Rowan delighted in the look of surprise that crossed Lachlan’s face, letting it overwhelm her feelings of trepidation.
It was far more pleasant to once again see that she had beaten him in a game than to think about the fact that in a week’s time, he would be her husband and she his wife. She would be tied to him forever after, living with him, sharing her life with him.
He was, after all, not the husband she had expected.
She had, in her silly naïveté, assumed that the archery champion would be a man from some far-off clan whom she had never met before and therefore had no preconceived notions of.
To know that, instead, she was marrying Lachlan, whose presence never failed to both amuse and infuriate her, was difficult to swallow.
So, she did not swallow it, continuing to stare at her betrothed as he looked from her to her father to a man off to the side of the archery grounds, which, now that Rowan took a closer look at him, bore a striking resemblance to Lachlan.
That cannae be… surely it cannae—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man himself striding toward her and Lachlan, his face beaming.
“At last, ye’ve found yerself a wife. And a bonny one at that,” the man cried as he wrapped Lachlan in a hug.
Lachlan patted his father on the back, looking at Rowan with yet more surprise. She did not have time to consider the ramifications of meeting her betrothed’s father, however, because her own father was now striding very quickly toward her.
Pulling her to the side, away from the crowd and prying eyes and listening ears, he turned them so they faced the forest.
“Lass. Och, I cannae tell ye how happy I am,” he said, scooping her up and hugging her so tightly Rowan could hear her corset creak.
She laughed, or rather, attempted to laugh, as her father set her down on the ground and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Lachlan is the best man for a hundred miles, two hundred even. Had I had my pick of a thousand men, he would have been me choice for ye. He is good and kind, and he’ll make ye the best husband ye could have hoped for. And I daresay ye’ll get that love match ye were hopin’ for all along.”
Rowan did not know what to say to that, for she had not yet come to terms with spending the rest of her life with Lachlan, let alone loving him. So, instead of answering, she simply stood on her tiptoes and kissed her father on the cheek and smiled at him, hoping that his own happiness would shield him from the anxiety she was sure was evident on her face.
She tried to hide it when, a few minutes later, Lachlan introduced her to his father, who also hugged her, but, unlike her father, did so in a far more comfortable, less pain-inducing manner.
“’Tis a blessing to meet the lass who will finally make a husband of me Lachlan. When I sent him here all those years ago, I never imagined he’d catch the eye of the laird’s daughter,” he said with a full-belly laugh.
His joviality eased Rowan’s nerves, and she found herself relaxing for the first time all day.
“It is a blessing to be marrying yer son, Laird Stewart. He’s a fine man, and I ken…” she paused and turned to look at Lachlan, “I ken we shall have a good life together.”
She had almost said, “I ken he will make me happy,” but she had caught herself, remembering that relying on others to care for her gave them the power in the relationship. She had lived most of her life looking after herself, making decisions that suited her and no one else, and she did not plan to cede control to Lachlan once they had wed, no matter what tradition and custom might dictate.
As the day went on, Rowan found herself worrying more and more about whether Lachlan would let their relationship be one based on equality. She knew him. He was pig-headed and stubborn, just like her, and she had seen him flirt with enough of the pretty kitchen maids to assume that his ideal woman was a feminine lass who could sew his shirts and look after his bairns.
What if he tries to mold me into that? What if he expects me to be a proper lass? she worried. Her father had wanted her to have a husband to occupy her time, and now, Rowan worried that Lachlan expected the same, expected her to dress prettily and spend her days looking after him the way a wife ought to.
But if Rowan knew one thing about herself, it was that she rarely did things the way they ought to be done by one of her gender. And after two decades of living as such, she was not sure she could change her ways even if she wanted to.
This headache-inducing thought made it impossible to enjoy the afternoon or the evening when the celebrations grew replete with all she detested—fine clothing, crowds of people, loud noises, drunk men and women, and, most horribly of all, conversations with strangers.
The reveling was raucous indeed, for now, it was not just the annual games that everyone was celebrating, but an impending wedding as well. She was assaulted by well-wishers, men coming up to tell her how well she had chosen, women telling her what a handsome man her betrothed was. The cook even came to speak to her, tears running down the older woman’s face as she told Rowan how she had always dreamed of baking one last wedding cake for the laird’s lasses, and how pleased she was that now she would finally have the chance to truly perfect her vanilla sponge.
Rowan did not have the heart to tell the poor woman that she preferred honey to vanilla; she doubted she would even have time to eat anything at her own wedding if today were any indication of the hectic nature of the festivities to come.
She shuddered, thinking of all the attention that day would draw to her; today alone, she had spoken to more people in one afternoon than she often did in an entire month.
Suddenly, Rowan wished her sisters were at her side, for they had all been through the process. Normally, she eschewed their advice since it generally consisted of romantic counsel, which had never before applied to her. But now, she longed for them to gather around her and tell her what to expect on that day and how to build a life with someone that she only knew from arguments and petty squabbles.
But as she looked around her, suddenly feeling desperately lonely despite the crowded room in front of her, she realized that it was not her sisters she needed, but Blair.
Her sisters would not calm her. More than likely, they would scare her with tales of the wedding night and the marriage beyond it. They would make fun of her for her naïveté, treating her like the mischievous child they still saw her as. They would tell her all the ways she was inadequate, all the things she ought to change about herself, convincing her that no matter what she did, she would never be good enough, not for them, and certainly not for Lachlan.
Blair would do the opposite. She alone would be able to appease the worries blooming like snowflakes in Rowan’s mind.
But Blair and her mother had been called away hours ago to tend to a few of the men who had injured themselves during the games. It was always the way—men’s hubris made them believe they were far younger and stronger than they were in truth. The injuries were minor; just a few shoulders popped out of their sockets and a strained wrist, but it had been enough to keep Blair and Mary occupied for much of the afternoon and evening.
Which meant that when Rowan finally found a corner of the hall to hide in so she could enjoy a tankard of cider, a few pieces of shortbread, and a bit of peace and quiet, there was no one to console her. No one to counsel her. She needed Blair’s steadying presence more than ever, and absent her best friend and confidante, her mind continued to race, lingering on a horrible future as Lachlan’s bride, stuck inside, stripped of her bow and arrow, and made to play a bonny housewife. The worries grew more acute, and Rowan found herself berating herself with such ferocity that she eventually drew her knees into her chest and tucked her head between them, taking fast, shallow breaths that brought tears to her eyes.
It was the second time she had cried in as many weeks, a rarity for her. She could feel the pieces of her very self, her soul, beginning to crumble.
What have I done? she wondered, listening to all the revelers in the hall, laughing as though they had not a care in the world. And tonight, they didn’t. They were full of good food, drink, and the knowledge that the laird’s errant daughter had finally found a mate. All was well with them.
Rowan, however, felt as if nothing in her world would ever be right again. She wanted to slap herself for being so naïve as to not remember that in deciding her husband using the venue of an archery contest, she was dooming herself to a life spent with Lachlan Stewart, a man who made her feel a mix of many emotions that above all left her angry and confused.
As though she herself had conjured him, someone began shouting his name to her right.
“Lachlan. Where’s yer wife to be? Surely she ought to be celebrating with ye,” a different voice boomed, followed by a drunken laugh.
She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and picked her head up, watching as Lachlan looked around, a wide, easy smile on his face as he searched the room. She felt a jolt of embarrassment the moment his eyes locked on hers, for they softened in what she could only assume was pity at the tracks of tears on her cheeks and the fetal posture of her limbs.
Rowan hated to be pitied. It implied there was something about her that was weak and tender, in need of care, a care that she herself was not strong enough to provide.
She found that she was clutching her fists, her entire body wrought with tension as she waited for Lachlan to walk over to her, to wrap his arms around her and play her doting betrothed to the menfolk around him.
It was quite a surprise when he did no such thing, instead winking at her before turning around, shrugging his shoulders and saying something that sounded like, “I cannae find her, but I suspect she is with Blair, celebrating in their way.”
He was letting her remain hidden. He was merely being kind.
Kindness was something Rowan had never considered in a prospective husband, but perhaps it ought to have been at the top of her list of necessary qualities. Because with kindness came respect, and wasn’t that what she had truly been looking for? Someone to respect her wishes, her way of doing things?
Perhaps being married to him will nae be so bad after all, she thought with cautious, closely guarded optimism as she settled deeper into her chair, unfurling her legs and arms out in front of her.
Reaching out to her plate of shortbread, Rowan selected the biggest piece and brought it to her mouth, letting the taste overwhelm her, until all her thoughts, worries, and machinations fled, leaving her with a modicum of peace for the first time in days.