Page 5

CHAPTER 5

“What do ye think, Jane?” Anna asked, observing her reflection in the mirror.

For the evening’s events—a simple supper in the feasting hall—she had decided to try something a little… different. She hadn’t wanted to dine with her family at all, but her father had insisted, so she had settled on her own manner of compromise.

“I think ye shouldnae go down at all,” Jane replied, shuddering. “I can tell yer maither that ye’re nae feelin’ well and she can tell yer faither. He willnae say aught about it once he’s already in the hall.”

Anna met her own eyes in the surface of the looking glass, taking a defiant breath. “If I’m bein’ forced to do this, then I’m doin’ it me own way, and that doesnae include hidin’ up in me chambers.”

Much as I’d like to stay here with me supper on a tray and a book in me hand…

If she had to put on a facade of being a willing participant in this entire wretched debacle of an auction for her hand, then so be it. She would put on the performance of her life, and she would do it well, so her father wouldn’t be able to accuse her of sabotaging the endeavor when it all fell to pieces.

She smiled, imagining the scene: her, in feigned tears, lamenting the fact that no Laird had stayed, that no Laird had wanted her hand in the end. Oh, how she would wail and pretend to weep, crying out, “I daenae ken what I did wrong, Faither. By summonin’ so many false ghosts in the past, I must have truly cursed meself.”

That done, her father would have no choice but to let her do as she pleased, giving up the idea of her marrying entirely. He would turn his efforts toward Ewan, perhaps Jackson too, and she would be the secret Lane spinster that no one dared to talk about.

“But, Lady Anna, that… monster will be down there,” Jane whispered, like she didn’t want to speak his name, in case it summoned him to the room. He was the Devil, after all.

Anna turned to look at the maid. “What did he do to ye, Jane?”

“Pardon?”

“What did he do to make ye so afraid of him?” In the distraction of getting ready for the evening’s supper, surprisingly excited to enact the first stage of her plan, Anna realized she’d forgotten to ask.

Jane frowned as if she didn’t understand the question. “He… dinnae do anythin’, M’Lady. He’s just so… awful.” She shivered though it wasn’t cold in the bedchamber. “Me grandmaither always said ye could sense a rotten heart when one crossed yer path. I never understood her ‘til today. That man—he… just feels evil to me.”

Looking back at her reflection, Anna mulled over her own encounter with the Devil of the Highlands, Laird Lyall. She’d discovered that his name was Gordon Shaw, though that seemed to be where the information ended, beyond the usual tales of his bloodthirsty massacres in battle, his apparent taste for human flesh to celebrate his victories, and a few sordid stories about him drinking the blood of virgins as part of some deal with the actual Devil.

He'd find mine very bitter, she mused, perhaps not as afraid of him as she should have been.

Rather than an inhuman creature, he’d seemed—to her—more like a man who no longer put much value in humanity, his tolerance for it lost somewhere along the years of his life. And who wouldn’t lose some of it, when all they did was flit from war to war, battle to battle, bloodshed to bloodshed?

He was intimidating, that went without saying, but he wasn’t… frightening, necessarily. If he’d wanted to hurt her in that passageway, he could have. If he’d wanted to grab her and steal her away, like Laird Dalmorglen had done with Elinor, no one would have been able to stop him.

But he let me go… and he’s still here.

“I really think ye ought to stay in yer rooms, M’Lady,” Jane urged, putting away the adornments that Anna had decided against. “I’ll stay with ye. I’ll ask Fogarty to put his best men outside yer door. We can stay here ‘til mornin’ and ye can be escorted wherever ye need to go.”

Fogarty was Anna’s father’s longstanding m an-at-a rms, and though it took Anna a second to figure out why Jane might be suggesting such a thing, she finally understood with a soft, surprised gasp.

“Nay…” Anna swallowed uncomfortably. “There’ll be nay need for that. I have a dagger under me pillow. That will be enough. Indeed, I willnae be a prisoner in me own home for the duration of this auction. If any man tries to ‘grab’ me, all he’ll get is a blade through his heart.”

Violence is sometimes necessary. Gordon’s words echoed in Anna’s head, as did her insistence that she abhorred violence. But if a man crept into her room, meaning to take her away, intending to make her face the same fate as Elinor, could she bring herself to protect herself by those violent, necessary means?

“M’Lady…” Jane gasped, shocked by the declaration.

Anna put on a smile and adjusted her unusual headpiece. “Dinnae start faintin’ on me, Jane. I’ve seen ye lambin’ in the Spring. Ye daenae have a weak stomach.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but Jane wasn’t laughing. Rather, the maid looked very pale indeed, her gaze glazed over, as if trapped in a terrible remembrance: the memory of three years ago, no doubt. The night a different, beastly Laird had thrown her bodily into a wall so he could steal his prize without anyone raising the alarm. The healer had said, afterward, that it was a miracle Jane had survived unscathed.

“All will be well,” Anna hurried to add, taking Jane by the hands. “I promise ye, I willnae have to use that dagger, and nay harm will come to me. Me faither wouldnae make the same mistake twice.”

Although, he has invited a group of unmarried Lairds to an auction for me hand… in his castle, where any one of ‘em could easily try to cut past the procedure of the thing. Anna liked to think her father wasn’t so foolish that he hadn’t considered that, and would have defenses and deterrents in place to prevent it, but it still left a faint chill in her bones.

“I hope ye’re right, M’Lady,” Jane murmured, squeezing Anna’s hands tightly.

Anna smiled, replying with more confidence than she felt, “I ken I am, Jane.” She pulled the maid toward the door. “Now, come on—there’s a marked difference between makin’ a grand entrance and arrivin’ unforgivably late, and me faither will be watchin’ the clock.”

The low babble of chatter came to an abrupt halt as Anna swept into the feasting hall, her long skirts whispering against the flagstones.

Take a breath, she told herself, seeing her father’s shock and her mother cover her mouth with her hand, hiding a smile. Ewan’s expression reflected his father’s, while Jackson flashed a wide, approving grin.

But there were more people at the table than she had expected. Gordon was there, as anticipated, not looking at her at all. And there was another man, seated an empty chair away from Gordon: handsome in an ordinary sort of way, with wavy blond hair that curved around his ears, pleasant blue eyes, and a vague attempt at a mustache above his lip.

The unknown man jumped to his feet, bowing his head. “Good evenin’ to ye, Lady Anna.”

“And to ye,” she replied, moving to sit in her usual chair.

Her father blocked it with his hand, before she could pull the chair back. “Ye’re to sit between Laird Lyall and Laird Glendenning tonight.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “ What are ye wearin’?”

Anna ignored the question and, steeling her nerves, made her way around to the opposite side of the table. The newcomer, presumably Laird Glendenning, hastened to pull the empty chair out for her, smiling nervously.

“Thank ye,” she said sweetly.

“It’s me pleasure, Lady Anna,” Laird Glendenning replied, his freckled cheeks pinkening.

In any other gathering, among a usual congregation of men, the blond laird wouldn’t have looked out of place. He was tall, he was well built, he had an athletic physique, he was no younger than five-and-twenty, but beside Gordon, he rather resembled a boy. Diminished in age and strength and stature by the mere presence of the grizzled, bear-like man who still had not looked at Anna.

Jane, who was supposed to be eating her own supper in the kitchens, had evidently switched with one of the servants who was supposed to be serving. She appeared behind Anna, holding a large tureen of broth.

“M’Lady?” the maid asked.

“Aye, if ye please,” Anna replied, as Jane ladled out a serving.

The maid retreated to the corner of the room, keeping a vigilant eye on things. Only then did Gordon lean in, rather too close to be considered appropriate, and said in a low, throaty voice: “Does yer plan to test the Lairds begin with this dress?”

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. “That would be tellin’. If ye think it does, act accordingly.”

He sat back in his chair, bringing a cup of spiced wine to his lips. And though she was determined not to pay him any attention, she couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of her eye, fascinated by the soft, almost tender press of his lips against the pewter rim of the cup. And the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

Can he see me observin’ him? She was seated on his left, his leather eyepatch covering that eye.

Before she could dwell too deeply on what might have happened to that eye, the Laird to her left leaned toward her, clearing his throat.

“Ardal,” he said.

“Pardon?” She glanced his way, remembering a moment later to put a pleasant smile on her face. Jackson was always telling her that she had something of a cross expression when she was at rest.

The man swept an anxious hand through his hair. “My name, M’Lady. It’s Ardal. I havenae been a Laird for long, so I daenae always remember to answer to Laird Glendenning.”

“Oh… oh, I see.” She forced a chuckle, covering her mouth the way her mother did, playing the ill-fitting role of demure damsel. “It’s a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Ardal.”

“And ye, Lady Anna,” he replied, relaxing a little. “I must say, yer dress this evenin’ is…”

Anna waited with interest as Ardal visibly searched for the right words, tilting her head slightly.

“It’s… unusual,” Ardal managed to say, adding hastily, “but in a good way. Ye look… ye look good. Quite beautiful. Do ye… wear such things a lot? I confess, I’ve never seen anythin’ like it… but it becomes ye, of course.”

Anna chuckled. “I like to experiment.”

To her right, she heard a strange sound: a quiet cough, as though Gordon had just choked on his spiced wine. But when she glanced back at him with a glare, his expression was blank, his cup nowhere near his lips, his attention fixed on the piece of bread he was in the middle of ripping in two.

Ewan was on the other side of Gordon. Perhaps, the sound had come from him instead. A cough of disapproval.

“Do ye mind a lass who wears bold garments?” she asked Ardal, returning her attention to him.

The man shrugged. “I havenae much thought about it.” He paused. “I suppose nae, dependin’ on the situation. Ye wouldnae very well wear such a gown to an important gatherin’, for example, but for dinner, why nae? ”

“Ye daenae think this would be suitable for an important gatherin’?” she challenged, a little disappointed.

Ardal laughed as if she had told a glorious joke. “I think there’s a lot to be said for tradition, and ye wouldnae want to ruffle feathers. Me maither wouldnae like it.” He took up his cup and drank deeply. “I like it, though.”

This might be easier than I thought. She let her disappointment at Ardal’s words bolster her encouragement that she’d end the auction without anyone claiming her hand at all. If all she had to do was wear bold and strange clothes, the other Lairds—when they arrived—would take one look at her and leave.

“What about ye, Laird Lyall?” she said, intrigued to hear his assessment.

The stony-faced man rested his steely eye on her, letting his cold gaze rove over her. Her breath caught in her chest as he did so, almost feeling the trace of his gaze, as if he were undressing her at the dining table. She couldn’t move, his observing eye as tangible as fingertips against her skin, her body rigid beneath his keen judgment.

“Ye could do without the squirrel on yer head,” he said at last.

When he removed his gaze, focusing on his supper once more, it was like a taut rope being cut. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, only able to breathe evenly again when he’d stopped looking at her.

Dipping her spoon into her own broth, she struggled to shake off the strange, tight feeling in her chest. Perhaps, the tales of the Devil of the Highlands weren’t so outlandish after all. Perhaps, there was something unnatural about him. How else could she explain the complete control he’d just had over her body, as if he’d put her in a trance?