To Dream of a Highlander(61)

Lorna shook her head and finally turned to face Catriona, a tight smile on her face. “Is all well?”

“Well enough. Is all well with ye, Lorna?” Catriona asked, noting the lines of tension around Lorna’s usually youthful eyes.

“Aye, aye.” She waved a hand. “Do ye need something? For the wedding mayhap?”

“Nay, I just wondered… I know it has no’ been long, but have we word from the coast yet?”

Lorna gave her sympathetic smile. “Nay, and be assured, as soon as we have news from Bute, I shall pass it on to ye.” She patted her hand “Ye must miss yer father very much. And yer sister… Catriona, is it?”

Catriona had to bite back the correction on her tongue. All her life she’d been correcting people when they thought her Katelyn. It was a wonder she hadn’t slipped up already but she could not do so now, not when she was so near to the end.

Hopefully.

She shrugged. “I wasnae close to my family,” Catriona confessed, “but I shouldnae wish them harm and I long for word of Bute. Besides,” she flicked a peek at Gillean, “my father should want desperately to be here for my wedding.”

“I understand. Alas, Gillean is an impatient man and may not wait much longer. He has many duties and must return home to see to them.”

Catriona nodded. “Aye, I know.” And it was going to be impossible to delay any longer. Her future hung on a precipice and she was losing the will to fight. Without Finn by her side her strength deserted her.

Lorna patted her hand again. “I must see to my ledgers but if ye need me, I shall be in my solar.”

“Aye, thank ye.” Catriona drew up her shoulders. Hadn’t Finn, in his way, intended for her to stay strong. His words to her were meant to carry her through whatever was to come. She eyed Lorna’s progress up the wooden stairs and debated speaking with Gillean. But his folded arms and frosty demeanour had her skirting around him and making for the stairs herself.

He stood suddenly and blocked her way. She glanced around the empty hall, a chill sweeping through her as if a breeze had blown in.

“On the morrow, we shall be wed,” he told her, expression stern. “The priest arrives this day. One more day is all ye shall have and no more.”

“But, my laird—Gillean,” she tried, softening her tone, “my father should be here soon. I know he would wish to witness the joining of our families. I ask but a few days of ye, ‘tis all.”

“Nay. No more delays. Ye dinnae behave like the excited bride-to-be. I was told ye were keen on our match and I am tired of yer behaviour. I should have myself a docile, obedient wife and I willnae be patient any longer. Ye have made a mockery out of me and I shallnae tolerate any more of this disobedience. Ye might no’ be my wife yet but ye are my betrothed and I expect ye to behave as such.” He glowered at her. “On the morrow, we wed.”

She gulped. On the morrow? It was too soon. Her situation was hopeless but she had to try.

“Pray, my laird, I dinnae mean to disrespect ye. I am all excited anticipation for our wedding but ye must see that I need my father by my side before I take such a step.”

“Nay, I dinnae see, and I dinnae see ye being obedient as I ask. Ye might be a bonny lass but that carries no weight with me. I shall put ye in yer place should I have to.”

His face reddened and she backed away, eyes wide. What had she done? Now she had incensed him. His hand darted out and he snatched her arm, stopping her retreat. She gasped as fingers pinched her arm.

“My laird,” she protested, tugging away. “My laird, pray there is no need—”

“There is,” he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. “Ye are a little deceiving whore and I shall have it no longer. Ye shall be mine, body and soul on the morrow.”

“Gillean—”

“No more lies, Catriona,” he spat out.

“Pray, Gillean.” She tugged away again but his grip tightened. Her strength deserted her as his words sank in. Catriona lifted her hand to her mouth. “Ye know?”

“Aye, I know.” He reeled her in until he had hold of both her arms. “I know ye intended to trick me. I know yer sister—my true bride—is dead. I received word on my travels of her death. And,” his lips turned up into a sneer, “of yer father’s.”

“My father’s?”

“Aye, killed by a Norse arrow.”

Her head swam and she sagged against his hold. He held her upright with great force, hurting her arms. Her father? Dead? “What of the isle?” she asked desperately.

“The king has taken it back and installed a new steward. Yer home is lost to ye now, Catriona. Either ye marry me or wait for the king to find ye a husband.”