Page 4 of Taken by the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #2)

The ‘beastly’ Laird MacFinn might be a bit dour and gruff, and the castle is certainly as gloomy as the other seamstresses said it was, but the man himself doesnae look nearly so terrifying or terrible as the rumors suggest.

In truth, as Valerie watched the emotions play across his stern visage, she thought the Laird was rather handsome. He was tall, muscular, and lean, with a warrior’s build.

His hair was as dark as her own, though his was tangled and somewhat unkempt, especially his beard. That looked as though it hadn’t been brushed or tended to in weeks. The shadowy state of the room made it difficult to tell the color of his eyes, but she thought it was either gray or a steely blue.

The only thing that marred his looks, aside from the need for a trim of his beard, was the seemingly perpetual frown that deepened the lines around his mouth and carved furrows in his brow.

His appearance was so different from Laird MacOlley’s that that alone might have drawn her attention and her interest—if she were inclined to be interested in any man at all. Right now, however, all she wanted was an opportunity and a haven, at least for a short while.

Valerie opened her mouth to try and persuade the Laird of her qualifications as a seamstress, but he turned away from her to glower at the other man and the maid who had announced her. “I dinnae recall sendin’ for a seamstress, nor askin’ anyone to provide one.”

Valerie blinked. It was clear from the state of his curtains and his well-worn clothes that he needed someone with experience in sewing and altering clothes.

Even if the clothes he wore were simply an old, favorite outfit that he donned when he wasn’t expecting visitors or while performing certain tasks, the drapes were far too heavy and dreary for the room.

“Well, lass?”

Valerie realized with a start that he was awaiting some explanation from her.

“I dinnae ken what ye want me to say, My Laird. I heard from a seamstress visiting my home town that ye were seeking someone. She seemed certain that ye needed a seamstress, and she was very clear on yer name, and describin’ yer castle and lands.”

“Even so, she has to be mistaken, and I dinnae need?—”

The Laird was interrupted by the other man, who cleared his throat. There was a sheepish expression on his angular face as his brown eyes met the Laird’s.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, My Laird, but the young lass is likely tellin’ ye the truth. I…” He grinned. “I might have started a rumor that ye were in need of a new seamstress, and willin’ to pay a handsome amount of gold for someone to come and make a new wardrobe and the like for ye.”

The Laird’s scowl deepened. “And why the devil would ye do that?”

The man stood his ground. “Because most of yer clothes are too old; they arenae fit for a laird. And what ye do have that is worth wearing, ye dinnae wear because it is uncomfortable, what with yer injury?—”

The Laird let out a low growl, cutting him off. “That’s nothin’ ye need to speak of, and I dinnae need any new clothes.”

Valerie stepped forward. She could see no injury that might make clothing uncomfortable, but if the Laird didn’t want to discuss such things, then perhaps she could win his acceptance by broaching a different topic.

“Even if it is true that ye dinnae need more clothing, My Laird, the same cannae be said of yer curtains.” She stepped closer to the far wall.

“I can see from here that the fabric is in need of washin’ and mendin’, and the drapes ye’re usin’ right now are too heavy.

They dinnae let in any light or fresh air. I could?—”

“Come with me,” the Laird cut her off with a brusque gesture.

As he moved across the room, Valerie noticed he was limping. It wasn’t an extreme limp, but it gave her an idea of what his manservant might have meant when he spoke of an injury, and why certain garments might be uncomfortable or difficult to wear.

Fortunately, her time spent mending and making clothes for her father’s men had given her a great deal of experience in designing and creating garments that were both comfortable and well-fitting for all manner of injuries.

Modifying clothing for a lame leg was hardly the most difficult task she had ever undertaken.

“Now, lass. Nae tomorrow, nae in a minute.”

The sharp words wrenched Valerie out of her contemplations. She flushed at the impatient look on his face and hurried after him.

He seemed to have little desire to talk to her, and his demeanor was so unwelcoming and gruff that walking beside him felt like attempting to interact with a stone wall.

Valerie frowned, wondering if he was naturally so taciturn or simply trying to intimidate her with his silence. If it was the latter, then she refused to allow him to succeed.

“I ken my arrival is a surprise to ye, My Laird, but truly, I am quite skilled. And nae just with sewing—I can do fine needlework of many kinds, and I can knit, weave, even re-dye fabrics. I ken how to soften cloth without makin’ it less sturdy, and I?—”

“I already said I dinnae need any new clothing, lass.”

The words were gruff and harsh, like the snarl of a bear, but Valerie brushed aside his tone, determined to try and win his approval.

“That’s nae all I can do, Laird MacFinn.

I can make ye better curtains, for one—light enough to be easily drawn, or even light enough to remain shut and still let in fresh air and light.

I can also mend rugs, tapestries, sheets, blankets—doesnae matter if they’re woven, knit or quilted, I can patch them all—and I stitch fine enough that if I can get the colors in the fabrics to match, ye’ll never even ken that what I tend was mended at all.

And if it is somethin’ like restitching a tapestry, I’m a fair hand at makin’ sure the colors suit and match the original image.

I can even fade colors to blend them into older works. Beyond that, I?—”

“Go home.”

Two words, and they silenced her as effectively as a hand over her mouth.

Valerie blinked at him, startled by the harshness of his tone. “My Laird, if ye would just give me a chance to demonstrate my skills…”

“I said, I dinnae need yer services.” Laird MacFinn stopped and turned to face her.

Standing so close, he towered over her, and looked as if he could pick her up and toss her out of the window. Even more intimidating, the glower on his face suggested he was considering doing so.

Valerie forced herself to stand her ground and raise her chin, the way her father had taught her to do when dealing with a man.

Magnus Blackwood had never wanted any of his daughters to show fear to any man.

Respect, yes, and obedience when it was appropriate, but never fear.

The first thing he’d taught Valerie when she sailed with him was that no man would respect a woman who looked away from him and cowered, not even those who were supposedly ‘honorable’ and ‘chivalrous.’

She’d earned his respect by tricking the husband he’d chosen for her and standing her ground, even while being outwardly obedient to his demands. He’d taught her to treat any man she dealt with the same way—unless outward compliance could be used as a ruse to win some advantage for herself.

For all that she scarcely knew him, Valerie knew that Laird MacFinn was a man she could respect, and from whom she wanted respect in return.

That meant standing her ground and not allowing herself to be intimidated by his greater size, his harsh temperament, or the wild, untamed good looks that made her heart beat just a little faster.

She took a deep breath. “Laird MacFinn, I ken ye didnae ask for my services. But someone in yer castle did, and all I ask is a chance to prove?—”

“Craig might have started a rumor about me needin’ a seamstress, but that was all it was—a rumor, and a spot of foolishness on his part.

He doesnae need the help, and I dinnae want it.

When all is said and done, I am the Laird here, and I’m tellin’ ye again to go home.

Leave. If ye’re gone within the day, ye’ll likely make it home afore sundown. And home’s the best place for ye.”

The words stung, and Valerie’s jaw clenched. “Ye dinnae ken aught about my home or how far I traveled. And after I made the journey, even if it was under a misunderstanding, the least ye can do is give me a?—”

“The least I can do is send ye home with words, rather than pitchin’ ye out of my front gates,” Laird MacFinn snarled, then gripped her arm firmly and dragged her down the stairs to the Great Hall.

The strength of his grasp made it clear he could break bones if he wanted, and even slightly lame, his pace was brisk and his expression was unyielding.

It was all Valerie could do to keep from being dragged. She was acutely aware, as he guided her toward the front doors, of the heat of his body and how easily he could harm her if he chose to.

She ought to have been frightened—she’d been in similar situations, and she knew how dangerous an irritated man who had her in his grasp might be.

But Laird MacFinn was… different. Something about the way he held her, his stoic refusal to even consider her assistance as if even a brief test of her skills might create an unacceptable chink in tightly forged armor, intrigued her more than it frightened her.

Laird MacFinn was even more shut off than his closed windows, and it stirred within her the desire to see what would be revealed if she could just get past those near-impenetrable shadows.

Valerie blushed to think such things, but it was better than contemplating her uncertainty and distress.

The Laird stopped at the door to the Great Hall, opened it, and shoved her inside. “Ye can have a quick meal as compensation for yer troubles. Knock on the kitchen door, and Moira or the scullery maid will give ye somethin’. Once ye’ve eaten, leave.”

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Valerie stared at the heavy wooden panel, stung by his adamant refusal to even consider her as a seamstress.

Even at home, when people had distrusted her for being Magnus Blackwood’s daughter, they had been willing to purchase her work or commission garments for special events. To have Laird MacFinn dismiss her so abruptly was a blow to her professional pride.

It also left her grappling with a dilemma. She had hoped to find refuge here, at least for the week. If Laird MacFinn sent her away, where would she go next?

Valerie made her way to the kitchen, her mind racing as she collected a bowl of fresh oatmeal mixed with cream, honey and fruit, as well as a slice of bread and a strong cup of tea, from the maid.

The older woman’s expression was sympathetic, as though she knew quite well how Laird MacFinn had responded to her. She offered no advice or solutions, but she did allow Valerie to perch on a stool in the corner, rather than returning to the large, echoing, empty hall.

What do I want? I came here to seek refuge, I ken, but now…

Now I care less about that than I do about proving myself.

But how am I to do that, if the Laird willnae give me any chance?

Most would at least give me an old set of sheets or a pair of well-holed stockings to test my skills, afore sending me away, but he’s nae even willing to do that much.

I wish I’d kenned that the rumors of his need for a seamstress were rumors, rather than truth. Or that the request was sent by that friend of his, rather than the Laird himself. I would have…

Valerie’s thoughts slowed as an idea came to her mind.

The Laird had not summoned her, but his friend—the man he called Craig— had requested a seamstress. Subterfuge or not, it could be argued that it was Craig who had made the move to hire her. Therefore, one could argue, he was the only one who could formally dismiss her.

She smiled softly to herself. She finished her meal, then rose and went to speak to the elder maid. “Pardon me, but could ye tell me where I might find the man Laird MacFinn was speakin’ to when I arrived?”

The maid’s weathered face brightened, a conspiratorial smile creeping onto her lips as if she knew exactly what Valerie was thinking. “Ye mean Master Craig MacCann? The Laird’s man-at-arms?”

“Aye. I ken the Laird doesnae wish for my services, but it was Master Craig who requested the work. Perhaps he needs new clothing.”

“Och, I’m sure he does, and there’s plenty of mendin’ to be done. More than an old woman like myself can do,” the maid agreed. “I happen to ken where ye might find Master Craig, and I’d be happy to take ye to him now, if ye like.”

“I would appreciate that…” Valerie trailed off.

“Moira, my dear. Moira MacKenna. If ye need aught, it is best to ask me or Master Craig, and we’ll do our best to assist ye. Assumin’ ye’ll stay, of course.”

From the twinkle in the maid’s eyes, Valerie guessed that Moira was as hopeful that her ruse would work as she herself was.

“I should meet with Master Craig then, and see if I’m to stay or nae.”

Moira smiled and led her out of the kitchen.

Valerie followed, a small, determined smile of her own tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Ye may nae have summoned me, Laird MacFinn, but ye’ll find that means ye cannae dismiss me. And ye cannae get rid of me with just a few sharp words and a hot temper either!