Chapter 11 #3
It seemed like an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—before Rose entered the hall, flanked by her sisters.
William straightened from the wall, his mouth suddenly dry.
She’d changed. The gown was sapphire and fit her body like a kid glove—the body he’d had his hands all over just moments before, which had flushed in passion and want.
It was now wrapped coldly, beautifully, for another man.
A single ribbon graced the delicate skin of her neck and chest, the silver locket resting against her rounded breasts.
A blue-and-red arisaid swept over one shoulder, secured with a sapphire brooch.
Her hair was down, cleverly braided at the sides with ribbons.
It gleamed in the firelit hall, a long, sleek fall of amber and cinnamon.
She was the most beautiful woman in the room—in any room that William had ever been in.
He slumped back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his melancholy mood taking a black turn.
He glowered at her visage, cool and beautiful and proud. She was solemn and stiff, chin held high, the skin of her neck tight with strain. Her head turned slightly toward the door leading to the quay.
The hall fell silent, and William heard what had captured her attention—the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the steps from the quay to the hall.
The man who emerged from the doorway was tall, his shoulders wide and heavy with muscle.
He had a strong, tanned face women no doubt tripped over themselves for.
A golden god, his thick blond hair—not a gray streak in it—was pulled away from his face to hang in a lovelock.
Roderick emerged beside him, nattering on, but the big blond man did not listen.
His gaze scanned the hall, then stopped, arrested.
William looked at Rose. She stared at her betrothed with wide eyes, hands clasped hard before her.
A hopeful bride. William’s hand curled into a fist as the pointless anger rose again.
It wouldn’t be long now. Minutes, seconds even, before he was introduced to MacPherson and everyone knew the truth.
The people of Lochlaire crowded forward to better see the reunion of Rose and her childhood sweetheart, reminding William of how many people would witness the scene that was about to transpire.
A sobering thought. Perhaps this was unwise.
Drake was right. He should leave the hall.
Let her hear it from someone else. William moved along the edge of the crowd, hoping to disappear in a room or corridor unnoticed.
Jamie MacPherson crossed the hall, his stride eating up ground, his gaze fixated on Rose.
Then suddenly he glanced around, and his pale eyes fell on William.
MacPherson stopped. He pivoted toward William, peering at him in the dim light.
Rose and everyone else in the hall turned to see what had engaged MacPherson’s attention.
William had wondered if the lad would even remember what he looked like. It had been a very long time ago, after all. But then, he supposed, one did not easily forget their father’s murderer.
Rose watched her betrothed’s approach, the whole while aware of William, standing against the wall.
She did not want to be here, did not want to face Jamie tonight.
She’d tried to plead illness and exhaustion, which wasn’t so far from the truth, but her sisters had convinced her of the importance of this moment, and so she’d allowed them to dress her.
She’d thought, on the battlements when William had embraced her, when he’d said such fine things to her, that she’d been wrong about him, that he didn’t think her a loose woman. That perhaps he too saw a future with the two of them together.
But she’d been wrong. He’d been ready to bed her, she’d seen it in his eyes, tasted it in his kiss.
But he had no more use for her past that.
Her humiliation and anger froze to hate.
She hated him and men like him. Hated Fagan MacLean, hated his skinny wife and Fagan’s son, who’d used her just as William had intended to.
But most of all, at that moment she hated her father for sending her to Skye and leaving her there and, when she’d escaped, sending her back.
And even now, when she should well and truly be free of the MacLeans, somehow they still trapped her.
All of this swirled inside her, making her sick with suppressed resentment and fury and disgust. She didn’t want to marry and be touched by any man. They were all the same and she could not understand them, or how she could still ache for one of them so painfully.
Then Jamie had emerged from the doorway.
She had not recognized him, had not seen in him the boy she’d once known.
He didn’t even look like the miniature she’d so faithfully worn.
But he’d looked at her with a sort of wonderment that had lightened her spirit somewhat.
He’d known her before she’d gone to Skye; perhaps he still saw in her the girl she’d once been, all innocence, knowing nothing of the vile nature of men, nothing of hate.
But then William had moved—she’d felt it, her body and mind, as always aware of him wherever he was—and Jamie had turned to gape at him. Who wouldn’t? The tallest man in the room, the finest-looking man in the room—and the only one currently leaving.
They stared at one another for a long moment. Jamie looked as if he’d been kicked in the gut. William arched a black brow, and a thin, bitter smile curved his lips in greeting.
Rose’s heart took a sickening plunge. She’d never asked him, never even wondered: How did they know each other?