she was done with tears, when every drop of self-pity was wrung from the rags that remained of her life, Hallie felt a sort of inevitable peace.
She’d indulged in a flight of fantasy. That was all. What she thought she’d held within her grasp was but an illusion that had quickly turned to mist, like the night dissolving at dawn.
She had never been free to follow her heart. It was ludicrous to imagine she ever was.
Journeying home in the wee hours of the night with her clan, she silently, soberly reminded herself of the facts.
In ten days, she would welcome her husband to Rivenloch. Denying that would only bring her pain. She had to accept the king’s arrangements with as much composure and detachment as she would the acquisition of, for example, a cow.
Edinburgh. Why not? Perhaps Colban could lose himself in the bustling town. Hire on as a castle guard. Find fellowship among the royal soldiers. And companionship in the lavish brothels.
The thought should have cheered him as he waved farewell to the drowsy guard at the palisade gates, taking his leave of Creagor. He was free now. Free of responsibility. Free from judgment. Free to make his own decisions. To follow his heart.
Nay, he amended. Following his heart wasn’t in his future. Following his heart would have made him turn round at once and return to Hallie.
Soon, he vowed. Soon he would be able to purge the beautiful Valkyrie from his thoughts. With each mile, the journey would become easier. Gradually her image would fade. Eventually he would have trouble recalling her face.
But at the moment, her snowy hair, honey skin, ice-blue eyes, and inviting lips were painted indelibly in his mind’s eye. And neither the moon peering playfully through the shredded linen clouds nor the cold but gentle breeze nudging him onward in the quiet hours after midnight made him eager to seek his freedom.
At the hillock where the road branched to north and south, he cast one last look toward Creagor.
The warm glow of candlelight yet flickered from the windows of the great hall, where revelers reluctant to retire still sang and danced and drank.
From Morgan’s window all was dark. His lifelong friend was doubtless celebrating his well-deserved triumph. A new castle. A new wife. A new life.
And somewhere deep in the castle, a warrior lass wept for lost love.
But she would recover.
In ten days, she’d pledge herself, body and soul, to another. Then Colban would become a brief, vague, pleasant memory.
It was that unsavory thought that made him turn back to the northern road, leaving his clan, his laird, and his love behind.
Chapter 34
Archie cracked open the garderobe shutters and gasped for air through the small gap, fanning himself with his embroidered kerchief. Sweat beaded his forehead and slicked his palms. His stomach roiled. His mouth watered. His head swam. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.
He prayed that wouldn’t happen. Not today. Not while he was still wearing his finest burgundy brocade, a beautiful ensemble Geoffrey had helped him select for the occasion of his wedding. Geoffrey had said it showed off his form to a flattering degree, and the yellow-green trim matched the flecks in Archie’s hazel eyes. At the moment, it likely matched the sallow color of his skin as well.
Thinking of his beloved Geoffrey only made Archie feel worse. His throat thickened, adding to his nausea.
But the feeling eventually passed, as it had every night since he’d arrived at Rivenloch six days ago.
He had yet to lose his supper.
At first, he’d wondered if he was being poisoned. It seemed likely, considering how hostile everyone was toward him.
He dabbed at his brow with the kerchief.
That wasn’t quite accurate. Nobody was openly hostile. The Rivenloch clan were civil. Polite. Welcoming. Decent.
The laird and her husband had even afforded him special courtesies. His own bedchamber. An extra chest for his vast selection of garments. The daily hot baths he so enjoyed.
But he’d seen the clan folk whispering in the corners behind their hands. And he’d heard enough to know what they were saying.
In a clan full of warriors, Archie was as misfit as a duck in a dovecot. He had no interest in battle and no stomach for bloodshed. And no matter how Rauve, the captain of the guard, tried to encourage his skills, hoping to mold him into the protector everyone needed for their laird, Archie always ended up with a bruised and battered body and a face full