Page 77 of Laird of Wrath

Or so she hoped.

“Anyway,” Mabel spoke up, changing the subject. “Perhaps ye can tell me why me sister is so morose all of a sudden.”

Lara glanced at Rhea out of the corner of her eye and turned a bright shade of pink, the color traveling all the way to her ears. “One doesnae need to ken about signs to figure out what is the matter with me Lady.”

It was a clever response. Rhea had to give it to her.

In another life, Lara would have made for an excellent diplomat. But in this life, she only avoided the subject with such tact that no matter what response she gave Mabel, Rhea couldn’t find it in herself to be offended.

“And what would that be?” Mabel prompted.

Lara glanced at Rhea once again, her cheeks darkening. “Perhaps ye should ask me Lady that.”

“I did,” Mabel said. “But she insists she’s fine.”

“Ach, me Lady!” Lara gasped admonishingly, finally turning to face Rhea. “That isnae right! Yer sister is worried about ye. Ye should tell her what’s wrong.”

It was Rhea’s turn to blush, a lump forming in her throat as she glanced between the two young women.

Lara had a point, she supposed. Mabel would worry either way, and perhaps she would worry even more if Rhea didn’t tell her what was plaguing her mind.

“Fine,” she relented. “But nae here.”

The gardens were quiet at that time of day.

The summer sun beat down on the flowers and the bushes that lined the winding path leading through the manicured plants, and the three young women found shelter under the large canopy of the ancient oak that stood in the very center of the gardens, where there was a long, stone bench.

Rhea was flanked by Mabel and Lara, the two women looking at her expectantly. And yet the longer they looked at her, the more difficult it became for her to speak.

She drew in a sharp breath, forcing the words out. “I worry. I worry that Callum will go after Laird Barclay and never return. Iworry he will go to this senseless war and die there. I worry… I worry that he will never… that he will never…”

That she couldn’t force out. No matter how much she tried, the words were stuck in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Thankfully, Mabel and Lara didn’t press her to finish. They only sat there quietly, comforting her with their presence rather than with empty words.

It was up to Rhea to admit the truth. It was up to her to speak the words out loud, to give them shape and weight. As long as the thought remained just that—a thought—it was harmless to her. But she feared the moment she voiced it, it would become reality.

The only way to deal with it is to face it.

“I worry that he will never love me.”

There it is. I’ve said it.

She had said it, and the world kept turning. Nothing had changed, other than the weight that had suddenly lifted off her shoulders. Not entirely, as she doubted such a thing was possible, but enough to allow her to breathe more easily, enough to allow her body to relax, sagging on the bench as if all the air had left her lungs.

Mabel scoffed. It wasn’t the reaction Rhea had expected. A comforting touch, perhaps, or a few reassuring words, but not a scoff.

“Surely, ye jest. Have ye nae seen how he looks at ye?”

Rhea blinked a few times in surprise, glancing between Mabel and Lara. “How does he look at me?”

“If ye open yer eyes, ye’ll see it,” Mabel said.

“Lara.” Rhea turned to her maid and pinned her with a look. “How does he look at me?”

Now Lara shook her head. “I couldnae tell ye, me Lady.” She raised her hands as if in surrender. “I never look at the Laird.”

“What?” Mabel frowned.