Chapter Twenty-Five
Rory and Alana walked the final mile in tense silence, the castle looming ahead. He was having a hard time keeping his emotions in check the closer they got. Him losing his composure would only make things harder for Alana and she was already going to have a rough time as it was.
Of the two of them, she would be the one paying the worst price.
Whilst he would be forever lonely with only the memory of Alana to keep him warm at night, she was being forced into a marriage she didn’t want, to a man she didn’t love.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The MacDonell wouldn’t treat her like the lady Alana deserved to be treated as.
Nay, the man would use her to birth bairns and naught more.
Rory closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.
This wasn’t his fight. Nor was it the Harts.
But, hell, if he didn’t want to raze the castle and burn it to the ground with the MacDonell in it.
Alana deserved so much more. She deserved to be happy.
To live a life of luxury and happiness, with a husband that doted upon her, with children that loved her. She should be treasured.
He clenched his jaw. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many things he wanted to do, but he couldn’t. He felt helpless.
They were nearing the gate and it took all of his strength not to pull her to him. To crash his mouth onto hers and claim her for all to see. That way there would be nay doubt who she belonged to.
“Rory,” Alana said, her voice low. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at him.
“Aye, Bluebell?”
“I thank ye for showing me what ’tis like to be loved. I will cherish our time together fore’er.”
He didn’t think his heart could be crushed any further, but her words proved it could be.
He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, trying to clear the emotions that flooded over him.
“I love ye, Bluebell. Remember that. Dinnae e’er forget it.
My heart is yers. Now and fore’er. I only wish circumstances were different. ”
She nodded solemnly. “As do I.” She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks.
A MacDonell servant greeted them at the gate, and then rushed off to fetch her betrothed, Alana assumed.
“Thank ye,” Alana whispered, as she glanced up at him, her eyes searching his, pain reflected in both of their gazes.
Not trusting himself to speak, he could only nod stiffly.
They remained silent until MacDonell arrived.
Of course, as to be expected, the dolt was polished and poised, his arrogance wafting around him.
He was the complete opposite to Alana’s worn state.
To her warm and caring demeanor. Michael MacDonell was shorter than Rory by at least a foot, but nearly twice as wide.
The man’s complexion was ruddy over blemished skin, and his hair was thinning at the top.
One would never guess they were close in age.
How could he leave her here? He kept asking himself the same question over and over again. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from pronouncing his love for her.
“Hart,” MacDonell addressed him. “It took ye long enough. I expected ye here days ago.” His voice dripped with aristocratic disdain. Arse, Rory thought. He barely glanced at Alana. He made no greeting or even an acknowledgment that she was standing there.
“Travel took us longer than we had originally anticipated. Weather and,” he looked at Alana and pointed toward her ankle, “Alana hurt her ankle in a slip.”
Finally, MacDonell’s eyes slid o’er to Alana and with cold, gray eyes, he looked her over from head to toe. “I am to believe ye are weel now? I dinnae need to nurse ye to health, do I?” He snapped. “I do hope ye arenae the clumsy sort. I need a hearty wife, not a weakling.”
Rory felt Alana stiffen against his arm. How he wanted to put his arm around her and tell her that all would be well. But kenning that would be a lie, he couldn’t. And the show of affection would be of benefit to neither of them.
But Alana surprised him. She stepped forward, shoulders back, chin lifted, and addressed her betrothed.
“I have recovered just fine. I am quite healthy as weel. Thank ye for yer concern,” she retorted, and for good measure, she eyed him the same way he had her just moments afore, a bored look on her face.
If Rory wasn’t so devastated of their inevitable parting, he would have broken out in laughter.
MacDonell wasn’t as amused.
“My men arrived days ago with a claim that she had run off. But then a messenger arrived from Hartsmoor telling me that there was a carriage accident and she had been abandoned.” He sniffed and regarded Alana again.
“Those men that were escorting ye have been severely punished. They willnae be abandoning anyone or any of my orders again.”
Alana gasped at the implication of what MacDonell had done to his men. Again, Rory wanted to reach out and comfort her.
MacDonell smacked the heels of his boots together, his hands clasped behind his back, and spoke to Alana. “Yer father assured me ye would arrive, and that ye were worth the price I’ve paid.” His eyes leered over her body once again. “I am no’ so certs.”
Rory clenched his jaw to keep from retorting.
This wasn’t his fight.
A servant appeared, different from the one that was waiting at the gate earlier.
MacDonell regarded the young girl coolly.
“This is Edna, yer maid. She will take ye to yer bedchamber.” He turned his back to the woman and addressed Rory.
“I assume ye and yer father are expecting compensation for escorting her here.”
“Alana,” Rory bit out.
“Excuse me?” MacDonell asked.
“Her name is Alana,” he gritted out betwixt clenched teeth.
MacDonell waved his hand in the air in dismissal as if her name was insignificant.
Bloody bastard.
Realizing the women were still there, he turned back to them. “Why, pray tell, are ye still here?” He made a shooing motion with his hands acting as if they were animals. “Go, ye neednae stand here any longer.”
Rory fisted his hands. It would be so damn easy to pound this bastard’s face to a bloody pulp. And in the process start a clan war, he reminded himself, so he remained silent, watching as Alana followed Edna.
She glanced back—only once—but that one time was enough to twist the knife that had stabbed him in the heart even more.
“Weel, now that the women have finally left,” he shook his head as if their presence was an inconvenience, “We can speak openly. Do tell, how is she? Other than easily injured?”
“I wouldnae say that is the case. ’Twas a bad fall.”
MacDonell shrugged, not caring one wee bit for Alana’s welfare. “I can only hope she’s hearty enough to withstand our winters. She might be a good tup. I will find out soon enough. Hopefully, she’s not barren.”
Rory was speechless. Not because he had naught to say, nay, just the opposite. He was speechless because whatever he would say would surely have a negative impact on both Alana and his family. He didn’t want to be the cause of her being harmed.
Oblivious to Rory’s reaction, MacDonell continued. “Ye can stay the night and sup since yer journey has been long, though much of that was yer fault. I expect ye gone in the morn afore I arise.” He spun and headed toward the castle, not far behind Alana and her new maid.
Rory watched until Alana disappeared into the darkness of Caer Rannoch. It seemed to swallow her up and he could only hope that somehow, some way, she had the strength to find happiness in the life ahead of her.
As he made his way to the servants quarters, he could only mutter, “’Tis done.” But it didn’t feel like it.