Page 3 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

“But—”

“We have had this discussion,” Margaret interrupted. “I will not allow you to consider taking on a job until you turn sixteen. I need you here, helping Ann with the house, and with Laura.”

“I am fifteen already, you’ll not be able to stop me for much longer,” Mariah said, her voice laced with angry warning.

“Fine,” Margaret shot back, rubbing her temple with frustration. “Now, it has been a long day and I have much to think about, so please go to bed.”

“Things to think about? You mean you have a visitor set to come?” Mariah scoffed. “You ken, I am—”

“Alright,” Ann said. “Ye speak yer peace in the morn. Up to bed, lass.”

With a huff and a few stomps, Mariah went back up the steps. A loud slam moments later indicated that she had, in fact, made it back to her and Laura’s shared room.

Margaret groaned and slumped onto the steps, dropping her head into her hands.

“Want to talk about it?” Ann asked, leaning up against the railing. Only one year older than Margaret, Ann had always been her closest friend. She had been the only one to stick around when the inheritance left behind by Margaret’s parents had dried up, vowing to stick with Margaret through thick and thin.

“Isobel is getting married to a Mackay,” Margaret said, her words coming out muffled through her fingers.

“Yer cousin Isobel?”

“The very one.”

“To a Mackay?”

“Aye, Queen Mary’s orders, I guess.”

“Tis a terrible fate for a Gunn to wed a Mackay.”

“Aye, tis.”

“Such a thing is only deserved by those who are truly awful.”

Margaret nodded.

“So,” Ann said, releasing a long slow breath, “tis a good thing that Isobel is truly awful.”

A laugh burst from Margaret’s lips, a laugh that was quickly mirrored by Ann, resulting in the pair of them trapped in a fit of giggles. It was true: Isobel was awful.

Margaret loved her cousin, but only because of that strange impulse in one’s blood to love one’s relatives unconditionally. Her and Isobel had been born within a week of each other and, because of this, their mothers had been keen on seeing them become the closest of friends. Whenever Margaret’s father would leave for business, her mother would pack her up and bring her down to the laird’s house in Braemore, where she would stick Margaret in a room with Isobel with the expectation that the friendship would form. All that had ever formed was tolerance.

Both of the girls had too much of their fathers in them. Margaret, the daughter of a self-made merchant, had always been a practical, sensible, and resilient girl. Isobel, on the other hand, was the daughter of a laird, full of entitlement and selfish whims. Where Margaret craved order, Isobel created chaos. It had always been that way between them, with Isobel always getting her way and Margaret learning to just grit her teeth and smile while she counted down the days until they returned home.

Wiping a tear from her eye and snorting back more giggles, Margaret tried to compose herself. “Should not be so funny. Tis an awful fate, even for Isobel.”

“Aye,” Ann said, lifting her apron away from her skirt and fanning her face. “I suppose tis true. So, do ye think ye’ll be invited to the wedding?”

“Unlikely. The last time I saw her was at my father’s funeral, and that was already two years ago.”

“Right, when the ninny walked ‘round the house expecting everyone to shower her with praise for taking the single day journey north in order to comfort her poor cousins,” Ann said in a mocking tone. “Oh well, I’m sure ‘twill be a foolish affair. All weddings are.”

“If you keep up that sort of talk, I won’t invite you to my wedding,” Margaret teased.

Ann groaned. “Margaret, do ye really think that marrying—”

Ann was interrupted with a large crash from the floor upstairs. Her entire face went pale before it boiled back up into a steamy hot red that even Mariah could never muster.

“Those girls…” she hissed as she stood and went rushing up the steps.