Page 4 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Nor am I,” she sighed, and lifted the bottle to her lips.

The whisky stung, burning its way down her throat, sharp enough to make her eyes flutter. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she gave back the bottle. He took it, grinning, and took a long swig himself.

“What waits for ye at home, then?” he asked, turning and wandering away.

For a moment, she thought he was leaving, until she realized where he was going. An old willow tree stood by the edge of the water, a quietly rushing stream that circled the field.

The willow tree’s fronds brushed the ground, forming a makeshift wall. He ducked beneath them and lowered himself onto the ground at the base of the tree. She followed him, hardly knowing what she was doing, and he wordlessly handed back the bottle.

“Me betrothed,” she said shortly.

He stiffened a little. “Congratulations.”

“Daenae congratulate me. This wedding isnae of me design.”

She sat heavily beside him. Too close. Their shoulders brushed together. He didn’t pull away, nor did she. The ground beneath her was pleasantly warm.

Closing her eyes, Daphne let her head fall back against the tree trunk. The bark scratched the back of her head, tugging on her braids.

“If ye daenae care for this marriage, why go through with it?”

She kept her eyes closed. His voice, warm and deep, drifted out of the darkness beside her.

“It’s complicated. I daenae want to talk about it tonight. That’s the beauty of the Festival. Ye get to forget, at least for a little while.”

He gave a tight smile. At least, she imagined he did, because she could hear it in his voice.

“Some come to remember, some come to forget, lass.”

“Is that why ye arenae wearing a mask?” She opened her eyes, turning to look at him.

He stared back. “Neither are ye.”

She shrugged. “Didnae see the point.”

He grunted.

For a moment, they sat side by side, passing the bottle between them. Daphne shook her head after a few gulps.

“I’ve had plenty. I daenae like to drink until I cannae stand up.”

“Very wise. I ken men with less sense than ye.”

Biting her lip, she eyed him thoughtfully. “Do ye ken the Wolf?”

He chuckled. “Aye, I’ve heard of him. Old myths. Real people are worse than stories, ye ken.”

She cleared her throat. “Are ye all right?”

“Hm? Oh, aye, I’m fine. Tonight’s just one of those nights when a person remembers their mistakes.”

He tilted back his head, resting it against the tree trunk. The moonlight streamed over his profile. Daphne found that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

I shouldnae feel safe, she thought, swallowing. Nae here, in a lonely spot, with a stranger. I daenae even ken his name. We’re nae masked, but in the darkness, we might as well be. He probably looks completely different in the daylight.

Well, so do I.

“At least ye will live long enough to make mistakes,” she heard herself say.