Reade liked to believe that if he hadn’t fallen behind Camden, he might have helped fight back and saved his cousin from his untimely, senseless death. The guilt over that single moment, that he wasn’t there with Camden, hung over him like a dangling sword, one that nipped at his skin, cutting him over and over.
His father had argued that, if Reade had caught up with Camden, then he would have suffered the same harrowing fate as his cousin, and two MacDonald sons would be unjustly taken from this world. His mother had consoled him with her figurative words about how God settles everyone’s debts in the end.
While he appreciated their attempts to soothe his soul, nothing helped. Reade would carry the weight of that guilt for the rest of his life.
He knew why the dream had returned this night.
And every time he looked at Blair, with her Gordon and Campbell history, she reminded him of that guilt and the sword cut deeper into his soul.
How could he marry a woman who did nothing but remind him of his greatest failure, his agonizing loss, his darkest guilt?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The days passed fartoo quickly for Blair. The night before her wedding, Blair shook with nerves that didn’t stop and her stomach was in knots. Since the murder of her husband, she had hoped that something, anything, might change and her fate would become her own. As a widow, she had mistakenly presumed she would achieve some manner of control of what happened to her.
Instead, she became more of a pawn, thanks to her good-for-nothing dead husband and his nefarious undertakings. His actions, and the inability for either the Campbells or MacDonalds to trust him, were the reasons she sat in the high tower of a MacDonald stronghold, preparing to marry the eldest of their sons against her will.
A light knock at her door made her jump, and she grabbed the plaid off her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Dressed only in her shift, she wondered who might be visiting her this late. A possible last hour reprieve?
Blair’s hopes were dashed when two women stood before her, wide smiles plastered on their similar faces. The same dark blonde hair and eyes like a loch on a bright summer day. Even their shapes were similar, strong shoulders, a full bust line, and beautiful curves under their fitted bodices. Mother and daughter – Sorcha and her daughter, who bore the grand name Adaira.
They had been to her room before, individually. Adaira had brought her food the first night and offered to keep her company if she needed. Such a kind offer, one that could easily make the error of believing she wasn’t a prisoner. Sorcha, the matriarch of the family, was the only one who might understand her plight and stand up to her husband. But Blair would also be a fool to believe a MacDonald might come to her aid, no matter how kind she appeared to be. Despite Blair’s harsh assessment of the woman, Sorcha had been as kind as her daughter, officially welcoming Blair to the keep and seeing that her needs were met.
Together, they brushed past her into her narrow room. Adaira barely contained the giggles that kept escaping her lips, a sound like excitable birds on a summer morn.
“Good eve, my dear,” Sorcha announced in her strong voice. Blair dipped her head in a deferential bow.
“And to you, milady.”
Sorcha moved to the bed and waved at Blair to sit with her. Adaira busied herself by the lone chair in the narrow room.
What is she doing?
“Blair,” Sorcha said, refocusing her attention on the woman in her chambers. Even in a simpler house kirtle, her fitted bodice meeting a muted plaid skirt, she appeared as regal as a queen.
I’ll wager she’s never been in my position,Blair thought sourly.
