Kester’s eyes had fallen on the last sentence. The decree.
His fate was sealed.
He swallowed. “Nay,” he said hoarsely. “We’re going to the Highland Games.”
His bloody hands wanted to shake as he rolled up the parchment, so he ceased trying, and focused on breathing, instead.
Beside him, Robena had sucked in her own breath of surprise as Mook let out a whoop.
“The Games? Kester—I mean, milord. Ye’re going to the Highland Games.”
He couldn’t look at her. Not after what they’d shared. Not after what he’d read.
Instead, he held her father’s gaze. “We’ll stay for Lady Wynda’s celebration tonight, milord, and leave tomorrow morning.”
The old man nodded. “Morning, aye. The Oliphants have a long history of kicking arse—well, prodding buttock—at the Games. Mayhap I’ll send a few warriors with ye to show ye how ‘tis done.”
Kester did his best to look pleased. “They will be welcome, milord,” he managed to choke out, although his attention was fully on the woman at his side, who’d latched on to Kester’s forearm. He had to fight to keep his expression impassive as the familiar heat flowed across his skin, starting where Robena touched him.
“Kester. The Games are almost over. By the time ye get there—“
“We’ll be there in enough time,” he snapped, still unable to look at her. “I’ve been tasked with delivering Gordon’s missive.” And one other mission.
One he dreaded more than any other.
Mayhap she understood. Mayhap she was just tired of him ignoring her.
Either way, Robena snatched the King’s scroll from his unresisting hand.
The cowardly part of him wanted to reach for it, to tear it into pieces, to cast it into the fire before she could read the King’s orders.
But he was just delaying the inevitable. The King’s decision had been passed down a year ago and Kester had delayed long enough. He didn’t want the alliance, but that bastard Ian Murray did, and now the King was making it official.
Now, ‘tis an order.
Robena’s hands were shaking when she finally looked up from the scroll. She didn’t speak to her father, nor to Mook.
She just met Kester’s eyes, her own shining with unshed tears.
Instinctively, he reached for her, only to remind himself he was the cause of her pain. His fingers curled into fists to stop himself from touching her.
“Kester,” she whispered.
And he told himself he absolutely, irrevocably, beyond a shadow of a doubt, deserved this guilt. He’d done this to her. He’d fallen in love with her. He’d kissed her.
All the while knowing they had no future.
She said naught else but turned and fled.
Kester watched her go, trying to harden his heart against the pain in her eyes, telling himself it had to happen now, rather than later.
If ye’d been stronger, ‘twould no’ have happened at all.
Aye, but he hadn’t been able to resist one last taste of pleasure before a lifetime of sorrow.
The King’s message hit the floor and unrolled just slightly, so the last line, the signature, and the seal showed.
But he kept his eyes on Robena as she lifted the skirts of that beautiful yellow gown and hurried up the stairs toward the woman’s solar, because he didn’t need to read the words.
They’d been burned into his mind, his heart.
You will have another reason to celebrate. We have word the Murrays are at the Games as well. Your bride awaits. Further delay is not wise, MacBain. It is time to marry Lady Elspeth Murray, end this feud, and secure the wellbeing of your people. This marriage will bring your clan the peace and prosperity you are so anxious for.
Fook.