Page 7 of Highlander’s Haunted Past

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There was a man in her bedchambers.

It was a situation Kenna had never found herself in before. Of course, her brothers had come and gone as they pleased, typically leaving a trail of disaster behind them, but they hardly counted. This was an unfamiliar man and, to make it more difficult to grasp, her husband.

“Are you all right?” he asked, a hint of that annoyingly charming lopsided smile on his lips.

It was a smile that threatened to ruin her.

“Quite. Wine?” Kenna poured two goblets without waiting for a reply.

She had overindulged already, which was glaringly obvious by the way the room kept spinning around her. Yet, she had gotten herself here from the Great Hall without incident, so what was the harm of one or two more goblets? Maybe she would get lucky and wake in the morning without a single memory of the wretched evening to come.

He accepted the goblet and took a long sip, staring at her from over the rim. Did he ever stop staring? It had started at the wedding, with sidelong glances that he must have thought were secretive and sly. She had done him the favor of pretending not to notice, passing it off as the same sort of curiosity that had led her to stare at him in the courtyard. But then the feast had come, and his stares became more open and more blatantly tinged with a pout. Kenna had spent nearly the entire time checking her hairpins, sure that something had gone awry with her appearance to cause him such displeasure.

Admittedly, Rob Fraser wasn’t as bad as she had imagined him to be. She had begrudgingly allowed herself to laugh with him during the feast. Allowance of shared amusements had morphed into acceptance of him when he showed her that he was just as willing to laugh at himself as she was to tease. She had even been tiptoeing into a general interest in him after he allowed her to speak her mind so openly without repercussion. But then he had pressed her one step too far.

What had he expected her to say? “No, my Laird, I have always wished to wed a man who played a hand in my father’s untimely death; ‘tis all the better that we were only introduced when we took our vows.”

Though the label of fool had been cast around in jest, he clearly was not—at least not completely. So, had he truly seen the bruise upon her face and thought her to be a willing participant in all of this?

“Kenna?”

She fell quickly away from her thoughts and looked up at him. The smile had faded to concern.

“Aye, sorry, my Laird.”

“‘Tis all right. I was just asking ye about all of…” His hands indicated to the mess of needles and thread on the table. “… this.”

“Well, ye married a proper lady. A proper lady is to sit and stitch day and night,” Kenna said with at least half seriousness, thinking back mildly to all of the governesses that had impressed the skill upon her, and with such tenacity that Kenna had come to think an even stitch was more valuable to her life than a heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Oh, aye. Next time ye go to bed with torn stockings and awake to them mended, remember to thank me and not the castle’s ghost.”

He laughed, deep and cheery; it was the kind of laugh that infected even the darkest of emotions with a bit of joy.

“Ye have my word. So what mending was all this fer?”

“The Queen sent me a wedding frock that I think the goats got to first.”

Her hand flew to her lips with such force that she was sure she had given the bruise on her cheek a friend. Which of them was the fool now? A bit too much wine, and here she was, insulting the Queen before a stranger who she only knew because of his undying loyalty to the crown. Kenna could practically feel the harsh rub of the rope that would soon be around her neck as her body swung beside her father. Elizabeth would be wed to the Fraser before Kenna’s flesh grew cold.

“‘Twas a kind gesture from her Majesty. The dress was my mother’s wedding gown, fallen into disrepair from our own lack of care. I am sure it was a kind thought—having it sent to me. Saved me the trouble of picking out something to wear myself. I—”

“Kenna,” Rob said over her panicked rambling, snatching her hand from the air, where she had been shaking it as if to punctuate her apologies, “ye needn’t apologize.”

“But I insulted the Queen. It wasn’t my intent. It—”

“I know.” His hand squeezed her more tightly, and she felt her body loosen as she finally exhaled.

“Ye’ll not tell her, then?”

“Ach. I’d not be such a good husband if I got my wife killed just when she started to speak to me plainly.” His gaze lowered to her breasts, so poorly covered by the gown, and her cheeks grew hot. “Disrepair or not, ye make for a bonny bride. Though I will concede to admitting that it seems like a poor trick the Queen played, especially considering the gown she chose fer herself.”

“‘Twas,” Kenna replied, remembering the garish gown the Queen had worn with absolute fury. It had confirmed all of Kenna’s suspicions tenfold. Even Elizabeth, who always saw the best in every soul, could no longer deny it.

“Ye said it was yer mother’s? The gown.”