“Do nae cry, my lady. ’Tis yer wedding day.”
Màiri knew it well.
She’d woken up each morning, her stomach swirling and heart heavy. Pulling away and taking the kerchief Alana offered, she wiped her eyes like the expert she now was in drying tears from her face.
Alana took her shoulders more firmly than she had the day before.
“Yer father would never have agreed to see you wed to Ambrose Dern. The feud between our clans runs too deep.” Despite her very serious expression, Alana added, “Unlike the loch.”
Màiri couldn’t help it—a smile tugged at her mouth.
“Two summers,” she reminisced. “And the loss of some very good pike.”
“Yer father’s favorite.”
Indeed, it took an angry man to drain an entire loch just to prevent his enemies from fishing in it. The extreme measure proved his enmity toward the former allies.
And yet . . .
“Perhaps he would have . . .”
Alana shook her head. “Nay, lass. I have been trying to tell you. He would not.”
Màiri’s shoulders slumped, the truth laid bare before her. She felt as if she would be ill.
“But to marry a stranger . . .”
Alana still held her shoulders, and she squeezed them now. Lips pinched together, her maid looked into her eyes. “A stranger with the self-assurance of a king and the countenance of a knight? You may not have been pleased by his admission, but ’twas honorable of him to offer it.”
Màiri tended to believe his blurted confession had been more foolish than noble.
“I know him not at all.”
“He is a MacKinnish.”
Which was the reason, she suspected, her father had insisted on the match. Although her father had withdrawn his support of the Bruces, he’d always liked the MacKinnishes. He’d seen the kiss as an excuse to eliminate the possibility his daughter might marry into Clan Dern. Moreover, she would not be far from home.
Knowing her father’s motives did not make them more agreeable.
“He is arrogant,” Màiri said.
“But he does not look at you and see yer mark.”
Màiri’s eyes widened. Alana never spoke of her mark. Ever. When she’d told the maid about the kiss, Màiri had slipped, making mention of the way he’d held his hand on her cheek. It had been a remarkable gesture, but not one she’d thought to share aloud.
She swallowed.
“Ambrose Dern is a good man,” Alana said. “And he will make a fine husband for someone who does not love him as a friend.”
Màiri froze, surprised to hear her own suspicions being voiced by the woman who knew her heart better than she knew it herself.
“Marriage has naught to do with love,” she said.
Alana made a knowing sound, something she’d miss at Hightower. Actually, she’d miss everything about the dear woman, but when her maid had begun to prepare herself for the move, Màiri had stopped her. Her father needed Alana, and she him. Perhaps they would even admit to their love for each other someday. As much as she wanted Alana to come with her, she couldn’t bear to be the person who parted them.
“You didn’t say that to your father when you were tellin’ him what a fine match ye’d make with Ambrose.”
Of course, she was right. But Màiri was not willing to admit it.
