Page 21 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

“Tis a risk worth taking, lass. Yer uncle will just wed the next lass in line to the Mackay, maybe send the queen some gold.”

“It will not be so simple! Tis an insult to her, and then she may find out about Isobel and the insult will be doubled! I appreciate the sentiment, and I’ll cherish it forevermore, but you have to send me back.”

“Nah,” he said, as casually as one rejected the offer to play cards.

Since sadness hadn’t worked, Margaret let her emotions turn to anger. “You are a bloody fool. I never would have made you that worthless promise had I—”

Margaret was cut off by a firm slap across her cheek. It sent her head whipping to the side, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue.

“It was not worthless,” Gavin breathed, his voice the quiet fury that reminded her of the eye of a storm. “Donna ye ever dare to say that again. Tis as if ye wanted that man to touch ye.”

Margaret straightened her head, defiantly looking back into Gavin’s dark eyes, which were now nearly black with his emotion. She wanted to tell him that she had wanted his touch, that the only thing that had held her back was her foolish inability to break a promise. But she had already taken it a step too far with him. The pain on her cheek was a reminder of that.

“Of course, I did not want that,” Margaret said. “I just want what is best for the clan, and I’ll do whatever I must to see that through.”

“I want the same,” he replied. “But, if we run off and stay hidden, perhaps going south to England, they’ll never ken that ye survived the attack. We’ll find a clearing and fill it with blood and bits of yer dress. The queen will only be mad then at the Mackays for failing to protect ye.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Margaret said. “But I am so afraid for the clan should we fail. Twould be better for me to just try and be happy with Alexander, even if I ken that you will one day forget about me and wed another.”

“But ye’ll never be happy at his side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ye ken that he doesna want ye,” Gavin said, crouching down so he could look her in the eye, his hand reaching out to caress her good cheek.

“I could give you plenty of evidence otherwise,” Margaret replied, her mind returning to the feeling of him hardening beneath her lap the night before with a slight blush.

“Does he even ken who ye are? I’m not talking about identity only, but in heart?”

No, Margaret realized as pain swelled through her. And he probably never would.

Alexander expected an Isobel. He expected a woman that would ask him for the world and then a bolt of silk besides. He expected a woman that would walk through noble society at Dirlot with the grace and innate arrogance of one born into that world. That would never be Margaret, it would only be her in a mask. And knowing that brought her more pain than she would have felt if the roof of this building caved in upon her.

Gavin now may have been the wiser choice if she ever dared to have a man know her and love her for who she was. But, as she thought of the taste of Alexander’s lips and the burnishing gold in his eyes when he looked at her, she knew that Gavin would never again be a choice she could make. Alexander had managed to dig trenches into her heart with only a few soft touches and weighted glances. And, though she had not wanted him there, she also did not have the strength of will to try and push him out. His presence there filled her with a warmth that was at once as calming as a blanket and as terrifying as a volcanic eruption.

No, he would never love her, not for who she really was. But she would be happier living a lie with him than living in truth with Gavin. And now that she knew that, she would fight to get back to him. And then she would fight to stay beside him.

“You’re right. I do not ken how I did not see it before,” Margaret said, her words hollow and tasteless as they slipped from her lips. “Me and you belong together, no matter the risk.”

“Aye, lass,” Gavin softened before her, leaning forward so his forehead come to rest on hers. “I’m so glad ye see it.”

“Before we discuss where we shall run off to, I need something to drink. I feel a bit faint.”

Her voice was scratchy enough for Gavin to understand the point, and he nodded, his face once again alight with happiness. He leaned forward again, brushing his lips against her forehead. Margaret resisted the urge to scrub away whatever of his touch lingered behind.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered before he slipped away, leaving her on her own in the little building.

Margaret scrambled to her feet as soon as he had slipped through the door, her eyes darting this way and that as she tried to identify an exit. And there, along the wall, nearly hidden behind a stack of crates, was a small hole where one of the wooden planks had rot away. Margaret rushed for it and crouched. It was a small hole, but she was a small lass. She began to crawl through, her torso slipping into the cool night air before she felt resistance.

“Bloody skirts,” Margaret cursed, wishing her uncle hadn’t forced her to ride out in something so ridiculous. The thick green skirt was one thing, but then there were the countless layers of fabric beneath the outer shell, layers that gave her a pretty volume when she sat atop a horse but did not help her when she was trying to make a daring escape.

Of all times not to be in trousers, Margaret thought to herself as she scurried back into the building and began to reach desperately for the ribbon along her back that held the dress against her, but found it was just out of reach.

“Dammit,” Margaret whispered, hearing the men outside all laugh and shout with each other, with one distinctly teasing another for taking so long to bring back the water. She hooked her fingers into the bodice of the dress and pulled. At first, there was nothing. Just Margaret sitting amongst the straw, futilely pulling at the dress, but then, with a soft pop, the ribbon tying it to her broke.

Margaret tugged again and again, slowly but surely pulling the dress further and further off of her, frantically casting glances over her shoulder. Finally, the dress was loose enough, and she pushed it down over her hips, scrambling away from the voluminous green trap. Now, stripped down only to her kirtle under-gown, she dove for the hole again, this time making it through with only one or two tugs to free the thin cotton where the jagged edges tried to trap her. Behind her, she heard the creaking groan of the door opening.

She ran.