“Lass, I can tell ye I wouldna want to marry ye. That’s what I’ve come to say. Ye are beautiful, Blaire, and I’ve enjoyed my time with ye as much as I have any lass. But once ye’ve married my brother, I’ll no be wanting ye anymore. There’ll be another lass in my arms tonight. It’s the way I am.” His heart pounded off rhythm in his chest, painfully denying his lies. He expected her to match his hurtful words with some of her own, but as he watched her silently turn and walk out the door, he knew just how deep the wound was he’d caused.
He gripped the bedpost of Blaire’s bed and slid himself onto the floor. Gripping his chest, he tried to stop the pain that built with each sob he held back, as he let the scars of his loss carve their way into his heart.
*
It had been all she could do not to burst into tears. Never in her life had speech so utterly escaped her. With each additional word that Arran spoke, an icy winter spread through her core, making her completely defenseless against him.
She hated it. Hated how much she cared for him. How quickly her feelings had built and made her doubt everything she thought she’d known about herself.
Eoin had been nothing but kind and attentive since he’d returned from his trip. But he would never make her feel the way Arran did. She’d known deep down that it was Eoin she would have to marry, but she’d held on to the hope that she’d have Arran’s affection as well.
With that gone, she didn’t think herself capable of going through with her marriage to Eoin. It would be torture to be locked in a loveless marriage. To be so close to Arran, watching him with other girls, would be like throwing her heart onto a pile of burning coals.
If only convention allowed it, Blaire knew she would be happiest making her own way in the world, dependent on no one but herself. If it were acceptable, she would be pleased with taking lovers, remaining single, and taking in stray dogs instead of raising children. But things weren’t different, and this marriage would be a prison. A prison filled with the expectations and ritualistic to-dos that would be required of the new lady of the castle.
The idea suffocated her. Each minute marked a minute closer to her wedding, and she could feel her spirit retreating farther and farther into itself. Her heart was breaking.
Stopping long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes, Blaire looked up and realized she had wandered into a part of the castle she’d never been before. She knew she was lost, but didn’t care, and continued to flee down the dark steps, choosing her path at random.
When the stairs downward came to an abrupt stop, she lost her footing and stumbled through the castle’s main basement and into the wall on the opposite side. When the wall gave way, she landed on her face with a thud on the cold stone floor.
The fall didn’t hurt, but it was the pain in her heart that kept her from pushing herself up off the ground. She lay there crying until her eyes ran dry and her nose was sore, all the while wishing she could just disappear. She would rather be dead, would rather evaporate into nothing, than live her life trapped like a bird in a cage forced to sing whenever called upon.
She had no idea how long she lay there, but when she had cried all the tears she had to cry, she decided it was time to get up and face the miserable life before her.
Standing, she brushed the dirt off the side of her face and turned her head in the direction of the sunlight streaming in from the small window in the far corner. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the lighting, she scanned the room and felt herself getting light-headed. Confused and frightened, she wondered if she had hit her head harder than she’d thought as she tried to make sense of what was in the chamber.
Hundreds of dusty old books, all circling a large oval desk in the center of the room, surrounded her. Books lay scattered and open on the desk, and as she lifted the page she felt a chill move down her spine as she began to read the words.
Spells. Some to bless, some to curse, some claimed to have the ability to move time itself. Fascinated, she rummaged through the pages, finding instructions on how to cast spells and cure various ailments.
Who could this belong to? Not Arran or Eoin. She glanced up from the dusty, yellowed page. Light reflecting off of something shiny at the back of the table caught her attention, and her blood ran cold.
There, propped up against the back wall, sat a round shiny plate with her likeness painted on the front.
Underneath were words scribbled in some unfamiliar language. With shaky fingers, she reached forward to touch the plaque. As she brushed her fingers over the shiny surface, some of the paint flaked off on her fingertips.
It was too old, she realized, to have been painted by Arran or Eoin. Who could have done this then? Not Alasdair. This portrait resembles me now, and I was a small child the last time he saw me. Not my father. Who?