Page 17 of My Highland Bride

I spot her father first and then . . . and then the bright red hair of the woman standing next to him with her back turned to us.

“There,” I say, walking toward her. As we do so, she turns.

“In the name of the Prima,” he mutters. “One man cannot be so lucky.”

His reaction is much the same as mine was earlier in the market. I hadn’t expected to see her, and the jolt I felt was unexpected. Reyne’s beauty is wild. Untamed. Were she at court, those slight freckles across her brow would be covered with powder. Her full lips accentuated with unnecessary color. Though she is not as refined as the ladies who flock to Breywood Castle, she is lovelier for it.

“I’ll do it,” Gille says. “Surely Moray would be equally as pleased to ally with my family.”

He’s jesting, surely, and I don’t point out that the Morays and Elliots are already in good standing, a fact he knows well.

When we reach the Morays, Gille plays the charming courtier almost immediately, not even waiting for an introduction.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lord Moray. Sir Gille Elliot.” He juts out his hand. Moray gives me a slightly startled look, but he takes it, giving Gille his attention. “You’ve met my father, Lord Elliot. And you must be Lady Reyne.”

It’s only when he takes her hand and kisses it that I realize he was not jesting.

Both father and daughter are taken in by the lout, who pretends I’m not standing next to him. Not only have Gille’s father and Moray met, Gille reminisces, but they hunted together in the spring. I watch the exchange with some amount of amusement, until Reyne sneaks a glance at me.

And suddenly, I’m no longer amused.

Her long lashes brush her cheeks as she gazes at me. For a moment I think she wishes to say something, but Gille steals her attention away. He has shifted to regaling them with stories about his own hunting escapades. Reyne laughs and smiles, and I find my good nature is overcome with . . .

Anger?

Nay, I am not usually quick to anger. Jealousy? Perhaps, but only because Gille has made a practice of stealing attention.

“Was that the same hunting excursion,” I interrupt, “when you were shot in the arse with an arrow?” Reyne nearly spits out her wine. “Pardon, my lady, if my words offend you.”

“It was not,” Gille says, as affronted as if the woman he’s attempting to charm is not the very same one I’ve agreed to marry. “And well you know it, Commander. Were you not present the day your squire shot me?”

Indeed I was.

I have a history of fostering squires none deem adequate to train. Which reminds me of Bradyn, whom we left back in the tents. Servants, squires, and pages, though not invited to the hall, typically hold their own feast of sorts. I tried to prepare Bradyn for the kind of revelry awaiting him this eve. How does he fare?

“We’ve obviously much to discuss. Would you sit with us this eve?” I direct the question both to Moray and Reyne, looking between the two. If I’ve learned one thing from Cettina, it is that a woman does not take kindly to being talked over.

My mother may have her own mind in many things, but it is the queen who truly showed me the traditional gender roles in our society needn’t be that way. Women and men are given equal status in Murwood End, and she aims to make it so here as well. Much of the current dissent has less to do with Cettina’s policies than her gender.

Reyne looks to her father, who nods.

“Warin will be joining us as well,” she says, looking toward the table set closest to the dais. It is the only one with Edingham’s banner, the Tree of Loigh, draped down the side.

“I look forward to meeting him,” Gille interjects.

Likely not as much as I look forward to speaking with my friend alone. For now, it seems, I’ll content myself with the company of a potential ally, a potential wife and brother-in-law, and, very likely, an ex-friend and comrade.

Gille laughs at the look I give him, and I cannot help but smile along with him. Looking at Reyne now, can I truly blame him for trying? She is lovely and charming, and I find myself warming to the idea of marrying this woman I knew in childhood.

Moray says she will not marry me if she knows about our talk . . . but I have given it thought, and I cannot bring her to the altar without telling her. Charm her, aye. Fool her, nay. My hope is that by the time this tournament has ended she will have gotten to know me well enough not to care how the match came to be.

The nagging voice in the back of my head urging me to tell her now? I shove it aside despite the advice my father has given me many times.

That feeling inside here, he’d say, pointing to my chest, that is the one you must trust.

Sometimes, I’ve learned since leaving home, that feeling can lead you astray.

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