Page 5 of Rekindled (The MacTavish Heirs #5)

In which Catriona is not enjoying playing princess in the castle.

Catriona…

I spend the rest of the afternoon walking off the residual effects of whatever they used on me and trying to figure out where the hell I am.

Geography has never been my strength, unfortunately.

The castle is enormous, built of golden stone on a cliff overlooking a magnificent stretch of mountain range. I see why they put me on this side and dinnae bother to lock the doors to the terrace. My suite’s balcony is nearly dangling off the rock edge.

I guess I should be counting my blessings. No torture.

So far, at any rate.

Sometimes these bastards like to lull ye into a false sense of security and then bring the hammer down on your knee. It happened to my cousin Wallace.

He still walks with a limp.

Besides this ridiculously enormous bedroom, there’s a newly-installed ensuite bathroom, since they dinnae have many of those in the 16th century, or whenever this castle was built. It’s all white marble shot through with silver threads with a graceful copper tub and fixtures.

More distressing is the opulent dressing room.

édouard had indicated they were getting in a “wardrobe” for me tomorrow, but I dinnae think there’s any room left here.

Standing inside the door, I stare at the endless array of evening gowns, hung alongside cashmere dresses, leather skirts, and silk blouses.

Sumptuous boots and lots of high heels, which I hate because they always hurt my feet.

It’s all expensive shite, but nothing to really walk or more specifically, run away in. No trainers, not even a pair of bedroom slippers. No jeans or leggings, coats, or jackets. Whoever took me thinks I’m gonna totter around their fecking castle in Prada heels and Gucci dresses all day?

They’re about to learn some harsh truths about me.

And then… My first clue. I sift through a tidy row of white lab coats with my name and a crest embroidered on each one. So, this isn’t something to do with ransom or revenge.

Whoever this arsehole is wants something from me.

The sun is sending its final waves of red and orange over the horizon, giving the castle a fairytale-like luster, the golden stone glowing.

If I weren’t a fecking captive here, I’d love to sit on this terrace and lounge in one of the lovely cushioned seats with a glass from the very expensive bottle of wine édouard had included with my lunch.

But I’m not a guest. I’m gonna kill whoever stabbed my poor bodyguard and then kill them again for kidnapping me.

The knock on the door makes me jump half a foot.

So much for being cool and controlled, Catriona.

“Mademoiselle? It is édouard.” He opens the door cautiously. “Allow me to introduce your personal maid.”

The woman behind him is wearing her best, “Ye do not feck with me,” expression. She looks like she’s more capable of tearing my head off my shoulders than zipping up my dress.

“This is Eloise,” he says. “She will attend to you; you may request anything you like. ”

“Grand,” I say. “Hi Eloise, lovely to meet ye. Will ye kindly show me the front door and give me some car keys?”

édouard gives a deep sigh, redolent with the suffering of a man who has served others all his life. “Excepting that, of course. She has your dress for this evening-”

“Did ya miss the three hundred or so hanging in the closet, then?” No reason to make this easy on him, though I feel a wee bit sorry for the man.

“Ah, but this is special, your first dinner with the master of the house,” he says.

“And his name would be?”

Ignoring me, he gives her instructions in rapid-fire French and takes his leave with a courtly little bow.

Eloise stares at me. I stare at Eloise.

“I was serious about the whole getting me out of here thing,” I say. “I can promise ye, my family will do right by ye. Ye won’t have to serve anyone else ever again.”

She’s pretending that she doesn’t understand and makes a shooing gesture over to the dressing table, carved out of rosewood with a sapphire-colored drape.

“I’m gonna make your job mighty easy.” I’m wearing my tight smile, the one that would warn anyone who knows me to run screaming. “Ye will not touch me. I can dress myself, do my own hair and makeup. It’ll be our little secret.”

Eloise placidly stares at me until I repeat it in French, then her expression melts into a scowl.

“There’s still a nice selection of pastries édouard left for lunch. Sit down, put your feet up.”

“Je suis là pour vous habiller, mademoiselle,” she argues.

“I know you’re here to dress me, but I’m not a toddler.” I switch back to English because I know she can understand me. She’s evaluating her options, I can tell. Should she hold me down and wrestle that dress on me? With a small sigh, she stands by the dressing table, hands folded in front of her.

“Suit yourself,” I shrug, “but that couch is mighty soft.”

The sheer extravagance of the new dress makes me chuckle a little.

The bodice is tight and the skirt flares out in petal-like shapes lined with…

“Oh, for feck’s sake, who is this guy? This is ridiculous.

” The petals of the dress are lined with green gemstones that I’m certain are emeralds and stiff silver threads bolstering the fragile material.

The whole silly thing is held together with a hoopskirt.

I quickly do my makeup and hair and eye the dress. “Looks like I’m needing your help after all, Eloise.” She nods and hastens over to help me lift the gown. The thing must weigh as much as I do.

édouard arrives just as she’s zipping up the abomination and I swear I can feel my spine compress, trying to hold me up.

It’s just for a couple of hours. I can handle that.

I’m led down a sweeping staircase and édouard pretends he dinnae see me gripping the ivory banister for dear life as the heavy skirt thumps down behind me, step by step.

There’s a pair of guards, clad in black with blank expressions, standing at the bottom of the staircase.

There’s another two stationed to the left, where a marble hallway is so vast that it stretches out farther than I can see.

“How do ye find your way around? Some kind of GPS tracker?” I ask him, eyeing an ancient suit of armor. No swords, damn it.

“There are rooms that even I have not found,” he says, gliding along. “This castle has a rich history.”

“Really? Tell me about it.”

C’mon ye pompous French feck, give me a clue here.

“Another time, Miss MacTavish. We have arrived.”

He sweeps his hand out, showing off a dining hall massive enough for three roaring fireplaces and a table that could seat fifty, loaded with food.

“There you are!” A man is striding down the length of the room, his arms joyfully outstretched like he’s my sweetheart, returning home from the war. “I have waited so long for this moment, my dear Catriona!”