Chapter Five
During the course of the night, Alan once more considered taking flight. The hours were long and being devoid of sleep gave him ample opportunity for thought.
He might pack a few belongings, slip off down to the stables with no one noticing. They would be deserted at this hour. He would not need to take much with him—he could live simply if he had to and in truth had spent time in the past living off the wild lands surrounding Kallan.
He could manage for at least a time, till he gathered his thoughts and decided what to do with his life.
No longer a noble’s son. He could perhaps take a position as gamekeeper or some such on another estate, far enough away that he would not be recognized.
An obscure existence, but better than the one into which he was being forced. He had not asked for this life or this marriage. No ease existed in being Evan MacKallan’s younger brother. Might as well be the calm wind that followed a gale, for all the notice he received.
Only one thing stopped him from haring off into the depths of that night, and that one thing he did not truly understand.
The look in Annista MacRowan’s eyes.
She was naught to him beyond a complication. She was the last sort of woman to attract him, so it was not that. Angry and unpleasant, she was not someone with whom he could expect to come to any sort of accord, beyond the promise they’d already exchanged.
But…
The expression in her eyes when the firelight filled them, something beneath the anger and the hard glint of defiance—a shadow of uncertainty? Fear? Dread?
What would happen if he did scarper off into the night? What would the two men who’d schemed so fiercely together at the door of the solar decide? Would they make her marry Evan after all?
To be sure, they would. The agreement must be kept.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, she would be given to his brother.
Alan’s very soul flinched from that prospect. He did not know how long it would take for his brother to crush such a spirit as Mistress Annista’s. She had strength that showed in her backbone and in her gaze. It might take a while, but aye, Evan would destroy her even as he had her gentle sister.
Alan would have to watch it happen.
Not if he left. Indeed, if he did not wed the lass, he would have to distance himself because he could not stay and watch her being destroyed.
He told himself, as he stared out his window into the night, that he did not care.
He lied.
Where was his brother now? Drunk somewhere, no doubt. Father had not wanted him on hand to make a scene when their guests arrived. He might be out harassing a villager or a villager’s wife.
The ugly stories abounded.
Father had covered for Evan a long while. Father himself drank, sometimes to excess. Indeed, it might indeed be from him that Evan had picked up the habit.
The drink never affected Father the way it did Evan, though. Never turned him mean or violent.
But then, Father was a sane man. Alan had long ago decided the same might not be said of his brother.
Could Alan leave the redoubtable Mistress Annista in such a man’s hands?
Could he wed a woman he did not want?
In similar debate did the night pass, until gray light began seeping across the wild sweep of land he could see out his window and he knew it was too late.
The grooms rose before the sun, and his servant, Thomas, almost as early. He would arrive soon to prepare Alan for his wedding.
He longed briefly for a drink of his own before repelling the idea. Rarely did he touch the stuff. It was Father who had not slacked off since Mistress Robena’s death.
When he could no longer deny, even to himself, what Evan was.
Thomas slipped into Alan’s chamber not long after first light, appearing startled to find Alan already out of bed.
He would help Alan dress and begin packing up his chamber, the one in which Alan had lived since he left the nursery as a boy.
He would be moving to a set of rooms overlooking the gallery where he reckoned Mistress Annista must be already situated.
“Master Alan?” Thomas raked him with a look from bright blue eyes. “Are ye unwell?”
Alan grimaced. Did he look it?
Thomas had married last year to one of Mother’s maids, and seemed content in it. Would he understand that everything in Alan wanted to escape this union?
Receiving no proper answer, the servant went on, “I ha’ yer blue cotte brushed and ready, if ye wish to wear that, as ’tis yer finest.”
“Aye, all right.”
As if he cared what he wore.
What if Thomas had arrived this morning only to find him gone? What a hue and cry there would have been then. Panic and lamenting.
He’d missed his opportunity.
He submitted himself to his manservant as a doomed man to the executioner’s blade.
****
Bonnie must have picked up on Annista’s anxiety, for her hands shook as she helped her dress. Perhaps she was merely worried about making sure her mistress looked fine enough for her wedding.
Annista could have told her it did not matter how she looked. She had a new gown in her favorite hue of amber-yellow, but she could scarce bring herself to look at it. Nor could she do more than glance at the breakfast that was brought in for her.
Bonnie had her laced into the gown and was busy arranging her hair when Father arrived. He came in, glanced around the room as if assessing its worthiness of his prized offering, and turned to her.
“Almost ready, Daughter?”
He too wore his best cotte of brandy-wine red with the ruffled fichu at his neck. Folk here in the north did not dress with the fastidiousness of the royalty in the south, but Father did like his trappings when the occasion called for them.
Annista lifted her eyes to his face. Ye be sacrificing me, she thought. Is it not enough? Need ye keep pushing?
He swept his gaze over her much as he had the chamber and must have judged her sufficiently well got up, for he made no comment.
“Before this wedding takes place,” Annista told him, “I want to visit Robena’s grave.”
That captured all his attention and brought his gaze back to her face. Emotions flickered in his eyes—unhappiness, dismissal, guilt? Did he feel any guilt over sending his elder daughter away to her death?
“Nay time for that now,” he said shortly. “Mayhap later.”
“Where is she buried, d’ye ken?” In Annista’s opinion, Robena should have been brought home for burial at Rowan. That had not happened.
She’d been in the ground before they knew she was dead.
“Near the chapel, I would warrant. There is a chapel on the grounds here. ’Tis where ye will wed.”
“I wish to visit her first.” To keep Annista’s goal in view, so she might remember, as she went to her fate, just why she did so.
“Out o’ the question. This is a day o’ celebration and should no’ be muddied wi’ such a maudlin occupation.”
“Celebration?” Annista escaped Bonnie’s fingers and got to her feet. “Father, d’ye mean what ye say? Ye are handing me over into the same hands that killed my sister. Wha’ is there to celebrate?”
“No’ the same hands. Different ones.” Father’s nostrils flared and he shot a look at Bonnie. “This should no’ be discussed in front o’ a servant.”
“The same household. The—the same lack o’ regard, o’ protection!”
“I ha’ Earl MacKallan’s solemn word ’twill no’ end in sorrow again.”
Och, what value lay in the word of the man who’d let Robena die?
“Anyway, ye are no’ yer sister.”
Annista stepped up to her father and gazed at him with defiance. “A good thing, is it no’? For ye ha’ bartered awa’ my welfare even as ye did hers. And may ye live wi’ the weight o’ it.”
For an instant he looked like he wanted to strike her. He had, a few times in the past when she proved what he called stroppy. But he always looked sorry after, when he’d left a welt on her skin.
He could not afford to do so now, when he had to present the perfect bride.
“Do yer duty,” he ordered her from between his teeth, “and do it well, for once in yer life.”