Page 7 of Taken By the Highland Villain
“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,Iam 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—hadrequested a seamstress. Subterfuge or not, it could be argued that it was Craig who had made the move to hireher. 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?”