Cristie pulled her blanket up to her chin, curled into a ball, and buried her face in her pillow. She had been wrong to pray for Ewan MacKellar to be a kindly laird, a man who would do her no harm. Instead, she should have asked God for a brute. A mean-tempered, sanctimonious, battle-hardened knight, who held women in contempt.
It might have been easier, then, to think about betraying him.
But from what she’d seen so far, Ewan MacKellar was, indeed, a chivalrous man. Stubborn, she suspected, and certainly pious. But fair in his treatment of others, true to his beliefs, and gentle with women. He also valued integrity. It would not be wise, she mused, to deceive such a man.
“Any lass would be fortunate to be your wife,” she whispered. “For sure, you dinnae deserve the likes of me. Please tell Alastair you havenae changed your mind. Tell him you dinnae want to marry me. Tell us we have to leave. Send us back to Dunraven this morning. Please, Laird MacKellar.”
Please, Ewan.
But Ewan MacKellar’s original aversion to the marriage alliance might have changed, thanks to Cristie’s stupidity. Damn her curiosity. She should have stayed in her chamber instead of venturing out to look at some moonlit vista. Then again, she never thought for a moment she’d come face to face with the laird himself. Not at such an unsociable hour. And certainly not atop the gatehouse.
And why, by Odin’s great beard, had she then agreed to go with him to the clifftop? To stand beside him, so close that, despite the breeze, she could feel the warmth emanating from his flesh, and smell his vague, masculine scent. Had the promise of a bonny ocean view tempted her, or had it been something else? Something less tangible but more intriguing.
Maybe she should have feigned distaste at the sight of his scarred face. Pretended she’d found his appearance offensive, rather than seeing a careless tumble of russet-coloured hair framing a noble brow, strong jaw, and a fine, full mouth.
She hadn’t imagined his assessment of her, either—at first critical, even resentful, and then curious. Nothing that gave her cause to ponder. But then she thought she saw something else stir in the depths of his dark eyes.
Interest.
Any doubt of that perception disappeared when he offered to accompany her to the beach at sunrise. Her implication that there’d be no time for such an excursion had only made things worse. He’d gone even further, suggesting he’d make time. After that, he’d hinted that the marriage agreement might not be a bad thing after all.
Then, dear God, he’d called her by name—her false name—and invited her to address him with equal familiarity. At that moment, sickened by her deceit, she had almost confessed the truth of it.
But, more than Ewan MacKellar, she feared Alastair. Feared what he might do if she defied him. It seemed with every passing day the man became a little more reckless, like someone with naught to lose. Yet she failed to see how he could ever win. She also failed to see how she could ever begin to get away with a betrayal of such magnitude.
After returning from the cliff-top, Cristie had thanked the laird, professed fatigue, and returned to her bed. Not that she had any hope of sleeping, but hiding beneath the coverlet, for now, felt like the safest place to be. For sure, she had no intention of accompanying Ewan MacKellar to the shore.
However, evident from the muted sounds of clatter and chatter beyond her door, folks were stirring, preparing for the day. Cristie knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be obliged to resurface. She could only pray that Laird MacKellar had come to his previous senses, realizing the madness of moonlight had undoubtedly affected his mind. Indeed, since returning to her bed, she had prayed so hard, her head ached.
A knock came to the door, and Cristie held her breath. Maybe, if she feigned sleep, whoever it was might leave. But the knock came again, a little louder this time and accompanied by a muffled, female voice.
“My lady?”
Cristie squeezed her eyes shut. Go away.
The door opened a crack, evident from the soft creak, accompanied by yet another polite rap.
“My lady, forgive the disturbance, but your brother, Laird MacAulay, is insisting on speaking with you. I’ve been instructed to help you dress.”
Cristie’s stomach tightened. What was the urgency? Inwardly, she voiced yet another quick prayer, hoping that Ewan MacKellar had insisted they depart without further delay.
“Very well.” Cristie rubbed her eyes and sat up. “Please, come in.”
*
Cristie had been directed to the solar, where she found Alastair lounging in a chair by the hearth. Tasgall stood near the door, his job quite clear—to ensure privacy. He gave Cristie a brief, humourless smile as she entered. Undoubtedly, this meeting had been arranged with Laird MacKellar’s knowledge and permission.
Cristie’s throat went dry.
The sun had barely risen, yet already Alastair’s eyes had a glaze to them. As usual, he had one hand wrapped around the stem of a goblet. He regarded Cristie with a satisfied expression and nodded to an adjacent chair.
She took it, arranged her skirts, and met Alastair’s gaze.
“Well done, lass,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m nae sure quite how you did it, but well done,”
Behind her, Tasgall cleared his throat.
“I dinnae ken what you mean, Alastair.” Cristie swallowed. “I’ve done nothing.”
“’Tis not what I heard.” He leaned forward. “A moonlight tryst? Perfect.”
God help me! What has been said? Cristie knotted her fingers in her lap and shook her head. “It was no tryst. I didnae intend to meet with Laird MacKellar at all, in fact. It was purely by chance.”
“Nevertheless, meet him you did, and impressed him, by all accounts. A short while ago, he informed me that he’s reconsidered and, assuming you’re agreeable to it, will go ahead with the marriage. He’s summoning a priest from somewhere, and the ceremony will take place tomorrow morning. It’ll be a small gathering.” Alastair sniffed and took a swig from his goblet. “MacKellar says he doesnae feel comfortable having a big celebration so soon after the death of his brother, which is understandable.”
Oh, nay! Cristie felt the familiar prickle of tears. “But I’m no’ agreeable to it, Alastair. I have never been agreeable to it.”
His lip curled. “Dinnae start, Cristie. This has already been discussed.”
“Aye, but having met the man last night, I can tell you that Laird MacKellar isnae a fool. I cannae possibly pretend to be someone else! He’ll see through me. He’ll see through my lies. I’m certain of it.”
“Then dinnae lie.” Alastair glanced at the door and gritted his teeth. “And keep your damn voice down.”
“Dinnae lie?” Bewildered, Cristie shook her head. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying dinnae lie.” He leaned forward. “MacKellar has never met Elspeth. No one here has. So, for the most part, you can just be yourself, and no one will suspect a thing. ’Tis only your name that needs to be false.”
Dear God. Cristie shook her head again. “You ask much of me, Alastair.”
She didn’t dare mention that she now harboured some genuine esteem for Ewan MacKellar. That deceiving him felt even more loathsome than before.
“The sooner you find out what was on that wagon, and what became of it, the sooner you can return to Dunraven. Tasgall will return in a fortnight or so to see what you’ve learned, and depending on his report, you can leave the rest to me.”
Cristie sighed. Whatever that means.
Tasgall cleared his throat again, which drew a glance from Cristie. The man lifted a brow and gave her a tight smile. Was it meant to reassure? If so, it failed.
It seemed Ewan MacKellar had agreed to set aside his Templar trappings, surrender his holy vows, and pledge himself to her. For the rest of his life.
And it would all be for naught.
Cristie dared to look to the future and saw nothing but anguish.