Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We’re here!” Freya singsonged, opening her arms wide as she walked into Marissa’s chambers.
Just moments ago, Marissa had found a maid and sent her to fetch her sisters. They’d arrived more quickly than she had anticipated and brought with them an infectious energy that made her giggle.
“Ye have to move around a bit,” her older sister commanded, directing her toward the small vanity that sat in the most well-lit corner of her room.
“What will ye do to fix her up?” Abigail asked, breezing into the room with a book in her hands.
Marissa’s eyes flicked up to the mirror, watching as her younger sister plopped down into the small reading chair in the opposite corner.
“Mayhap I’ll tease it into a braid?” Freya said, running her hands through Marissa’s unruly curls and pulling them away from her face.
In the mirror, Marissa spotted Abigail making a face and shaking her head slightly. Apparently, Freya, whose eyes had flicked up at the same time, caught the gesture.
“Ye dinnae like the idea?”
Abigail shrugged. “Dinnae misunderstand me; she looks bonnie in braids. But she doesnae look like herself. And I think she may want the Laird to spend the night with her lookin’ like… well… herself.”
The entire time she was speaking, her eyes had been locked onto Marissa’s in the mirror. And, after a bit of thinking, Marissa was able to work out the underlying meaning of her sister’s words.
Ye want to look like yerself when ye’ve only just met the man for the first time. Because we both ken that ye are complete strangers to each other, even if everyone else isnae in on the ruse.
Marissa nodded, trying to convey to her younger sister that she understood. And that she agreed.
“I want to look like meself,” she said simply. “So, mayhap just tidy up me curls?”
Freya chewed on the inside of her cheek—a habit that all three sisters had whenever they were deep in thought. Eventually, she nodded.
“I’ll need to wet it a bit,” she advised. “Get rid of some of the frizz. And mayhap we can add a flower? Or somethin’? I just dinnae want ye to look so plain.”
Marissa rolled her eyes. “Ye give such good compliments.”
“Ye ken what I meant.” Freya playfully smacked her on the arm before turning and waddling out of the room.
She yelled something about finding a maid to fetch some water, her voice fading as she walked farther away.
“What are ye goin’ to tell her?”
Abigail’s voice came closer than Marissa had thought, startling her. Her eyes darted back up to the mirror, immediately spotting her youngest sister only a foot away, staring at her imploringly.
“Ye ken what I’m goin’ to tell her,” Marissa answered, keeping her voice low enough that Freya wouldn’t overhear. “It will be the same thing we told her earlier. We met at the market, we’ve been writin’ to each other for a while. It all started friendly, and we slowly fell in love.”
She shrugged one shoulder as if it wasn’t something she was concerned about. But, apparently, Abigail had additional concerns.
“Ye ken Freya isnae goin’ to accept only that as an explanation,” Abigail argued, brushing a lock of auburn hair from her face.
“She’s goin’ to want more details. Like, what made ye fall for him?
What made ye want to move from friends to bein’ betrothed?
Are ye ready to lie to her about all of that? ”
Guilt bubbled up in Marissa’s stomach. Because, truthfully, she wasn’t ready to lie to her older sister about everything to do with the relationship she was about to enter into.
But that didn’t change the fact that Marissa had to.
I’ve already lied about so much, more than any of them can ever guess. A few more lies willnae matter.
Marissa didn’t have time to say that, though. Not when Freya waddled back into the room, smiling with satisfaction.
“She’ll be right back,” she advised, crossing the room and taking back her place behind Marissa. “But for now, let’s see if we can start workin’ on a few of these.”
Marissa nodded, meeting Abigail’s eyes in the mirror, giving her a pointed glance before relaxing back into Freya’s hands. Not much time had passed before the maid came back, a bowl of water held carefully in her hands.
“Me Lady,” she said to Freya, giving her a slight bow as she presented the bowl.
“Thank ye.” Freya beamed at the girl, gesturing for her to set the bowl down on the small vanity.
The maid did as asked, before giving the sisters another quick, respectful bow and darting out of the room.
“So,” Freya said, pausing only to dip the comb she was using into the bowl before brushing it through Marissa’s short curls. “Tell me about the Laird. What do ye like about him? What made ye want to marry him?”
Marissa gulped. She could feel the weight of Abigail’s stare, refusing to look at her sister. She did not have to imagine the look Abigail had on her face.
“There’s too much to tell,” she answered, trying her very best to keep her voice from shaking.
Freya smacked her arm. “Dinnae be coy. Tell me everythin’.”
Marissa cringed. “Ye already ken everythin’.”
Abigail, knowing her middle sister’s discomfort and having mercy on her, finally chimed in, “Do ye think Michael will dance with ye tonight, Freya?”
Their oldest sister was easily distracted those days, and Abigail’s question was all it took to get her off the scent.
As Freya waved her hand in the air, blathering on about how she couldn’t dance even if she wanted to due to her swollen ankles, Marissa locked eyes with Abigail in the mirror.
“Thank ye,” she mouthed.
Abigail dipped her head in acknowledgment, but she focused on keeping Freya distracted for the rest of the time she was doing Marissa’s hair.
It allowed Marissa a little bit of time to relax, a little bit of time to contemplate how she was going to make it through the night and continue to lie to the people she loved.
She took a deep breath, willing the hour to pass quickly. Which, thankfully, it did. In what felt like no time at all, Freya stepped back from Marissa, clapping her hands together and announcing that she was finished.
“Ye look so bonnie,” Abigail muttered, her voice indicating enough surprise that Marissa was unsure if she should be offended.
She blushed, a flash of color rising in her cheeks as she locked eyes with her younger sister in the mirror. “So do ye,” she offered.
Abigail beamed as she stepped forward. “Aye.” She winked at her, coming to stand directly behind her, shoulder to shoulder with their oldest sister. “But I am nae the one who has a man to impress.”
She reached out, giving one of Marissa’s curls a playful tug.
Before Marissa could react, however, Freya let out a squawk of displeasure and smacked away Abigail’s hands.
“She’s already impressed him enough that he wants to marry her,” she protested. “But ye’d better nae mess up me work. We dinnae want to send him runnin’ from the Highlands because his betrothed’s hair looks like a banshee’s.”
Marissa locked eyes with Abigail again.
He willnae be runnin’ anywhere. But that has nothin’ to do with me.
The secret of how Arthur came to be at Castle McEwan filled the air between them, but neither sister said a thing.
Freya, oblivious to the look they had exchanged, tittered away.
“Are ye excited to see him once he’s all cleaned up?” she asked. But she didn’t give Marissa a chance to answer as she voiced her next thought. “I bet ye are. Ye’ve nae seen him in three years!”
She pulled Marissa to her feet, turning her so that she could look at her gown. She tugged on the fabric, rearranging the way it fell around Marissa’s shoulders and hips.
“Shouldnae one of the maids be doin’ this?” Abigail asked.
Thankfully, only Marissa seemed to notice her tone, the barely concealed laugh at their sister’s need to be a busybody.
Freya waved off Abigail’s concerns, launching right back into her speech about Laird Reid.
“I must admit,” she babbled on, tugging the tartan so that it hung just so on Marissa’s curves.
“When I first saw him, I was a wee bit worried. He looked a bit… dirty. But when he explained that he’d come here to see ye as soon as he returned from the war, that he couldnae wait…
” she trailed off as she swooned, forcing Marissa and Abigail to once again share a long, pointed look.
Freya continued rambling, but Marissa tuned her out. She didn’t want to hear all about how her sister thought Arthur would clean up nice or how smitten he had seemed with her when he’d spoken.
It would break her heart to ken it was all an act.
She hated lying to Freya. But she also knew it was for the best. And, thankfully, Abigail did, too. Because their youngest sister remained silent as Freya put the final touches on Marissa’s gown.
After what felt like hours, Freya stepped back and beamed at her. “I think ye’re ready,” she said.
The words caused a knot of anxiety and excitement to coil in Marissa’s belly.
This is it. Ye are goin’ down to a feast to celebrate yer betrothal. And in the mornin’, ye’ll be leavin’ yer life at Clan McEwan behind.
The sisters walked through the castle together, making their way toward the dining hall. As they drew closer, the din of conversation drifted to them.
When they walked in, the smell of food made Marissa’s mouth water as her eyes immediately scanned the crowd. How her sister had been able to amass this many people on such short notice was beyond her, because the hall was packed.
At the far side of the hall was a long table overlooking the rest. Michael was already there, and his eyes softened the moment he spotted his wife entering the hall. But no matter how much Marissa looked, there was one person that she could not find.
Arthur had not yet arrived.
A few people stopped her as she tried to make her way to the head table. Freya and Abigail walked on, letting her deal with the questions and the congratulations as she made her way through the hall.
She wished they would have stayed with her. At least, she wished that Abigail would have. Because with each question she had to answer, with each lie she had to tell, a bubble of guilt had started to grow deep within her.
Finally, she reached the head table. There were seats available on either side of Michael. Positions that were often held for the guests of honor. Which, tonight, Marissa supposed was her.
The moment she was seated, she turned to look at him, finding him beaming at her.
“Ye look bonnie,” he said, his voice laced with pride. “Laird Reid’s heart will give out the moment he sees ye.”
Marissa’s cheeks flushed as she looked down at her plate “I dinnae ken about that.”
“Now isnae the time to be humble, lass,” Michael responded, waving off her words. “Freya has already told me the story, but I want to hear it from ye.”
“Why do ye want to hear me say it if Freya has already told ye?” Marissa mumbled.
She’d told enough lies tonight. And no part of her wanted to lie to Michael.
When the story had first begun to take shape, with Arthur masterfully weaving the tale that she would now have to claim, she’d thought it would be easy. But now, the reality of having to lie to all the people she loved, of having to make them believe her farce, was beginning to weigh on her.
She was suddenly very glad she would be leaving in the morning and would no longer have to keep up the ruse. At least, not in front of the people she loved the most.
“She only told me the basics,” Michael admitted. “But I want to hear the details. What was it like when ye met him? What type of man is he? What made ye fall in love as ye wrote to each other?”
Marissa’s mind began to race. It had been so easy for Arthur to talk about her. He’d read her letters, after all. Letters that she’d used to practice her storytelling, basing all the details on her own life and her own desires.
But she didn’t know anything about him. She didn’t know what his favorite color was, if he liked to read, if he liked to hunt, if he had any siblings.
How am I goin’ to pull this off? He’s goin’ to ken I’m lyin’.
Just as she’d crafted what she thought would be a sufficiently evasive answer, Abigail’s voice sounded from right beside her.
“Is that him?”
Abigail’s voice was high-pitched, drawing Marissa and Michael’s attention almost immediately. There was an edge to it that Marissa hadn’t expected, one that sounded almost… impressed?
Why would Abigail be impressed? Both Freya and I told her that he’d looked quite rugged and brutish when we’d seen him. I’m certain he—
The thought evaporated, her mind emptying as she shifted her gaze and saw the man walking toward the head table.
At first, a flicker of disappointment rushed through her.
She didn’t recognize the man now walking toward them.
But then she looked harder. He was clean-shaven, revealing a sharp, chiseled jaw.
His hair was clean, combed into submission and the ends still wet with the proof of a recent bath.
But it was long and dark, curling around his shoulders just like Arthur’s.
And his clothes… weren’t they the same ones he had been wearing when he’d sat in the drawing room with her?
They looked as if there had been an attempt to spruce them up a bit.
There was less dirt and scuffs on them than before.
But they were most assuredly the same clothes the Laird had been wearing when Marissa had first met him.
Her eyes darted up, landing once again on his face. Sparkling grey eyes met hers, swirling with the depths of a thousand storms.
Marissa’s stomach flipped as a knowing, sly smirk tugged up the corners of his mouth.
The man walking toward her was Arthur. And he was devilishly, unbelievably handsome.