The Highlander Takes a Widow (Highland Surrender #2)

Prologue

“Me Lady,” Poppy started with a concerned look. “Are ye sure ye are well? Ye look pale.”

“I am,” Sorcha answered, not the least bit confident. “Perhaps I am only anxious about the evening ahead.”

“Ye can tell the Laird that ye are unwell,” Poppy suggested. “He may understand and—”

“Nay,” Sorcha answered. “This must happen for this marriage to be sealed. ‘Tis what me faither wants, and I will obey. I daenae want to upset me new husband.”

“Aye, me Lady,” Poppy relented. “I am glad he didnae ignore ye the whole evening like the others did.”

“Aye.” Sorcha nodded. “He doesnae seem bad, but me only fear is that this marriage will only end as the others did.”

“Daenae speak such words, me Lady,” Poppy urged. “It willnae happen again.”

“I cannae help but feel cursed—as they say—when two of me husbands died before consummating our marriage,” Sorcha sighed. “One could be ignored, but two is more than a coincidence.”

“Ye worry for naught,” Poppy reassured. “This time will be different, and if anyone is to be blamed, it should be yer faither, for marrying ye off to such old men. I daenae ken why they daenae just marry a spinster.”

“Mind yer words, Poppy,” Sorcha scolded. “We daenae need to make enemies so early.”

“I apologize, me Lady,” Poppy said, looking chagrined. “I only meant to voice me opinion.”

Sorcha couldn’t help but agree, though she said nothing out loud. Her new husband was nicer than the previous ones, but his age worried her.

He had smiled throughout the vow exchange, even placing a chaste kiss on her cheek instead of her lips. Though his hands had roamed during the banquet, and his eyes had glinted with a lecherous look that filled her mouth with bile.

She couldn’t ignore the pallor of his skin and how labored his breathing had grown over the evening. He was clearly not in good health, and she feared he would soon succumb to whatever ailed him.

She had yet to understand her father’s need to marry her off to such elderly men, but she couldn’t argue with him. Even now, her palms turned clammy as she expected someone to run in any minute and inform her that her new husband was dead.

“Who kens? This time, ye may find friends in yer stepdaughters,” Poppy said cheerfully.

“Aye,” Sorcha agreed. “I like them very much.”

The girls, Avery and Rhea, were not much younger than her and had been sweet at the wedding banquet. Both shared fair coloring that they must have inherited from their mother, but their personalities differed like night and day.

Though Avery was more reserved, she was politely inquisitive and asked questions in turn. Rhea was more effusive in conversation, and her curiosity betrayed how sheltered she had grown up.

“I think they’re taken with ye as well,” Poppy added. “Ye have always wanted friends yer age. It seems the heavens have answered.”

“Indeed,” Sorcha said, even though she feared that it would all take a turn for the worse if the girls’ father wound up dead like her previous husbands.

Shaking the grim thought out of her head, she smiled as Poppy resumed brushing her hair in preparation for her wedding night.

The prospect filled her with dread and, in some parts, distaste. But for her clan, she would stomach the ordeal and hope she would be allowed to return to her bed afterward.

There was naught she could do but accept her fate. Her father had been adamant, and she couldn’t deny him much when it took him all his strength to argue with her these days.

She hated how he had taken a deathly pallor in the days past as she had prepared to leave for her new home. She knew he did not have many days left, and it brought tears to her eyes when she thought of it.

“Me Lady, ‘tis time,” Poppy announced, drawing her out of her thoughts.

Sorcha rose stiffly and squared her shoulders, her heart thudding violently in her chest. “Let us go then,” she said, more to herself.

Her legs felt heavier with each step she took.

She wiped her palms on her nightgown and knocked on the adjoining door to her husband’s chambers.

Hearing no answer, she opened it and stepped inside.

She didn’t pause to admire the furnishings or décor.

Instead, she turned to the man sprawled on the bed, partly hidden by the drapes.

“Me Laird?” she called.

He didn’t answer.

Could he be sleeping?

“Me Laird?” she called again, a little louder, her heart beating fast.

Nay. Nay. Nay.

She rushed to the bed to rouse him. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and reared back at how cold he was.

“Me Laird?” She lowered her hand again to shake him.

He was still as a statue, all traces of warmth gone from his body. She didn’t have to check to know that his heart had stopped beating.

Her feet gave out before she knew it, and she fell to the floor with a loud thud that drew Poppy into the room.

“Me Lady!” she cried, rushing to her side.

“The Laird is dead,” Sorcha forced out, the words tasting like bile.

Her stomach churned as reality sank in with a finality that made her feel as cold as Laird Dunrath’s dead body. She felt bile crawl up her throat, but didn’t want to be seen emptying her guts in front of everyone, so she forced it down.

“He’s dead!” she cried, tears of frustration gathering in her eyes.

She couldn’t help but feel as though she had conjured whatever curse had killed her husbands with the fear that had plagued her since she had said her vows. Now, she had brought sorrow to yet another clan and made two lovely girls fatherless.

“Oh nay…” Poppy turned to look at the Laird and then at Sorcha. “I will go get help, but first I must escort ye to yer chambers.”

“Nay!” Sorcha cried. “Daenae touch me!”

“Me Lady!” Poppy gasped.

“I daenae want to curse ye as well,” Sorcha choked out.

How could she ever return to her clan, now that she had another death on her conscience? They would surely exile her, fearing for their lives.

Poppy regarded her with a mournful look and left, only to return later with a few servants who hurried to their Laird. Caelan came in as well with an unreadable look on his face, but before she could say anything, he lifted her into his arms with practiced ease.

“Think nothing of his death, Sorcha,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

“I cannae help but believe that I am indeed cursed,” she sniffled.

“Ye arenae cursed, Sorcha,” he said firmly. “If anyone’s cursed, it is these old bastards for marrying a girl young enough to be their daughter.”

She allowed him to tuck her into bed, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come even if she willed it to.

In the past, it had been others who found her husbands dead. Now, it was her, and the sight and feel of that stillness had filled her veins with ice that the roaring fire in the grate couldn’t thaw.

“Shall I prepare the carriage to take us back home?” Caelan asked.

“I daenae ken,” she mumbled.

How could she return home a widow again?

“Ye have to decide, Sorcha,” Caelan urged. “I can leave ye to rest tonight, but tomorrow, ye need to make a decision.”

He left her room.

Sorcha immediately missed his steady presence, even if he had no comforting words for her.

Alone with her thoughts, she began to worry about her future and that of her stepdaughters. She had warned her father against the match, and now she may never be able to sleep.

They wouldn’t hesitate to return her to her clan, seeing as the marriage wasn’t consummated.

What would she do if the new Laird ordered her return home? Would she be willing to leave? Would her old clan even accept her, now that her father was dead?

The only protection she had in her clan had left her behind, and if she were to return with another death in her wake, she would be exiled as one carrying a contagious disease.

Come what may, she did not intend to return home, but what could she do if a new laird decided to exile her?