Màiri opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She resisted the sudden urge to grab the closest item to her and toss it at her husband. He thought to make things right between them by escorting her, a married woman, to Ambrose Dern? And explaining that he was from the future, so she was free to marry another? Did this man truly have no sense?
She did the only thing possible. Màiri turned and walked back into the attached dressing chamber. From there, she began to throw every item she’d taken from her bags back inside of them.
Nay, she could not go home this eve. It was already dark. But she was having difficulty thinking clearly.
Leaving the chamber just as Ian entered it through their shared door, Màiri hastened away before he could follow. He wore no boots. Would he come after her in bare feet? Aye, the man was likely to do anything he pleased.
She couldn’t go to the hall. Not like this. Not yet. Instead, she ran to the only person she could possibly talk to. Perhaps Marian had not gone yet to supper. By the time she reached her door, Màiri was no longer surprised by his behavior. Or saddened.
She was angry. As angry as her father when he’d drained the loch. A part of her thought to turn back around and tell Ian every thought that ran through her mind. But to what end? Did she really want to convince a man so desperate to get rid of her to care for her as she cared for him?
Her hand paused just before she knocked.
Màiri thought of Ambrose.
So this was how he felt. While she adored him, cared for him like one of her own family members, his feelings were different from hers. The horrible feelings of rage and anger and sadness and loss coursing through her were the downside of romantic love. She loved Ian, but he did not feel the same. She could not go to Ambrose knowing he might feel this way for her and she loved him like a brother in return.
She could never marry him.
It would be cruel to do so knowing what she did now.
“Màiri!”
The door opened before she knocked. Màiri had not intended to cry, but the moment she saw Marian’s face, she crumpled. Rage turned to despair as the tears began to flow. Her friend, nay, her sister-in-law, ran to her, held Màiri in her arms.
“He never cared,” she sobbed as Marian led them into her chamber.
“Ian never cared for you?” Marian’s voice seemed a thousand yards away.
“Nay . . . aye . . . but I meant . . .” Her thoughts were erratic. “He truly never cared that my face is marred.”
“Marred?” Marian scolded. “Oh, Màiri, ’tis a mark, is all. We all have one. Some on our faces. Others etched much deeper, on our very souls. But I’ve not met one person in my life who was not marred in some way. ’Tis what makes you, you.”
Alana had always said much the same.
The door clicked shut.
Màiri moved away. “Was that . . . ?”
“Grey just left, aye. Do not concern yourself about him. I shall have a meal brought to us.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you go to supper.”
“Absolutely not.”
Màiri startled at the strange remark.
“Sorry. Grey says it often. He is influencing me just as we are him.”
Màiri hardly heard her words. Her shoulders sagged. “We are done. Ian and I.”
“Shut up!”
“Pardon?”
“I am sorry. It is just another phrase he taught me. ’Tis quite versatile, in fact. The way I used it just now, it means something akin toyou do not say. But there are other meanings too. Such asstop talking, which I’d not have you do. ’Twas just the first phrase that came to mind.”
She loved when Marian’s enthusiasm got away with her, or when she was so eager to comfort someone she spoke too quickly, letting her point escape her somewhere along the way. Màiri would miss her terribly.
