Chapter 24
It was entirely Hew’s fault. He saw that now.
It had taken him a long while to come to terms with that tragic truth.
At first he’d stewed in bitterness, sure everyone in the world had turned against him. Lady Carenza. Her father. His clan. His king. Even the gods.
But long days at Kildunan and a missive from Laird Deirdre had finally made him realize he had no one to blame but himself. And now, as he packed his possessions into his satchel to take leave of the monastery, he was even more certain he needed to unburden his conscience.
According to Laird Deirdre’s glowing missive, Hew was the one responsible for Gellir’s betrothal.
It was his recommendation that had condemned Carenza to this fate.
He was the one whose quill had set Lady Carenza’s virtues to parchment.
He was the one who’d painted her as an angel. A saint. A goddess.
He could see now what he’d neglected to clarify was that he meant Carenza was the perfect bride for him.
Hew.
Because of his careless omission, everyone wrongly assumed Hew had made the suggestion on behalf of his cousin, Gellir.
After all, Gellir was the one in the most urgent need of a Scottish wife.
He was a tournament champion and the heir to Rivenloch, a more valuable and vulnerable pawn when it came to the king’s designs.
And before Hew could correct that error, Gellir—who trusted Hew’s judgment when it came to women—had agreed to the match. And Laird Deirdre had been eager to petition the king on her son’s behalf.
But—damn his eyes—Gellir could have any bride.
Women tripped over themselves to catch a glimpse of the illustrious champion Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch as he rode through their town. Titled ladies begged for an introduction. Wise beldams winked slyly at him. Maidservants freely offered their favors.
Of course, to the women’s eternal frustration—and fascination—Gellir took no interest in any of them.
He might be a model of chivalry, but he hadn’t become a champion by letting himself be distracted by female attention.
Every moment he wasn’t waging battle in the lists, he was training for the next tournament.
He lived, ate, and breathed knightly honor.
How unjust was it then that the glory-seeking Gellir should be rewarded with such a special prize of a bride? Gellir would have been just as content with a quintain cut into the shape of a woman he could joust against. He didn’t deserve Carenza.
And she didn’t deserve him.
Carenza needed someone who felt things as deeply as she did.
Someone who shared her desires. Who understood her heart.
Who appreciated her sensitivities. Someone who wanted more than a figurehead of a lady to bear his name and raise his bairns.
Someone who appreciated her for the unique person she was.
Sentenced to a lifetime with Gellir, she would languish in loneliness while her husband pursued victory after victory. That was no kind of life for a creature like Carenza, who was made of passion and empathy and sacrifice.
Sacrifice.
Of course.
That explained her rejection that night. Her nonchalance. Her calm. The ease with which she’d accepted the king’s decree.
Like all his past lovers, he’d assumed she’d grown weary of him or had never been as deeply in love with him as he was with her.
But now he could see clearly.
She’d thrust Hew away from her to preserve his honor.
Masked her own broken heart to save his feelings.
In the same way she hid her sorrow and ire and grief from her father, she’d tried to protect Hew from her distress at the betrothal.
She’d pretended to be amenable to the terms. Sacrificed herself to please those she cared about. Her father. And Hew.
He’d decided he couldn’t let her do that.
So he’d taken the honey to Dunlop.
Hoping for a chance to speak with her. To get to the truth of her heart.
What he would do with that truth, he wasn’t sure.
Perhaps they would still part, but on better terms.
Perhaps she would assure him she’d weighed all options and made peace with this one.
Perhaps she’d beg him to speak to Laird Deirdre and alter the terms of the marriage.
He didn’t rule out stealing her from Dunlop and carrying her off to be his bride. It was probably what Highlanders would expect from a warrior with Viking blood.
But he’d been too late. She was gone.
Now, if he wanted to ensure Carenza was content with her choice, he had to journey to Darragh and confront her in front of the man she was supposed to wed.
It was a daunting prospect. Not only would Gellir be there to argue his claim—and once he laid eyes on Carenza, he’d not give her up lightly. But his fierce cousin Feiyan and her warriors would likely back up Gellir’s claim to her. With weaponry.
Even worse, according to Laird Deirdre, they were to be married shortly after Beltane. The nobles of Rivenloch would be in attendance. They too would be fully armed.
As for Hew, he didn’t even have his trusty axe anymore.
Nay, it would be far better to visit her by stealth. To choose a time when he could slip in to the castle unnoticed. Which was why he planned to travel to Darragh over the next several days and seek lodging in the village nearby until Beltane.
On Beltane eve, the gates of the castle would be flung open.
Clanfolk bearing great torches would roam the hills with lowing coos.
Wild bonfires would light up the night sky.
The glens would be filled with drunken revelry.
And no one would take note of a cloaked stranger traveling on the road to Darragh.
Carenza sighed as she climbed back under the bedlinens and eased her aching head onto the bolster.
More than anything, she hated to be a disappointment.
Her betrothed, Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch, deserved better.
She’d been so sick since her arrival at Darragh, she’d spent several days in her bedchamber, making frequent use of the garderobe.
It was bad enough that Gellir must think her an invalid. But she was made even more ill with guilt and shame, knowing she was sick with another man’s bairn.
She’d seen her betrothed only a few times. He was classically handsome. Tall. Fit. Muscular. Striking enough that the young lasses of Darragh squealed behind their hands when he passed.
But he had a dark mane of rich brown. So he looked nothing like his Viking-blond cousin. Which would be troubling if she bore a fair-haired bairn.
Gellir’s character had been mostly what she expected. He was serious. Noble. Polite. Obsessed with knighthood.
But he had a few unfortunate flaws. By his dour expression, she learned quickly why he was called Grim Gellir.
The first time they’d met, he’d smelled of fish and didn’t care what anyone thought about that.
Now that he was off the tournament circuit, he seemed bored and restless.
And she’d seen him squash a spider with his thumb.
Because she seldom saw him, she relied upon her maidservant at Darragh, a cheery, auburn-haired lass named Merraid, to tell her about her bridegroom-to-be. Merraid quickly became her close confidant, bringing her news and pickled eels and steaming baths.
Merraid waxed poetic when it came to Gellir. It was clear she bore great affection for the man, whom she’d known since she was a wee lass. Her stories gave Carenza some reassurance.
But the grave secret Carenza harbored gnawed at her conscience. And the more heroic Merraid made Gellir sound, the worse she felt about that secret.
Carenza soon discovered her delicate condition left her with raw emotions and a penchant for expressing them. One day she blurted out an awful confession to Merraid—that though she vowed to be faithful in body to her husband, her heart would always belong to another.
Kindhearted Merraid never judged her for that. But she was disappointed. And thereafter, the maidservant took it upon herself to kindle the romance between Carenza and Gellir.
As it turned out, Gellir was quite a poet. Though he didn’t see her often, nearly every day he sent heartfelt verse. Lavish praises of Carenza’s beauty. Humble declarations of his love. Effusive affirmations of his desire for her.
But in her vulnerable state, they only made Carenza feel worse. More cruel. More dishonest. More unworthy.
A disappointment.
She feared she was going to disappoint Gellir yet again tonight.
It was Beltane. And she felt miserable.
Normally, Carenza loved the holiday. Beltane was a season of rebirth and new hope. At Dunlop, she’d adorn the coos and sheep with hawthorn blossoms, deck the doorways and sills with gorse, and leave small pools of milk near rowan trees to appease the faeries.
It was a time for revelry and mischief. The clanfolk drank too much. Lasses flirted shamelessly, and lads showed off, leaping over the twin bonfires. Even the animals felt frisky. There was always a surge of bairns born in the months after Beltane—both beast and human.
But Carenza couldn’t bring herself to celebrate. Beltane did not represent promise or renewal for her. Her new beginning was going to have a sinister start. She was going to be married in a matter of days to a kind and honorable man from whom she was keeping the most terrible of secrets.
She had good reason to conceal the truth. She meant to do what was best for Gellir, for Hew, for the whole Rivenloch clan, for her father, for her clan, for the bairn, and aye, even for the king himself. The only person for whom it was not best was her.
Still, it was a wretched way to start a marriage—with a lie.
Merraid poked her head in. “Are ye comin’ to see the bonfires, m’lady?” Her eyes danced with pleasure, and Carenza wished she could join in the maidservant’s delight.
“Nay, I think not.”
“Are ye not feelin’ well?”
“I’m sure I’ll feel better on the morrow.”