The Highlander’s Accidental Wife (Queen’s Edict #3)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Of all the things he thought Lady Helena Lovell might say, that had been the furthest from Damien’s mind. A terrible feeling roiled through him, for he had to wonder why she would ask such a thing. Had some bastard tried to force himself on her, or did she think so lowly of him?

Inwardly, he shook himself. No, this was not about him, but her. Still, he would have to choose his next words carefully, for he thought they were at least reading the same book, if not the same page. Her sentiment, however, told him that he had not quite figured her out as much as he’d like to.

And hellfire, I would like to, lass.

Still, unease filled him as he struggled to come up with something to say as he thought back on their interactions tonight. She’d danced far longer than he had expected, hadn’t held her tongue, and had spoken her mind. But perhaps he’d also overlooked the moments where she’d seemed upset or frustrated in favor of the fun.

He thought she appreciated a bit of bantering and such. Deep down, he knew she did, and now he knew why she sometimes held back.

Right now, though, she needed something else. Also, it was hard to miss how she was bracing herself, expecting the worst.

Damien cursed her father, that manipulative bastard.

“I have shocked you,” Lady Helena finally said, a bit wearily, and offered him a tight smile.

“I cannae deny it, lass. Ye have,” he said. “For I am nae the type of man, barrin’ me appearance and rough edges, that would force ye to do something ye dinnae want to do.”

“Oh,” Lady Helena said, her eyes round and wide, and she shook her head. “I know that. That’s not why I said it.”

Damien raised an eyebrow. “Bairns are to be expected, ye ken, and especially during the first year of marriage.” He folded his arms as her cheeks flushed with a hint of rose. “Or mayhap I should say that I expect an heir sooner rather than later—as it is me only reason for enterin’ marriage. Especially one of convenience.”

Helena’s face reddened, her chest rising and falling faster, and she shook her head. He watched her turn away, biting her lip, before she said softly, “Of course, I understand that, and I won’t deny you. But if we are going to marry, I must have a year.” Damien stared at her. “I cannot give you an heir until a year has passed.”

His hands clenched, and he couldn’t help it—he reached for her and turned her around to face him. “Speak plainly, woman, afore ye drive me mad.”

Lady Helena had the audacity to give him an imploring look with those bewitching hazel eyes, and he almost gave in, before he gritted out, “Go on, then, Helena.”

“That’s how long I need,” she murmured, biting her lip again, suddenly looking younger than she had in all the time they’d spent together. So uncertain that it smote even his wicked, unrepentant heart.

“For what?” he asked softly. Too softly.

She was getting to him.

She did not answer, so he began to make guesses.

“To make me fall in love with ye, mayhap?” Damien couldn’t help but smile a little. “Lass, ye should ken that will never happen—I am nae the type of man to fall.”

Helena pulled free and rolled her eyes. “Spare me your ego, Laird MacCabe. Not everything revolves around you. I am no fool—I know exactly what you are proposing with a marriage of convenience, and I think you are right…” She swallowed. “This is my best chance.”

“Explain,” he said, growing impatient.

“I have to finish something first.”

Curiosity fired off in his brain, and he studied her face, her eyes lost in some bright distance.

What on earth could she mean to finish—and why a year? Worse, she’d piqued his interest enough that he could sense that he was starting to come around. He’d never be bored with this English lass—or worry about scaring her off.

Or so he hoped.

“Tell me this, Helena.” She started and met his eye. “D’ye plan to run away again?”

She gave him one of those small, curving smiles that felt like a dirk against his breastbone, and he ignored the sparks it set off.

“No, My Laird. You were right about that.” She glanced in the direction of Banrose Castle, where her father had gone. “I have learned my lesson—I cannot hope to hide from this fate.”

“I mean to hold ye to that,” Damien warned. “Nay runnin’ off again.” He grinned. “Though I confess, it might be good fun to chase ye down.”

Helena gave him a look, then said, “It seems you are considering giving me my year, then, Sir. I would greatly appreciate it, as you’d help me make a dream come true.”

Now, Damien could not ignore those restless sparks under his skin, and he flexed his hands to keep himself from moving closer, to stop himself from lifting her dark hair and whispering his questions against her neck, to see if he might tease out the answers to her perplexing mysteries with another kiss.

Or if it might reveal more.

“Ye have me in yer crosshairs, I confess,” Damien said. “Tell me more about this dream.”

“I will do more than that—I will show you.” Helena lifted her chin. “But you must agree to my condition first, My Laird.”

Damien felt a slow grin creep over his face and took a step closer, waiting for her to step away, but she merely pulled in a deep breath, never wavering.

Oh, how he liked that about this lass.

Again, he moved closer, until his body was nearly brushing hers.

“Fine, I agree,” he murmured. “I willnae touch ye—unless, of course, ye ask me to, love.” He smirked as she sucked in an outraged breath. “Again.”

Helena seemed ready to slap him, but instead, she gave him a cold look that he admired and tossed her head. “I will not. Do you see any brigands about?”

“Nay, more’s the pity,” Damien said. “And we’ll see, Milady. We’ll see.”

He leaned in, waiting for her to slap him or step back, but she simply stared him down. Her lips were parted now, her pupils dilated, and the color on her face had deepened. Ah, but he loved undoing this pretty, clever Sassenach . And he enjoyed the effect she had on him—which was a first in more ways than one.

“We’re agreed then,” he said and stepped back.

Was that disappointment in her eyes that he had not leaned in for a kiss?

He hid his laughter as he solemnly stuck out a hand. “Our accord, Milady.”

Helena’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and she gave his hand a hearty shake.

It took everything in Damien not to take her hand and kiss her knuckles, but he’d let her off easy.

At least for tonight.

Only, Helena didn’t pull away. Their hands were still clasped, and he glanced down, remembering how it felt to twine his rough, scarred hands in that elegant grip. How right it felt.

And the restlessness that had dogged him for months, the weight on his chest—that anger toward the world, the English Queen, all his responsibilities, his need to kill every last one of the remaining Vipers… it was gone.

For the first time in ages, Damien felt light. His heart unburdened—though still scarred—since losing his father, suffering aboard his uncle’s ship, and then returning to take up the Lairdship of MacCabe.

Only, in that same moment, as he held Helena’s hand, he felt unmoored. As though there was a shift in the current that he had not planned and now they were tacking in a direction he had not expected—one he could not control.

Pulling free, he flexed his hand again and stared out into the dark woods. Perhaps this was a mistake. After all, what laird would agree to such a foolish deal? Waiting a year for bairns when he needed one to secure his legacy, especially in his quest for revenge? And more or less starting on a path where he’d need to seduce his bride?

Have I lost me mind?

Nothing had made sense since their kiss, and he wasn’t sure it did now. Yet, he also had the strangest sense that was why he’d agreed to go along with all of this.

The confusion roiling in his brain dredged up other worries, and he drew away from Helena when he heard her light step toward him.

“My Laird?”

Damien turned to her with a sharp motion that made her fall back, her eyes wide and wary. “We’ll start for Morighe Castle tomorrow. Once we arrive and put plans in place for our wedding—which should take place as soon as possible—we’ll send for yer faither and sister.” He bowed. “Milady. Sleep well, it’s a long trip.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his heart roiling as much as it had when he’d walked away from her that morning.

Only this time, he could feel her eyes following him.

So many thoughts and emotions whirled through Helena that she barely noticed the walk back. Not until she was inside the stone walls of Banrose, the firelight dancing merrily and cozily across the walls, and the sense that she was not the same woman who’d left this place.

Much like that dratted kiss .

Inside the Great Hall, folk milled about—some of her father’s servants, her sister Sophia, who bounced up when she saw her, along with Emma, Laird Ronson, and several other residents of Banrose Castle.

Her father looked like he wanted to speak, but Laird Ronson came forward first and smiled at her.

“Did ye accept his suit, then?”

Helena gave the Laird a questioning look, and he gave her one in return that plainly said, I ken me friend—mayhap better than himself.

“I-I accepted,” Helena said in a voice that she hoped no one noticed shaking.

Emma squealed and darted toward her, while Sophia frowned and her lips parted. Her father scowled but nodded, and Helena felt compelled to continue. “Laird MacCabe is an honorable man. And this will satisfy the new terms of the Queen’s Edict.”

“I am so happy for you,” Emma squealed and hugged her. “You look a bit dazed, dearest,” she added in an undertone. “Let’s retire somewhere for a snack and a chat.”

Somehow, Lady Ronson took charge, sending her husband to deal with the guests and then leading Helena and Sophia to a suite. There, Agnes waited, her pretty face anxious, yet it lit up when they entered.

“Glad to see you standing on your feet, Helena,” Agnes said warmly. “Here, sit and have some tea.”

The twins fussed over Helena, while Sophia paced around, her small form brimming with both overtiredness and excitement.

“I confess that since we heard of your interaction with Laird MacCabe this morning,” Emma said, “we’ve been wondering if he was the kiss you stole.”

Helena found she did not mind that Emma had told Agnes, though she flushed to think of Laird MacLarsen and Laird Ronson knowing.

“He was,” she admitted.

“Well, he seems quite taken with you,” Agnes noted. “Leo agreed. But if this isn’t what you want, I believe we can smuggle you out of the castle and somewhere safe.”

Helena smiled at the woman, feeling as though she had gained another best friend. “I appreciate that. But as I told Laird MacCabe, enough running.” She tipped her head back. “I confess, I am too dazed to even make another plan to run. And…”

She swallowed hard.

He agreed to my condition—but then he became very strange.

“He is a good man,” Emma said. “Grant speaks highly of him—and his father.” Her face dimmed. “I do not think either Damien or Grant have recovered from his death.”

“Many still mourn the former Laird MacCabe,” Agnes agreed. “And speak highly of his son, of his honor and prowess.” Her eyes danced. “They also say that they do not know what he is quicker with—his sword or his wits or his words. Despite his rough exterior, that is. Why, he can even make Leo laugh.”

Helena rubbed at her heart and agreed, letting their chatter wash over her. It wasn’t until they fell silent that she sat up and gazed between them.

Emma took her hand. “Helena, I must ask you at least one more time—are you sure?” Her eyes flicked to her sister and back to her friend. “You do not have to do this. We can help.”

“I’m sure,” Helena said.

She would not back down now, even if Damien—Laird MacCabe—had suddenly gone cold on her when speaking of tomorrow and had barely bid her a good night. Perhaps realizing what he’d agreed to.

“At least he is far too good-looking for his own good.”

Agnes and Emma exchanged surprised looks, then burst into peals of girlish laughter, but Sophia suddenly appeared in front of them and stamped her foot.

“I do not agree, Lena,” she said, her face red, her fair hair falling in ringlets around her head. “I find him terrifying.”

“No, sweet, he is just a warrior,” Agnes reassured her.

“Even your husband is not so scary,” Sophia said. “He is scarred, yes, but he is kind—he gave me a treat. Helena’s Highlander looks like…” She bit her lip as she thought. “He looks like he would throw you over his shoulder and take you to his castle only to eat you.”

At that, Agnes and Emma burst into more peals of helpless laughter.

Helena smiled and reached forward, smoothing Sophia’s hair out of her face and trying to soothe her.

Sophia grumpily clambered into her lap and hugged her, and Helena rocked her to and fro.

Deep down, though, did not children and fools see true?

Will Laird MacCabe keep his word? Or will he carry me off—to make good and eat me?