Page 6 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

6

T he knock was soft.

Too soft for a castle like this—stone and shadow, all sharp corners and colder silences.

Ersie shot upright, her hand already on the hilt of the knife tucked beneath her pillow. It was second nature. Had been for years.

The filigree inlaid in the handle caught her eye for a moment before she made any move.

This isnae me blade…

It was Keith’s. The one he had dropped into her boot when they passed through Airdhollow the day before. Her eyes darted from the door to the blade and back, before she snapped out of her confusion.

“Who is it?” she barked, her voice still rough from sleep but no less threatening. She flipped the blade in her palm and adjusted her grip on the handle, ready to lunge.

The door creaked open a sliver, and a round, pink face peeked in timidly. The lass couldn’t have been older than Ersie, maybe younger even, with a flushed smile and a linen bonnet tugged tight around her head.

“Apologies, Me Lady,” the maid said softly. “Me Laird asked if ye were ready for breakfast.”

Ersie blinked at her. The memories of the night before flooded her all at once. The dungeons. The firelight in Keith’s study. The way Keith’s hand had brushed her throat. That damned voice of his—all bark and threat. But the shadows in his eyes haunted her more than any growl.

“He asked ?” she muttered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and stretching like a wary cat. “How kind.”

“Ye should get dressed and come with me,” the maid added politely, stepping a bit further into the room.

Ersie arched an eyebrow. “And should I roll over for a belly rub while I’m at it?”

The maid blinked, confused.

Ersie sighed, waving her off. “Fine. I’ll come. Eventually.”

The maid curtsied quickly and scampered off, nearly tripping over her own feet. It was then that Ersie realized she was still holding the blade.

A quick chuckle and she hid the knife back under her pillow, before running a hand through her hair and standing again.

The bathtub in the corner steamed gently, a fresh pitcher of water beside it. She dipped a toe in and sighed.

At least Laird MacAuley provided some comfort alongside his threats.

While soaking, Ersie found her mind drifting. Not to the warmth of the water, but to the warmth of his gaze when it wasn’t full of fire. She shoved the thought aside.

Dangerous path.

The bath was good and hot, fragrant with herbs she couldn’t name. She dunked her head beneath the surface, letting the warmth calm her senses, then surfaced, her hair slicked back and her eyes narrowed on the ceiling.

She wasn’t some helpless lass plucked from a convent. She was a seasoned fighter—MacGordon trained—and Ciaran’s second. She didn’t flinch at a man’s scowl, no matter how haunted it may be.

As she bathed, the maid reentered the room to set out linens and brush down her cloak.

“Ye’re always up this early?” Ersie asked casually.

“Aye, Me Lady. The keep rises with the sun.”

“With the sun?” Ersie repeated almost frantically. “What on earth… What time is it?”

“The sun has been up for about two hours now,” the maid said sweetly, which set Ersie’s nerves on edge.

She was always up before the sun.

Her eyes flickered to the windows that were shielded by the curtain.

“Can ye open the curtains for a moment? I’d like to see.”

The maid hesitated only briefly before moving to the windows and tying the curtains back.

“Those curtains must be heavy to nae let in any sun like that,” Ersie noted as she watched the maid continue to tie back the curtains.

“Leave them,” she instructed, not caring that the curtains were open. “In fact, please open one. I need to hear the morning.”

“Aye, Me Lady.”

“I’m nae a lady,” Ersie snapped. “Please, just call me Ersie.”

The maid blushed and did as she was asked, before going back to brushing down her cloak.

Keith probably told her that I was a lady. And if he did tell her, then there is nay way she will call me anything else. But perhaps…

“What’s yer name?” Ersie asked kindly, her fingertips grazing the surface of the bathwater, mindlessly flicking the small flowers that floated atop.

Without missing the rhythm of her brushstrokes, the maid replied, “Isla.”

“Well, Isla,” Ersie said, pausing in her scrubbing, “tell me somethin’. What d’ye ken of the Laird’s wife?”

Isla blinked and then glanced toward the door, before stepping a little closer. “I dinnae ken much; I had only just been brought on before. I only ken that she was of Clan Kitarne. She was beautiful. The gentle sort. Died birthing the?—”

Ersie nodded slowly, the warm water rippling around her submerged body. “And what happened after?”

“Clan Kitarne withdrew from the alliance. Broke our trade routes. Nasty business, but they claimed bad blood. Me maither said ‘nefarious.’ Claimed they couldnae trust a grieving widower to uphold an agreement.”

Almost seems… planned?

Ersie frowned. “Convenient, that.”

Isla whispered, glancing around again, “And then, after the bairn died, there was nothin’ left to hold the clans together.”

“Any idea who might have benefitted from that?”

Isla hesitated, her lips pursed. “Only the ones who filled the gaps readily.”

“Hmm…” Ersie feigned contemplation, though the answer was clear. “Airdhollow?” she guessed.

Isla nodded slowly, continuing her brushing.

Ersie filed the name away. Airdhollow was parasitic as well as barbaric. She had no doubt that when they passed through that stretch of land and encountered those men, they had only caught a glimpse of the horrific ‘hospitality’ afforded to MacAuley clansfolk.

Of course, they would feast on his grief.

She wondered briefly if Keith had planted Isla as her maid because he knew she would ask her these questions. But the girl seemed so green… so eager to be her friend.

“Ye’re smart, lass,” Ersie said firmly. “I want us to remain friends.”

Isla’s grin widened, and Ersie felt as if she had already accomplished more than Keith would have expected. But she wouldn’t share this with him yet. She needed more information.

“Thank ye, lass,” she murmured, rising from the tub and wrapping the warmed towel around her body. Isla ducked her head and slipped out of the room.

Moments later, a maid entered, her arms full of folded linens and fabrics. Fine silks. Laces. Ribbons. All things Ersie had no patience for.

The maid gave her a hesitant smile. “The Laird thought ye might want to wear one for breakfast.”

Ersie’s eyes flicked to the dresses and then to the hiding spot of her blade. “Did he now?”

The maid took a nervous step back. “He only wished to be polite, I’m sure.”

“Aye,” Ersie muttered, her eyes flickering around the room. “And where are me other clothes, then?”

“We were told to gather and wash them to make ready for yer departure.”

“Me departure?”

The maid’s eyes met hers, flickering with understanding.

She kens that I am stayin’ for two weeks.

“Aye,” the maid said.

“I am nay one’s to command. Bring them to me this instant.”

The maid nodded, dropped the dresses on the bed like they were on fire, and fled the room.

Ersie sighed and padded across the room, trailing a finger along the windowsill, gazing out at the high stone walls of the keep.

Beyond the window, morning kissed the land. Dew clung to every blade of grass like tiny stars refusing to fall, and mist pushed into the glens, hugging the stones and curling around the bases of old, proud trees.

The garden stretched out below, vibrant with summer’s stubborn hold—foxglove and rowan, broom and creeping thyme. Their scents drifted faintly, sweet and earthy, mingling with the subtle tang of smoke from a far-off chimney.

Past the protective stone wall, the glen spilled out into open pastures and the loch. Ersie could just make out the soft lowing of cattle and the gentle bleating of sheep in the distance, their silhouettes tiny but serene.

Closer to the keep, a handful of horses grazed lazily near the paddock—magnificent, large beasts with gleaming coats that caught what little sunlight pierced through the clouds. Among them, a dappled mare tossed her mane, pacing restlessly.

Ersie smiled faintly, relating to that one more than the others. “Ah, lassie, ye would get on well with Fanella.”

A breeze stirred the ivy on the windowsill, cool and promising, and made her skin pebble. Ersie felt a strange calm settle in her chest—a peace that she hadn’t asked for but certainly needed at that moment.

She turned back to the pile of gowns, eyeing them with thinly veiled distaste. One of them was a deep green velvet, the kind that might pass as comfortable if she didn’t think it would trap her in the skirts.

She picked it up anyway, her fingers brushing the embroidery. It had thistles stitched into the trim.

“Typical,” she muttered, tugging it over her shift. “He wants me to look like I belong here. A lady .”

The fabric clung to her in all the wrong places—hips, chest, arms. Too soft. Too… inviting. Still, it was warmer than her shift, and she didn’t have the energy to wrestle with cloth any more this morning.

She belted Keith’s dagger along her thigh and shoved another into one of the new boots she had reluctantly chosen over her soiled pair.

Then, the larger maid returned, Ersie’s clothes draped over her arms.

A devious smile spread across Ersie’s face, and the woman placed her clothes on the bed before scurrying back out of the room.

Perhaps I do have the energy, after all.

Ersie tugged on the ties of her gown and let it fall to a heap on the floor. Putting on her own clothes, she strapped the blades in their usual hiding places and dropped the other blade back into her new boots. They were one thing she decided to use.

Compromise.

Her MacAitken clan pin glinted on the vanity, and she moved toward it. Clipping on the pin, she noticed the sad state of her hair and sighed.

She sat at the vanity and grabbed the bone-handled comb. She worked the tangles slowly, methodically, her jaw clenched. Every pull was a small act of rebellion. A reminder that she was still Ersie, no matter how many silk dresses and fancy meals Laird MacAuley sent her way.

Once her damp hair was smooth enough, she plaited it into a long braid down her back, her fingers nimble and sure. It was her typical look, but as she had to compromise, she sighed again and continued working it.

From the braid’s end, she coiled it up into a tight bun at the base of her skull. Then, pulling two slim pins from her clan pin—steel disguised as ivory—she pushed them into the coiled mass to keep it in place.

They gleamed faintly in the morning light. Deadly little things, those pins. She’d taken out a man twice her size with them once.

Just because she was in a castle, as a guest, didn’t mean she would stop being the weapon she was trained to be.

“Let him see me as a lady, just as I am,” she growled to the empty room.

With a glance at her reflection in the warped mirror, Ersie squared her shoulders and stalked toward the door, stopping just before reaching the handle.

“Actually…” she trailed off, stepping back to see her reflection once more.

She removed the pins and placed them back into the clan pin, then untwisted her hair, letting it fall down her back. Another act of rebellion.

She raked her hand through it, before grinning to herself. “I’ll find the blasted dining hall on me own,” she muttered. “And if I get lost, I’ll eat in the blasted stables.”