Page 11 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

11

“ Y e start in the morning, then? Ye’ll need to be there?”

“Aye, I suppose near the breakfast call. What do I need to ken about the keep to survive?” Laura said, leaning in.

“Survive? Nay, ye dinnae need that kind of help. The Laird sees clear, cuts clean, and pays his debts. Fair, aye, but colder than steel itself. Clan MacAitken would be buried if it werenae for him. He’s highly intelligent, though naturally unfeeling. He holds healers in high regard. Ye have me to thank for that.”

“Unfeeling?”

I must have seen the complete opposite side of him, then. This afternoon was anything but unfeeling… anything but cold.

“Aye, but dinnae mistake his lack of warmth for a lack of care. He may be unyielding, and bound by duty, but nae without reason.”

Laura recalled his promise to never touch her again, and a part of her ached. Though she wasn’t sure which part of her throbbed at the thought of his absence, nor did she truly wish to find out.

The two women finished their dinner in silence as the fire crackled loudly beside them.

Laura’s eyes focused on the dancing candlelight later that evening as it threw shapes onto the wall of her bedroom. Fraser had fallen asleep hours ago, but she could think of very little else now that she was alone and not distracted. As she thought of Ciaran’s lips on hers, her mind drifted again.

I should have hated it.

The thought had crossed her mind with slow, painful accuracy.

I should have resented him.

But he didn’t even flinch at her scar or hesitate, and his eyes didn’t soften in pity. Rather, he looked straight through her, as if he already knew everything there was to know about her.

As if he kenned I was broken and didnae care.

And yet she had stood there, letting him watch her. She let him assess every inch of her. Let him strip her bare without even laying a finger on her. Not only that, she had agreed to stay with very little argument.

This man would dictate her future if she wasn’t careful.

I’ll have me own surgery and rooms. I’ll have me own space. I’ll be able to catch me breath, and he promised…

But no matter how many lies she could have told herself to feel better about the arrangement, she knew—deep down, she knew—that his presence would consume her. It would do so in ways she had yet to understand.

That’s why Mrs. Morrigan said I should have bargained for more ?—

Her eyes flicked to Fraser’s sleeping form and then landed on the small piece of parchment on her bedside table. A constant reminder that she had nothing to fear, only to be ashamed of.

The letter was from her brother. She didn’t need to unfold it. The words on the page were seared into her memory.

It’s done. That bastard is dead.

Come home was the last thing her brother said. Each time she thought of Adam and her twin sister Freya, her throat burned. She wished so badly to feel their embrace again, but she knew better than to bring shame and scandal upon them and Clan MacNiall.

Her face contorted under the tension. She let out a slow, shaky breath, closing her eyes. She couldn’t cry.

Dinnae cry.

Ciaran’s face flashed through her mind once more. His dark eyes arrested her. The way he looked at her like he knew exactly what she needed. The way he treated her like she was not fragile.

Laura let out a heated breath and threw the remaining items into her bag. Having not actually collected many things these past sixteen months, save for a child, she used the same bag she’d used to flee her past.

The next morning, the air was thick with the usual Kilbray mist. It curled its fingers around the trees like nymphs wrapping their arms around them protectively.

The scent of wet pine and heather she had grown accustomed to filled her lungs as she tightened the wrap around Fraser, tucking his drowsy body against her chest. His soft, warm breaths fanned the fabric of her dress as his tiny hands clung to her.

Adjusting his weight, she pressed a light kiss to the top of his head, her eyes meeting Mrs. Morrigan’s. “Thank ye, for everything,” she said in a whisper, careful not to disturb the world around her.

Mrs. Morrigan only nodded silently, pressing her hand to her chest. Her hand closed around an unspoken prayer before she extended her arm toward them, sending them off with it.

The horse cantered slowly away from the cottage, its hooves connecting with the cobblestone quietly as if it too knew to keep quiet.

Laura wouldn’t return, she knew that. The thought settled heavily in the depths of her chest, pressing down uncomfortably as they let the mist wrap around them, swallowing them whole.

It was early. Too early to feel the weight of this many eyes on her as she guided the horse into the courtyard of the keep. All hidden, but undoubtedly there. Her eyes swept over her surroundings, taking in the high walls towering over and around her, before landing on the large doors leading into the keep.

That’s when she saw him.

Ciaran stood just inside the entrance, his back facing her, but his broad frame was unmistakable. He cast a long shadow in the dim morning light, and his posture was rigid.

Was he waitin’ for me? Am I late?

Laura slowed the horse to a stop, swung her leg over the saddle, and gripped the pommel to lower herself carefully to the ground. Her eyes darted over the horse’s back, seeing Ciaran’s hands clasped behind him as if he were waiting but unwilling to acknowledge her.

She took a step away from the horse and adjusted Fraser against her before reaching up to grab her bag. Ciaran’s large hand stopped deliberately, hovering just inches over hers, careful not to touch her, as if he had reached for her bag at the same time.

“Oh!” she hissed and took a step back, twisting away from him.

How had he gotten here so quickly? So quietly?

He spoke then, his voice like honey warming her spine, but it was clipped. His tone was that of a man who was forcing himself to be civil, and it was painfully obvious to Laura.

“I have this.” He grabbed the bag from the back of the mare.

“Thank ye,” she managed to say, a sense of propriety lacing her voice, a distant memory of her past life rearing its head.

“The maid just there”—he waved vaguely without pointing at the maid, and yet Laura’s eyes found the woman anyway—“will take ye to yer chambers.”

The maid bowed slightly at the entrance of the keep, partially hidden by the shadows, and Laura nodded in her direction.

“She’ll bring ye to me study after ye have settled,” Ciaran added, his eyes finally falling on the tiny human against her chest.

Laura’s fingers tightened around the boy’s bottom at Ciaran’s gruff indifference. It set her teeth on edge.

Swallowing the sharp words rising in her throat, she replied in a deceptively light tone, “Aye, Me Laird . Lovely to see ye again as well.”

She walked past him without so much as another look.

If he wishes to act like a child, I’m happy to join him in that.

The maid was bright-eyed and eager, no older than seventeen or eighteen. Laura joined her as she crossed the threshold to her new home, a warm smile replacing the malice-filled one she’d flashed Ciaran just moments ago.

“This way, Miss,” the maid said, her voice light.

Laura fell into step beside the maid, and they moved through the halls silently. The young girl pointed out some landmarks, and Laura started making mental notes to try and remember how to get back to her chambers.

“What’s yer name, lass?” she asked quietly.

The girl beamed. “I’m Mairead, Miss.”

“Good to ken ye, Mairead. Have ye grown up here in the keep?”

“Nay, I’m from Strathlorne on the borderlands. Me faither is on the guard.”

“I see,” Laura said.

“Are ye from the villages?”

“Nay,” she said plainly, her tone brooking no room for further questions.

The girl stole a glance at the bundle wrapped around Laura’s frame. “He’s a handsome wee thing, Miss.”

Laura hummed in response, not quite in the mood to carry on that conversation either.

But Mairead leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if to not disturb the sleeping child. “Does he resemble his faither, then? Is he on the guard as well?” she asked, her tone innocent and curious.

But the compliment was backhanded, and one that Laura had no time for.

She stopped walking.

The girl’s eyes went wide, realizing her mistake.

Laura felt her entire body go ice cold. Her back straightened in such a way that she now looked down at the girl.

“Dead,” she said flatly.

Nae a lie.

The word hit its mark, the weight of it hanging between them like a full pail from a well.

Mairead blinked, her lips parting as the color drained from her body. “I-I’m sorry, Miss?—”

Laura’s jaw tightened, her voice firm. “Nae yer fault, lass. Dinnae be.”

The maid lowered her eyes, torn between apologizing or moving without addressing it further.

Laura, sensing the girl’s dismay, made the choice for her—for them both. She turned and continued walking in the direction they had been heading in, her measured steps landing on the cold stone floor loudly. The maid scrambled after her.

Dead. The word bounced around in her mind, but she didn’t give herself leave to dwell on it. Not because James Stewart was dead, but because so was the girl she had been before him. The only thing her past carried was death.

The maid pointed out a few rooms after that, in an attempt to fill the heavy, thick silence.

“The Laird’s study is down that corridor, first door on the left. There’s a lion knocker.”

Laura’s eyes traveled down the torch-lit passageway, curiosity filling her mind. Thoughts of his study, what it might look like, reminding herself that she would be meeting him there after getting settled.

“Right,” was all she said as they continued through the depths of the castle, her skirts swishing with muted synchronicity.

“Up that staircase are the Laird’s quarters. We cannae go up there,” the girl said.

The hairs on Laura’s arm stood on end instantly. Not only because the thought of his rooms set her body on fire, but because the next turn they took—not five paces away from the staircase—was the door to her chambers.

“Here we are!” the maid said cheerfully as she opened the door and then gave her a quick tour of the room.