“What am I supposed to do?” She cried, throwing her hands up in the air. “I have told ye o’er and o’er again that I have no choice o’er the decisions that have been made for my life.” She jabbed a finger into her chest. “Mylife! ’Tis no’ my own to live as I please. I am just a pawn. What did it matter if I kenned his name or no’? ’Twouldnae change my circumstances.”
Suddenly, Rory felt like an arse. How many times had he lamented about how he felt forgotten? As if he were an afterthought. How oft had he shirked the responsibility his da tried to place on his shoulders? Which, when he thought about it, was hardly any responsibility at all. The important things were carried on Alpin’s shoulders. The demands Arthur had given to Rory, which were far and few betwixt, were naught in terms of importance when held up to Alpin’s orders. It was why it upset him so much. Just as he had confessed to Alana days ago. He wanted to be needed. Truly needed. And when his father gave him a simple demand, thinking he was placating him in some way, it was easy to say no. To deny doing it.
Compared to Alana, to deny was much easier for him. A man. Women weren’t offered a choice. That was the way of things. He hated it. Always had. But his dislike for people being used as pawns did not stop it from happening.
“I’m sorry, Bluebell.”
Alana looked away from him, swiping at the fat tears sliding down her cheeks. “Ye havenae any idea what ’tis like.”
“Ye are right, I dinnae. I hold no judgement o’er yer reaction. I would be furious if I was forced in yer situation.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. She pulled awayfrom him for a brief moment, but gave in, her hand fisting the material of his tunic as she sobbed against him. Gut-wrenching sobs that shook her whole body.
Each one was like a punch to Rory’s gut. He remained quiet. He didn’t ken what to say. Only kenning that he wanted to offer her comfort. Something that he felt she did not receive a lot of growing up. She deserved to be cherished. She hadn’t been.
The knowledge of that upset him more than it should.
He smoothed his hand down her back, holding her close as her sobs slowly subsided.
Quite some time had passed afore she finally pulled away with a sniffle, wiping at her nose. “Ye must think me a fool.”
“I dinnae,” he said seriously. It wasn’t a lie. She was one of the strongest people he had ever kenned. He thought of his sisters, Moira, Eilidh, and Morven, and tried to imagine them and their reaction of being sent away to wed a man they didn’t ken. A man whose name they hadn’t been given, nor the name of his home, or where he lived. His sisters, for the most part, were all strong-willed. They would fight, more than likely they would outright refuse.
Alana was strong-willed as well. However, when it came to her duty, her strength was in her follow-through. Her agreement to do as she was told, no questions asked, because she believed that was what her clan needed. That was a will of strength that Rory was for certs he himself did not possess.
“Look at me, Bluebell.” Hands on her jaw, he caressed his thumbs over her jawline. “Ye are the strongest lass I ken. Yer strength and sense of duty would put my own to shame.”
She scoffed at his words. “Now ye jest me.”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “I would ne’er,” he said seriously.
She drew in a shaky breath and blew it out slowly, meeting his gaze. “Do ye ken him? My betrothed.”
Rory clenched his jaw. The bastard was so undeserving of a womanlike Alana, it pained him. “Aye,” he answered quietly.
“Will ye tell me aboot him?”
Did he really want to discuss Alana’s future husband with her? Nay. To do so was admitting that she didn’t belong to him. He kenned she didn’t. That she was promised to another. But that kiss they shared yesterday. It meant something. Even with kenning that he overstepped a line he shouldn’t have. The repercussions of what would happen if it was found out. But she wasn’t his. No matter how much he wished it so.
He sighed. “What would ye like to ken, Bluebell?” The nickname was forever seared in his brain now. And he kenned he would never look at the flower the same way.
“Is he old?”
“Old?” He asked, surprised. That was not the first question he expected.
“I have nightmares that he is old enough to be my grandfather. I hope ’tis no’ so.”
He chuckled.
“Ye laugh at me?” She asked, affronted.
“Nay, no’ at ye. I would ne’er do such a thing,” he promised, sweeping a strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw a vision of ye walking up the path to Caer Rannoch and finding an old man waiting to welcome ye.”
“I dinnae find that comical at all.”
“I am sorry ye have fashed so much o’er that. Nay, he is no’ old. Our ages are similar.”
Her shoulders relaxed just a wee bit at learning that. “And Caer Rannoch. That is the name of his home?”
“Aye. His father passed a few years ago, making Michael MacDonell laird and owner of the familial estate.”
