Chapter 3 #2
Before she knew it, Laird O’Douglas’ hand was on her face, cupping it ever so gently—just like that first night in his chambers, when they were first married.
And yet, where his eyes had been blank, devoid of feeling, with nothing but a hint of sympathy for her on that night, now they held a fire that frightened her.
If she didn’t know any better, she would have called him tender.
“I apologize for all this,” Laird O’Douglas said. “I may nae remember ye, but ye’re still me wife. I can only imagine how much pain all this has caused ye. I cannae believe nae one told ye that I was unwell.”
River had to school her expression into one of neutrality. What was she supposed to say? Should she reveal the truth to the man or keep her mouth shut and hope for the best? He seemed to have no recollection of their arrangement, and no one seemed to have informed him about it—not even Keir.
“But daenae fash,” Laird O’Douglas continued. “I am well now and though I may nae remember, I will take care of ye.”
Now River couldn’t hold back the snort that bubbled out of her. “Och aye, I’m sure of that.”
Laird O’Douglas frowned in confusion, naturally, but River didn’t offer an explanation.
“Is it that ye fear I daenae love ye anymore?”
The question brought River’s thoughts to a sudden halt, her mind blanking completely as she stared at the man. But Laird O’Douglas didn’t wait for a response before he spoke again.
“I...I admit I daenae remember ye at all,” he said, and River couldn’t help but think she should have slipped out of the castle before Laird O’Douglas was reminded of her existence—an impossible task, but one she regretted not trying to achieve regardless.
“And as I cannae remember ye, I cannae remember how much I love ye. But I will take care of ye and I will reciprocate yer love until...until I remember how much I love ye again.”
I must be in purgatory.
It was the only explanation. Perhaps River had truly finally snapped. Perhaps this was her punishment for some aggression she didn’t remember.
What do I even say to him?
Before she could gather her thoughts, she noticed Laird O’Douglas staring around the room once more, as if he was searching for something.
Evidence? He will find none.
“Where is the bairn?”
Nay...this isnae purgatory. I have simply gone mad.
“The what?”
“The bairn,” said Laird O’Douglas, as if that clarified anything. “We’ve been married for a year already, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Then where’s the bairn? We should have a bairn by now.”
What do I even say to him!
The truth, River decided. She had to tell him the truth, but spun in such a way that kept her blameless. The less Laird O’Douglas suspected her, the better her position—even though she had done nothing wrong.
“Me Laird...there’s nae bairn,” she said.
“There’s nae bairn?” Laird O’Douglas repeated, puzzled. Then, he asked, “What did ye call me?”
“I—”
That’s right...why would I call him by his title?
“Archer,” she said, tasting his name on her tongue for the first time. It felt strange, foreign to call him by his name. “I thought...I thought perhaps...”
“That ye should be more formal with me now that I daenae remember ye?” the man provided rather helpfully.
“Precisely,” said River with a firm nod.
“Well, I am still yer husband,” said Archer with a gentle smirk.
“Ye certainly are,” said River through gritted teeth.
“So, the bairn,” Archer insisted. “Why do I nae have an heir yet?”
“We havenae...consummated the marriage.”
Archer swayed back, as if the surprise of the revelation was a physical blow.
“Well...that’s certainly overdue.”
“Ye daenae wish for bairns,” River said, her tone gentle as she reminded him of the fact. “We agreed we wouldnae have bairns.”
She fought through the knot in her throat as she spoke those words.
Once, she had craved to have a family of her own, but at least Arya and Colby had lessened the hurt of being childless.
She had surrendered to her fate a long time ago—she would never have children of her own, but she would raise the two of them as if she had birthed them.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Archer with a disbelieving scoff. “Why would we agree to nae have bairns?”
River stared at him as though he was a fool and repeated, “Because ye daenae wish for bairns.”
“That’s unacceptable,” said Archer. “I am already in a vulnerable position, which puts the clan in a vulnerable position. Without an heir, if somethin’ happens to me...”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. There was only one thing that mattered to this man: strategy. Even a child would be a pawn in his schemes.
“Ye better accept it,” River said, her lips pursing into a thin, disapproving line. “As I willnae be sharin’ yer bed.”
“Excuse me?”
Archer sounded as if he couldn’t even fathom that as a possibility.
River, though, would have none of it. She wouldn’t let him use her for an heir.
She wouldn’t let him use their child. Besides, who could say whether or not he would remember?
If he recalled the past, then he would surely be cross with her for even attempting to fall pregnant.
“I said I willnae be sharin’ yer bed,” said River, even more firmly this time.
Archer’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. Silently, he leaned even closer, until their lips were almost touching—until River could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, until her heart threatened to beat right out of her chest.
“I bet I can change yer mind,” he said, his voice low and honeyed.
River drew in a steadying breath. “I highly doubt that.”
“Give me seven nights.”
“Ye have lost yer mind.”
Archer didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned even closer to her and kissed her—a quick peck on the lips that seemed to make the whole world around River slow down to a halt.
By the time she came back to her senses, Archer was already at the door.
“I shall see ye tonight, me wife,” he said—a promise or a threat—and he was gone.
And River was left to contemplate what she should do now that Archer had, quite literally, lost his mind.
This is the first time he calls me his wife.