for yer ceremony.”
Ferra went willingly, wishing she could drag her feet and delay what was to come. In minutes, she would be face-to-face with her intended.
Once they reached the great hall, Ferra felt lightheaded with anticipation as she gazed upon those that were waiting for their arrival. She spied the elder clansman that presided over all the ceremonies, and her father, dressed in his ceremonial kilt and the thin gold circlet nestled on his head. There was an elder man standing next to him that Ferra didn’t recognize, a darker tartan draped over his shoulders. His hair was pure white, pulled back from his face with a thin leather throng. They both turned, and Ferra realized that this was her intended.
He was old enough to be her grandfather. “Ferra,” her father said, clearing his throat. “Come forward.”
Ferra had to force herself to move forward until she was standing before him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Aye?”
“This is Laird Shamus McGregor,” her father explained, gesturing to the man to his left. “He is tae be yer husband.”
It was as she feared. Ferra’s knees threatened to buckle, but she kept herself upright, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of her clan. It was supposed to be a day of celebration, but there was none in her heart. She had to be strong and understand there was a greater purpose in this plan, even if she weren’t sure she could find it right now.
“Ye’re lovely, lass,” the laird stated, his thick Scottish burr warm and friendly.
In fact, Ferra saw no trace of malice in his eyes, finding them twinkling with unbidden laughter instead. “Why do ye wish tae marry me?” she asked softly, unable to help it.
“Ferra!” her father hissed, but the laird held up his hand, cutting any further words off. “The lass is entitled tae know,” the laird stated, something akin to approval crossing his face. “After all, I would want tae know if the boot was on the other foot.” He then cleared his throat. “I need a young lass tae help me with mah clan, and future generations.”
While the thought of laying with this laird curdled the breakfast she ate, Ferra gave him a faint smile. “Thank ye.”
He inclined his head. “I dinnae wish for us tae start off with a lie, lass.”
It was all she could ask for. “I shall endeavor tae help ye with yer clan, then.” Perhaps she could find a home inside her new clan.
Her father took her chin in his large hand, meeting her eyes. “Then ye will consent tae becoming this Scot’s wife, and not try tae escape?”
She wanted to say no. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that she wanted nothing to do with this laird or this farce of a marriage she would find herself in. The laird looked as if he were already in his advanced years, and Ferra could find herself a widow far too quickly, in a foreign clan that she knew nothing about.
No, she wanted to run as far away as she possibly could. “Aye,” Ferra forced out instead. “I will be his wife.”
“Then ’tis settled,” her father said softly, something akin to regret in his eyes before he dropped his hand and turned to the elder clansman. “I consent tae this marriage. Wed them.”
