Chapter 23 #2
Did he mean to quarter English soldiers at Dunlop castle?
Had he decided her father should take a third wife, perhaps an English noblewoman?
“What does he want?” she asked.
“It seems the Rivenloch clan has been speaking well o’ ye.”
“Me?” She blinked in surprise. “But I’ve never met them.”
“I believe Sir Hew has commended ye to his laird.”
She smiled. That warmed her to her toes.
But melancholy lingered in her father’s eyes.
“Then what’s wrong?” she asked.
“The king has made ye a match.”
A flutter of excitement made her heart flip over. Somehow Hew had managed it. He’d talked his laird and the king into approving their marriage.
“But that’s welcome news,” she gushed, clasping her father’s hand even as he averted his solemn gaze. “Isn’t it?”
Why wasn’t he happy for her? Could it be he was feeling sorry for himself? Did he think she was abandoning him?
“Och, Da,” she chided him, giving his beard a fond tug. “I promise I’ll visit. ’Tisn’t so far, and I’ll have to come to Dunlop to see Hamish and all the—”
He clasped her hand to hush her, pulling it away from his face. She’d never seen him so grim, not since he’d said farewell to her mother.
“Ye should read the missive.” He pulled a scroll from within his plaid. The red seal was already broken, but Carenza could see it had the royal insignia.
With trembling fingers, she took the vellum from him.
At first glance, it seemed an ordinary marriage writ.
The beginning paragraph extolled Lady Carenza’s virtues as a wife.
Then followed detailed language about property ownership, coin exchange, the dowry price, and the line of inheritance.
As she scoured the document, her eye caught on the names of the two parties involved, the Laird of Dunlop and the Laird of Rivenloch. All seemed in order.
But when she got halfway through the text, she saw a name that didn’t belong there.
Gellir.
Gellir of Rivenloch.
She shook her head and reread the passage.
Sir Gellir of Rivenloch, the bridegroom.
Nay. That wasn’t right. It was supposed to be Hew. Sir Hew of Rivenloch. She didn’t even know Gellir. There must be some mistake.
She read on. But every mention of the bridegroom said Gellir. Hew’s name appeared nowhere on the document.
Though she felt an uneasy queasiness in her gut, she couldn’t help but assume it was a mistake. Someone had gotten the cousins’ names mixed up. That was all.
She scrolled down to the bottom of the page. Laird Deirdre of Rivenloch’s signature was affixed to the document. Surely she knew the difference between her son and her nephew. She wouldn’t have accidentally promised the wrong woman to the heir of Rivenloch.
Her heart slowly sank to the bottom of her chest and remained there, as if heavy iron anchored it to the shadowy depths. When she lifted her gaze to her father, for an instant she saw her own bleak hopelessness reflected in his eyes.
But then the cold, hard truth fell over his face like a steel visor.
A laird couldn’t be governed by empathy. A laird’s power depended upon loyalty—his clan’s to him and his to the crown. When it came to strategic alliances, the king knew best. And no amount of begging or negotiating or conniving would change that.
So as painful as it must have been for him to break her heart, her father straightened with pride, praising the king’s wisdom and congratulating Carenza on her successful match.
Carenza felt numb.
By all measures but one, it was a successful match.
Gellir was not only from a long line of warriors.
He was the tournament champion of all Scotland.
Instead of settling for the son of one of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Carenza was wedding the son of Laird Deirdre herself.
And when the Rivenloch clan chose a new laird, the responsibility would almost certainly fall to Gellir, making Carenza both the Lady of Rivenloch and the Lady of Dunlop.
Their children would control the combined forces of Lowland and Highland warriors, securing the border for generations to come.
But that one measure—the measure of love—was all that mattered to Carenza. Her throat ached with betrayal, and her chest throbbed with heartbreak. Her eyes welled with hot tears, blurring her vision as she stared wordlessly up at her father.
He scowled once. Briefly. But she could read his expression.
He wanted her to understand this betrothal was a gift. An honor. A reward granted by the king.
To consider it anything less was disgraceful.
To accept it with anything other than gratitude was unseemly.
To welcome it with anything but the utmost enthusiasm was shameful.
As the daughter of the clan, Lady Carenza must proclaim her satisfaction with the king’s choice. She must be thankful for his great care in choosing her bridegroom. She must convince the clan she was delighted with his royal decree.
Yet how could she?
For the first time in her life, Carenza couldn’t mask her feelings. Her control slipped. Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip quivered. Heartache spilled over her eyes and trickled down her cheek.
Her father’s brow darkened, and he swiftly pulled her into the shadows of the buttery before the clan could see her.
She was sure he was going to chastise her. Lady Carenza was supposed to be the clan’s ray of sunshine. Their inspiration. Their joy. She wasn’t supposed to frown or weep, show anger or cause unease.
But he didn’t chide her. He only held her by the shoulders and regarded her with tired, sad eyes.
“I know ye’re fond o’ Hew,” he murmured. “I am as well. And if ’twere in my power to give ye your heart’s desire, I’d do so. Ye know that, aye?”
She nodded. But his kind words only made her sob more.
“But I can tell ye this. Rivenloch is beyond reproach. They’re a clan o’ great integrity and honor. Deep loyalty and courage. If Sir Gellir is half the man that Hew has proved himself to be, ye’ll not be unhappy in this marriage.”
He was wrong. She would never be happy. Not while the one she loved with all her heart was not hers to have and hold.
She would feign to be content. It was what was expected of her. It was what had always been expected of her. She would smile and nod, act gracious and grateful, amplify her small joys and hide her deep disappointments.
But she would never be happy.
As she’d always known, her life was not her own.
For a brief sliver of time, Hew had made her believe she could express her own desires, follow her own dreams, dance to her unique music. He had made her feel as if she were worthy, by virtue of simply being herself.
But now reality buffeted her in the face, waking her from her foolish dreams and reminding her she’d never truly been the free-spirited Carenza Hew adored.
From the beginning, she’d been carved into the perfect wooden effigy of the daughter of Dunlop.
Beneath her velvet gown, she’d always worn the iron shackles of her station.
She’d always borne the terrible weight of the clan on her shoulders. And she always would.
She sniffed back her tears and wiped the tracks from her cheeks. “I’ll need a mo—”
“O’ course.” He turned to go, then returned to lean in close. “Would ye like me to break the news to him?”
She hesitated. His offer was tempting.
Hew would not take the news well. He’d likely explode. Bellow out in anger and fury. Rage against the king’s decree.
Desperation would drive him to do something far more dangerous. He’d look for a way to gainsay the document his own laird had signed. Perhaps challenge the king himself.
Carenza couldn’t let that happen. She and Hew had never been masters of their own fate. They’d denied it for weeks now. Believed they could make their own happily ever after.
But somewhere deep inside, she’d known all along it was just a fantasy. Kings played at chess, and nobles were merely their pawns. She’d only imagined it could be otherwise.
It was cowardly not to tell Hew herself. He deserved to hear the truth from her lips. Even if that truth was but a veiled reflection of what she truly felt.
“Nay, I’ll tell him,” she decided.
She swallowed down the last of her tears and gathered her courage. This would be the most demanding performance she ever pulled off. But everything depended upon it. The fate of her clan. The fate of Rivenloch. And the good will of the king.
Her heart caught once—when she saw Hew laughing and chatting by the fire with her clansmen. He looked so natural with them, they might have been his brothers.
How cold the hearth of Dunlop would be without the Viking warrior of Rivenloch.
She clutched the rolled parchment in her hands.
He glanced at it once when she came up, but said nothing.
It took all her will to maintain a calm expression. But she knew she had to be convincing. With a nod of her head, she beckoned him to follow her. She led him to the quiet alcove at the entrance of the great hall.
“Well?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he arched a brow at the scroll.
Her heart plunged even farther into the miserable mire. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not when she knew she was about to break his heart.
“We knew this day would come,” she said, twisting the scroll in her hands. “We always said our fate was not our own. Isn’t that right?”
She glanced up long enough to see a scowl furrow his brow.
“What has Malcolm done?” he growled.
She had to tame Hew’s ire before it erupted.
“He’s done what is his right to do,” she said with a detachment she didn’t feel. “He’s chosen a husband for me.”
Hew went absolutely silent.
The pulse in her ears was deafening. And her own flippant words sounded as cheap and meaningless as the jangling of a beggar’s bell in a thunderstorm.
“But I want ye to know I’ve truly enjoyed our time together,” she said. “I consider ye a cherished friend. And I will always—”
Hew snatched the scroll out of her hands.
The hammer blow to his heart had not yet landed. He was still numb. Or perhaps he had no heart left to break.