Page 28 of Highlander’s Dangerous Love

8

Gemma sat at the long wooden table in the grand hall, her back straight and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The room was filled with people, all dressed in their finest kilts and tartans, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced ale. Her eyes drifted across the room, taking in the sights and sounds of the betrothal dinner. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The musicians played a lively tune on their fiddles and pipes, and the guests chatted and laughed over their meals. Some people were dancing in the middle of the floor, having a grand old time.

Unfortunately, she was not enjoying the festivities. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, and her stomach was tied in knots. Bryce sat beside her, his leg touching hers under the table. The way he smiled at her was so confusing. Clearly he was happy, and he beamed, but there was a sense of…pride in his smile that she did not like. It felt as though he were treating this betrothal dinner as a celebration after battle, where he’d gained her as a prize. She didn’t like anything about it.

To make matters worse, Gemma's dress was too tight. She had tried to convince Muriel to let it out before they left, but she had insisted that it was already as loose as was proper. Gemma could feel the fabric constricting her breath, and she longed to rip it off and run away.

“Gemma, let’s dance,” Bryce said, holding out his hand to her.

She shook her head.

“I’m not in the mood for it, I’m afraid,” she said in a small voice.

Bryce narrowed his eyes at her.

“Gemma, please. ‘Tis our betrothal dinner. ‘Twill look strange if we dinnae stand up taegether.”

She caught sight of her mother glaring daggers at her nearby, so she sighed and stood up.

“One dance,” she warned.

As a new song started, a cheer went up from the crowd as people realized the laird’s son and his soon-to-be-bride were taking to the floor.

“See, everyone is happy! ‘Tis braw indeed. I dinnae ken what’s wrong wi’ ye, but I wish tae see ye happy, as well.”

Gemma didn’t even know what to say to that. She already felt ill, and did not want to be spun around the room. Bryce’s callous attitude was making this even worse.

The music started, and it was lively indeed. Once, before all this had happened, she used to love this dance. It was fun, fast-paced, and if you liked your partner, it provided an opportunity for you to be close to them. Bryce was clearly relishing this, as he looked down at her in an amorous manner. She tried to smile, as instructed by Muriel and her entire family earlier, but she had a feeling it came off as more of a panicked plea than a joyous expression. When Bryce lifted her up in the air and twirled her about, she felt her stomach lurch in a most uncomfortable manner.

She’d never been more grateful for a dance to end. Another lad came up to ask her for a dance, but she could not handle so much motion again, so she made her way back to the great wooden table where she’d been sitting earlier. Bryce followed suit, not wanting to let her out of his sight.

Suddenly, Gemma's vision began to swim, and she felt dizzy. She tried to stand up, but her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell back into her seat. The room around her began to spin, and the noise of the feast grew distant and muffled.

“Gemma!” Bryce’s voice cut through the haze, and Gemma felt his strong arms catch her as she fell forward. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

But she couldn't answer. Her head was pounding, and her limbs felt heavy and numb. She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on a soft bed in a quiet chamber, with a cool cloth pressed to her forehead. Her mother was sitting beside her, holding her hand and murmuring words of comfort.

“Gemma, my dear,” her mother said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “What happened? Are ye feelin’ better now?”

Gemma opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but her head throbbed with pain, and she sank back onto the pillows.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered. “I dinnae ken what came over me. I was thinkin’ of how I dinnae want tae marry him, and…I felt sick.”

Her mother's expression was unreadable as she dabbed the cloth to her forehead. Gemma rather thought that if she were not ill and faint, her mother might have reacted differently.

“I understand, my dear,” she said. “But ye ken that this marriage is not just about yer life. ‘Tis about ours, yer brothers’, and the clan’s. We must put our duty above our own desires. And Bryce chose ye! Of all the lasses…tae represent the clan as Lady.”

Gemma closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic in her chest. She knew that her mother was right, and it was the first sensible thing she’d said since the unromantic proposal, but the thought of spending her life with someone she did not love filled her with a sense of despair.

“I’ll leave ye be. At least I ken yer not feigning this. Ye dinnae look so well,” said Mrs. Gordon.

As she lay there, lost in thought, the distant sound of music and laughter drifted in through the open window, and the sweet scent of heather and peat smoke filled the air. Gemma wondered where in the castle she was — she was not familiar with this guest room. It seemed very close to the great hall. Or…perhaps the feast was just that loud. She tried to rest, but her mind was racing. Where was Colin, and what was he doing? Did he miss her? Why hadn’t he written to her? Was the risk too great? But…he’d seemed so sincere in his last letter. What could have happened? She did not want her mind to run to the worst, so she pinched her own thigh in order to concentrate on something else.

She dozed in and out for a while, like a cat in a sunny spot on a window, but sleep eluded her. Worry took its place instead.

Just then, the door to the chamber opened, and a servant entered, carrying a tray of food and drink.