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Lacking a reply, and the wits to form one, Fiona merely smiled. An awkward silence grew and her pulse spiked with dread as she waited for someone to shout out the truth, to reveal who and what she really was in this household, but none spoke of it. Not for her sake, of course, but for the earl. To a man, they supported their overlord and would do nothing to disgrace or dishonor him.
“Allow me,” Duncan said, taking Fiona’s arm and steering her toward the end of the dais.
As she took her seat, Fiona wondered how many hours she would spend on her knees in prayer, asking for forgiveness for this deception. Her only sliver of comfort was knowing that their relationship was firmly in the past, regardless of what Gavin believed.
The sight of Fiona approaching the dais kindled immediate unease in Gavin. A week ago his trust in her to act with dignity and decorum under any circumstances would not have been questioned. But she had been in such emotional turmoil these last few days, he acknowledged that anything was possible.
A part of him—a most cowardly part of him—longed for her temper to flare and her judgment to fail and reveal their relationship in a scene so epic it would turn the hair on Laird Sinclair’s head gray and thus force the man to back out of the betrothal contract.
But when she reached the dais, Fiona was all dignity and graciousness, as befitting her noble rank. She even managed to greet Lady Aileen with a tight smile.
Of course for him there was naught but dagger looks. Still, he felt the connection between them. His chest—along with other parts of his anatomy—swelled when she met his gaze. She looked magnificent!
At the sight of her standing so straight and proud, something wicked stirred to life inside him. Her close proximity was bothering him in ways that could prove embarrassing. Gavin grit his teeth and struggled to rally his control. She had ignored him for days and now she stood before him wearing a gown with such seductive powers his head was spinning.
She’d done it deliberately. He understood why. He’d hurt her and she wanted to show him precisely what he was giving up. He should have anticipated this reaction. At her core, Fiona was a fighter. ’Twas one of the many things he admired about her.
Somehow Gavin managed to keep his eyes from following her like a lovesick pup as she took her seat. It wasn’t easy. Startled from his reflections, Gavin forced himself to concentrate on those seated around him—namely his betrothed.
Aileen clearly had no notion of the true circumstances of his relationship with Fiona. The lass was all smiles and innocent good humor, shyly flirting with him and graciously attempting to engage all those seated around her in the conversation, including Fiona.
The occasional scowl on Laird Sinclair’s face indicated the man might have more of an inkling of the truth, but he was not about to jeopardize an important alliance because of it.
Gavin lifted his goblet and glanced toward the end of the table. One look at Fiona’s white face, enormous eyes, and the set, tight lines around her mouth and the ale in his mouth turned sour. Shame bit at him. He couldn’t do it. Could he?
He prided himself on being a man of honor and integrity. Housing his new bride and his mistress underneath the same roof was an act of cruelty, a decision beneath him. It was a selfish solution that only considered his needs and desires while ignoring those of the two women.
No. He would not subject them all to such a wretched fate. Instead, he would ready one of his smaller holdings for Fiona, giving her an independent residence of her own. This would give them the privacy they required and allow all three of them to retain their dignity. Other noblemen might feel at ease housing their wives and mistresses together, but that arrangement would not suit in this circumstance.
He realized Fiona would need time to understand this, and accept it. Yet as long as she resided on his land, she was answerable to him. He would have all the time it required to convince her that this was the best choice, the only choice.
Gavin stared into his empty goblet and smiled with irony. If only it were so simple.
Fiona spent another sleepless night, her chamber door firmly locked, and Alice stretched on a pallet in front of it. The precaution had been a wise one, for in the early morning hours there had been a soft knock, accompanied by her whispered name. Clamping her hands firmly over her ears, Fiona had ignored Gavin’s attempts to speak with her, knowing nothing good could come of the encounter.
Bleary-eyed the following morning, Fiona had kept herself sequestered in her chamber through the long day and night, awaiting word from Father Niall. It never came. Disheartened, she again sent her regrets for the evening meal, claiming illness, but this time no one was sent to fetch her and drag her into the great hall. It was better that way, she told herself firmly, for it spared her from the pretense of acting as though all was well and saved her from the pain of seeing Gavin with his intended bride.
However, by the third day Fiona knew she needed to leave her confined space, if only for a few hours, or else she would go mad. She waited until the morning meal ended before sending Alice to verify that Gavin was busy with his guests. Only then did she venture from the safety of her chamber, slipping unobtrusively outside.
The gust of misty wind hit her full in the face, yet it felt invigorating. Hoping the rain would hold off for at least an hour or two, Fiona kept her face down and her feet swiftly moving.
She cautiously approached the kitchen garden, peering left, then right before hurrying toward the gate. Yet the sounds of female voices stopped Fiona cold. There was no time to react; a group of women, Lady Aileen in the center, rounded the corner.
Fiona turned to flee, needing to go somewhere, anywhere to avoid meeting Lady Aileen and her fawning entourage. Alas, she was not fast enough as the younger woman called out her name and sent her a cheerful wave.
“Lady Fiona!”
Inwardly Fiona cringed, but she slowly turned and forced a friendly smile. “Good morning, Lady Aileen.”
“Oh, please, ye must call me Aileen.” The younger woman approached, her face wreathed with an open, eager expression that reminded Fiona of Laddie when he wanted a treat or a good scratch behind the ears.
“Thank you. I, of course, am Fiona.”
Aileen’s smile brightened. “Come, let’s walk. I’ve been told ye tend the herb garden near the kitchens. I should like to see it.”
Fiona’s brows drew together. Why was Aileen being so friendly? Where was her aversion to the English? Her mistrust and loathing of the enemy? The rest of the castle women never had any difficulty showing their distaste for her. Why should Aileen be any different?
But different she appeared to be. Aileen sent the other women on their way and the two of them entered the walled garden alone, the younger woman seemingly unaware of the tension crawling through Fiona.
