The sound of the wind howling through the parapets and stark flashes of lightning illuminating her chamber caused her to shudder. A befitting start to what could be the worst day of her life—a day spawned from the bowels of the netherworld. She rose, padded to the window, then peered through the sheet of torrential rain pelting the stone walls of the castle. Dread twisted her belly. This blast of Scottish weather would surely slow Blair’s journey. If it hadn’t put a halt to it altogether. Laurel closed the shutters, then began to pace. If Blair failed to return, she’d be forced to go through with the wedding. Wishing she’d fled when she had the chance, life in a priory was starting to look appealing. “Nay,” she said aloud, then shook her head. There was no point in second-guessing her decisions. But hope was quickly fading, and she needed to figure out a way to prevent the nuptials from taking place. Speaking to Allan again was the only option that came to mind.
