The day dawned bright and sunny, a gentle warmth in the air which spoke of summer’s final days. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. The River Eden sparkled and danced, like an endless flow of jewels which moved past Alana’s window.

It would have been the perfect day for a wedding.

For anyone else’s wedding.

Rain would have felt more appropriate for hers.

She stood at the window, wearing her mother’s dress. A lovely thing, pale blue silk. Plain, no embellishment. Just as Elizabeth Stewart had worn it. While her family had once been well-off, as Edward had pointed out, their fortunes had changed dramatically. They hadn’t the wealth necessary to order the creation of a fine, embroidered masterpiece.

Alana ran her hands down the front, smoothing the delicate cloth, wondering if her mother had been as terribly frightened prior to her vows.

The gown which Edward wished for her to wear—much finer, sky blue velvet with exquisite gold embroidery around the sleeves, neck, and train—was on the bed as it had been placed for her that morning once her ladies in waiting had left her alone.

She would not wear the thing. She needed in some small way to feel close to someone who had loved her.

She was not a child. She understood the nobility did not wed for love. But she had not been raised as a noblewoman. Her clan was not even the largest or most prosperous in the Highlands—hence the need to marry her off to someone with a great deal of wealth.

It was unthinkable, the idea of sharing her bed with a man she did not love or even like. In fact, she loathed Edward Remington. There was something about him which made her skin seem to crawl, as though tiny insects ran along it.

She would be his bride in a matter of hours. Then came the feast, then the bedding.

Her mouth twisted into a snarl as her stomach churned.

The flowers she wore in her hair—tiny white buds whose name she did not know, as it was a species specific to England—gave off a charming scent when the breeze blew through the room from the open window.

It reminded her of her days on the road, riding the little gray mare from home. The countryside had been thick with heather, sometimes as far as the eye could see, and the breeze had blown the scent her way time and again.

It made her think of Brice. Then again, so many things did and likely always would.

The thought of bedding Brice did not disgust her as did the thought of bedding her soon-to-be husband. For she knew what it meant to be near him, to wish for nothing more than the pressure of his lips upon hers.

She had almost bedded him at the inn and would have if he hadn’t stopped in time.

Her body responded favorably to the memory. No, being with him in such an intimate manner would be no hardship. She might even have enjoyed it, as he would undoubtedly have been good and gentle with her before sweeping her up in the fullness of his embrace.

He’d always been good and gentle with her, after all. Even when he was anything but gentle, even while he shook her or threw her over his shoulder or accused her of being difficult and argumentative, he’d been good to her.

He’d only done what he felt was best for her.

He had even returned her to her chambers out of concern for what Remington would do to her if he found her missing.

She saw him in her mind’s eye, his bushy hair, and beard, his twinkling eyes. The way they had only to exchange a look to know what the other was thinking. His almost shy smile when they’d presented her with the mare.

The calmness of his voice when he’d spoken to her in the woods, when she’d nearly been attacked by the boar. The sense of relief which had washed over her like a soft, spring rain when she knew he was going to make everything all right again, somehow.

A single tear overflowed her eye, running slowly down her cheek as dawn broke in her heart and mind, the rising sun illuminating what had been there all along.

She loved him.

And she would never see him again.

“Brice!” she breathed, turning and dashing from the room with only one purpose in mind.

She had to see him, had to tell him. Even if nothing were to ever come of her admission, he would at least know she had loved him. That he was the only man she’d ever love, no matter how many viscounts she was forced to bear by another.

The castle was in a near uproar, bodies moving to and fro, hardly any of them taking notice of her though she was the bride. She did not know any of them, naturally, making it easy to slip between and through groups of them.

She loved him! That knowledge alone made her feet feel light, her head a bit dizzy. She loved him, and she thought he might love her, too.

Or at least like her very much.

She burst from the entry, her head swimming, the sunlight almost alarmingly bright. She looked around at the stable boys and servants, the maids and butchers carrying great sides of pig and lamb to the pits behind the kitchen.

He would be in the stables, of course, and she lifted the hem of her gown to prevent it being ruined before hurrying that way. Would that he were alone…

He was not alone.

He was not even there.

“Brice?” she whispered, not daring to speak his name any louder for fear of someone getting the wrong notion—or, rather, the correct notion which would get her into quite a bit of trouble.

There was no answer. None of them were there. The horses they’d ridden all the way from Scotland weren’t in any of the stalls, either. They had left for good.

A cry of grief escaped her. It was over. All of it.

He was gone from her life forever.

She walked from the stables on much heavier feet, wandering in a daze. Once again, no one seemed to notice her presence, merely rushing around her.

Was that the way the rest of her life would proceed? Would she be invisible to all those around her? Except for her husband, who would take her when he wanted her and otherwise leave her lonely?

She went to the gates which opened up to the road and looked down its length, down to the emerald forest below, wishing harder than she ever had that she might have been able to escape that morning. Being there, even with the animals and the cold nights and no food, would have been a step up from where she was just then,

Even dressed in silk, waiting for her wedding to take place.

Her heart leapt into her throat when she recognized four riders on the road, so far from the castle that she’d almost missed noticing them. Brice’s hair stood out from the others. She had only just missed him.

Oh, how she wished she could call out to him, to beg him to return and take her along. She bit back a sob and the scream which would undoubtedly follow it. He was leaving. She couldn’t stop him.

Perhaps it was a matter of her being fanciful, but…

He heard her. Or, he heard something or felt something which made him turn back. Whatever the reason, he looked up to where she stood.

She lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment, wishing most fervently that she could do more. It would have to be enough.

He lifted his hand in return—then, he rode on with the others. What more could either of them do?

“What is the meaning of this?”

Edward’s accusatory tone brought her back to the present moment and to the truth of her situation. She turned, already searching about for the right excuse. “I wished to bid my escorts farewell, but I see they have already been on their way.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And a good thing, too, as I warned them to make haste.”

“Why?” she asked, perplexed. “It seemed as though they were welcome.”

He took a step closer, overwhelming her to the point where she flinched away. “Because I wished it that way. Haven’t I warned you, Alana, about questioning me? Did I not already tell you I would have none of it?”

“Aye, I mean, yes, of course. I was merely curious.”

“I have no time for your curiosity.” He stepped away, smoothing down the front of his velvet tunic. Blood red seemed to be a favorite color of his. Gold buttons decorated the front, matching the embroidery at the collar and along the black fur cape he wore.

He must have noted the way she took in his garments, for he did the same to her. “What are you wearing? What is this rag?”

Her face flushed more out of anger than shame. “It was the gown my mother wore during her wedding.”

“It is hideous. Some Scottish garb, no doubt. Barely fit for the peasantry.”

“It is silk,” she whispered. “Far too rich for peasantry.”

“What did you say?” he hissed, closing the distance between them once again. “Are you hard of hearing, my wife, or simply daft? When I only just reminded you of the ill-advisedness of contradicting or questioning me.”

“This is the gown I wished to wear, as it was worn by my mother. My English mother,” she added with a defiant glare.

He spoke not a word.

He simply slapped her so hard, a light flashed before her eyes.

She staggered back, falling to the ground, dirtying her precious gown when she landed. One hand cupped her throbbing cheek.

Her eyes met his and found nothing. Not even contempt.

“Go to your chambers and change into the gown I chose for you,” he ordered. “There is not much time before the ceremony begins.” With that, he returned to keep where his guests awaited him.

He had not bothered to help her to her feet—and, naturally, none of the servants in the courtyard paid her so much as a cursory glance.

They left her alone.

Sitting in the dirt in a ruined gown. Holding her stinging face in one hand and wishing the boar had done its worst.