No Fury

Now: Forty Two

Two hours later, I am still shaking.

In a fog, I threw on my dress after Maria stormed out and, despite Harry's protests, tore down the stairs on weak legs.

And now I am here, trembling at my dinner table.

I don't remember how I got out of the castle, how I made it back to my cottage on the edge of the village.

Liam came home with fresh bread to find me cutting carrots with the dull end of a blade. Taking over for me, he poured me a pint of ale and bid me to sit while he finished cooking.

I spilled stew on my aprons, nearly dropped our dinner as I took it to the table, and can barely lift my spoon to my mouth. Sweet Liam doesn't seem to mind.

Maybe he assumes I am daydreaming.
Maybe he assumes it is a thing that happens to all pregnant women: at some point, we become clumsy and trembling and mute.

I place my spoon carefully beside my bowl, and stare across the table at him.

My panic is a raging, clawing spirit inside me; haunting. If I do not get it out of me, surely I will go mad. It is only that I don't know where to begin. Do I confess to him what happened? Do I ask him to explain everything Douglas said to me first? Do I excuse myself, and go to Mary instead?

In truth, I need to feel in control of these choices I am making. I have chosen to meet with Harry at James' cabin. I have asked him to be rough with me. I agreed to marry a man I do not love, so that the village will think the child I carry is Liam's.

I cannot feel control if I do not truly understand the decisions I am making.

"It is time," I tell Liam.

His head jerks up from where he's dug into his dinner and his eyes go wide. "The babe-?"

"No," I say quietly, leaning forward. "It is time to tell me why you married me. Who it was you were truly intended for."

I need answers. I need clarity. I need to know how badly we have erred, and who I've put in danger, and this is where I need it to start.

My chest hums with the film of panic of fleeing Harry's rooms, away from Maria and her fury.

I don't care what she can do to me. I care only how she can hurt Harry. She shares his home. She shares his meals. She has access to him that no one else has — not even I.

Liam wipes his mouth with his cloth, and rests back in his chair. "Why this evening? What has happened?"

Honesty in exchange for honesty: "Maria saw us."

"Saw you . . .?" His thick brows slowly rise in understanding.

". . . in the prince's bed."

Liam groans, placing his head in his cupped palm. "Catie."

"I know." I bow my head, ashamed. "It was awful."

He takes several deep breaths, and then mutters, "It is fine. We are not protecting you from Maria, and Harry is not likely the first prince to take a mistress. But it is foolish to be visible to anyone. If you are not here with me, how can I protect you?"

Another piece of information dropped before me without reason, without context. I lean closer, intent on finding out what is happening.

"Why do I require protecting?"

He shakes his head as if I am not making sense.

"Douglas told me you were not intended for me until I became too important to the prince," I say. "What did he mean?"

Liam lifts his water cup to his lips, drinking deeply. He swallows, and then regards the bit of pottery in his hand. He grunts quietly, with a tiny nod, as if he has just come to a decision. The cup is returned to the table the way Liam does everything, I realize: carefully. "Douglas said this?"

"Yes. He told me I was intended for him."

My husband makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. "Ah, he wished it. I am not sure how much truth is in that idea."

"But why would Douglas say that the only reason you married me is because I became too important to Harry? Why you specifically?"

If Liam reacts to my use of Harry's given name, he hides it well. "Sir Douglas meant that those outside the kingdom will use anything they can to put the prince at their mercy," he tells me. "If the prince loves you, the rebels may take you, or otherwise harm you to make the prince weak. I do not trust Douglas to protect you from harm." He nods to my stomach. "Especially now, imagine how valuable you are, carrying the prince's child."

"How do you know Douglas wouldn't protect me?"

He smiles knowingly at this, as if I must realize I am being daft. "Other than Douglas being a coward? He does not lead the prince's army." Meeting my eyes he seems to battle whether he should give me the rest. Finally, his brow clears. "I do."

Shock stills me. In all my life, I have never known the role and ranking of those who would fight for the king and prince. Few of the women do: we simply don't ask, because the idea of it all is terrifying enough without knowing whose husband or father or brother would go out on the front of the battle.

But not in my wildest dreams would I have guessed their leader is Liam.

Looking at him now, I can see it. The broad chest. The steady calm. The capable, strategic mind.

"Even so, all men are trained to fight. Why you?" I ask. "Why would you give up your life and access to your love, to protect me? Why not Niall, or Nicholas? Surely they would have been able protectors."

But as soon as I ask, I already know the answer: "Because my heart belongs to Mary and she wished me to."

~~

I am up and sprinting to my parents home, barefoot before I even draw my next breath. Liam comes after me, his feet a heavy rhythm on the path behind.

"Catie. Come here, lass. Come back."

The dirt and twigs on the ground sting and tear the bottom of my feet, and I can barely see through my tears, but I cannot slow down until I reach my sister.

The sacrifice she has made.
The pain she has endured.
The life she has given up so that I can live half of the one I truly want.

Would I have been able to do the same if the roles were reversed? Would I have been able to give Harry to my sister, to protect her, to claim in bed with grunts of relief for the benefit of eavesdropping, gossiping neighbors? Would I have been able to watch her pretend to be truly wed, to pretend to be round with his child, all to protect her from possible harm?

I like to think I would have, but how can I be sure? Even the idea of him being with a stranger shreds me. But the idea of Harry touching my sister makes something spoil and turn over inside me.

I burst through the door, finding her at the hearth knitting. She startles, dropping the yarn to her skirts. Falling to her feet, I press my face to her legs, sobbing.

Liam follows me in, smiling at my parents as he mutters some vague details about us having a row. He follows me farther in toward the fire, and places a tender hand on the back of my head as I sob. I sense some silent exchange between Liam and Mary before her hands cup my shoulders, urging me up.

"Come on, Dove," she whispers. "Look at me."

"I cannot. I cannot bear it." I am exhausted from this day. I want only to lie at her feet and sleep.

"Catie," Liam murmurs helplessly.

"Let's walk," Mary says, placing her hands on my face. "Darling, let your older sister take you for a walk." She looks to a stunned Mother and Da on the low chairs near the window and whispers conspiratorially: "First fights are terrible, I hear."