Page 34 of My Highland Bride

Desire each other. Do I desire Erik Stokerton?

It is foolish of me to even pose the question. None other has affected me this way. And maybe he desires me as well. The look he’s giving me now says he does.

But can I really marry a man who pines for another?

Many noblewomen do, and few are given the luxury of a choice. But would it not be less painful to marry a man I do not desire than to marry one I do who desires another?

“I am not asking for you to pledge your troth to me this very eve, Reyne. Ten days. And then, if you wish it, I will be gone.”

I am about to answer when we are interrupted.

“Commander Stokerton?”

The man who interrupted our dance is tall, even taller than Erik. But he is not built like Erik. This man is thin. And very clearly drunk.

“You do not remember me,” he says with the thick accent of a Highlander who spends little time at court. “But I remember you. Your betrothed was my niece.”

13

Reyne

Your betrothed was my niece.

For once, my headaches have come in handy. As the men play their games in the tourney, I sit outside the tent watching the squires and pages tidy up their masters’ belongings.

Instead of confronting my father and brother, I begged their leave to remain out here to think. Still unsure what to do after last evening’s revelations, I wish I were back home to ask my mother for guidance.

But then, I already know what she would say. Marry him. It is your duty to this family, and he is a good man. And I might have listened to her once. But then I think of my beautiful sister, so full of love and life. Our tutor, Ciaran, gave Fara a book once, when she was but a young girl of ten and three. La flamme et la fleur. It was a long poem, really. But Fara was a romantic—that’s what Ciaran called her—and the old text confirmed her beliefs.

Love, she said, was all there was in life.

She filled her head with teachings of Garra, fascinated by their customs and beliefs and the idea that healers roamed the Isle with the sole purpose of treating ailments of the heart. She loved to debate the “great question,” as it had come to be known.

Was Athea, the original Garra, responsible for the division between Meria and Edingham? After all, had she not given Lady Edina a love potion, making King Onry fall in love with her, he would have married his original betrothed. They would not have begotten two sons, twins, and have then had to choose which would sit on the throne. Sir Aiden would not have fled to the Loigh Mountains with his followers.

We would all be Merians, and Edingham would not exist. And none, not even the most independent among us, could argue we were stronger divided than we would be as one people.

When she was alive, I told Fara the tales she so loved, La flamme et la fleur and others like it that Ciaran found for her, were nothing more than that. Tales. Life was not so romantic as that. Noblewomen like us typically married for advantage. Land or power. To increase social standing. It was why our family had amassed the greatest force of men in the Highlands. Why Father was so respected. Years of alliances, some of which my stubborn father later broke, for dignity and honor, he would say.

But now she was gone. Her fanciful notions have become my own, for Fara is not here to live them. She believed love was everything, the start and end to life, and so I feel the need to honor that, her.

“Lady Reyne?”

A young man I do not know approaches, but from his clothing, I can guess his identity easily enough. I stand.

“Bradyn?” I guess. Erik told me of his squire.

He seems pleased I guessed his name.

“Aye, my lady. Squire to Lord Erik Stokerton, the queen’s second commander,” he says proudly, chin raised.

And then he says no more, so I fill the silence. “I am pleased to meet you.”

He smiles and nods but says nothing. The poor boy seems nervous.

“Would you like to sit?” I offer.

He shakes his head.