Page 8

CHAPTER 8

Gordon marched across the shadowed landscape, his cloak flapping out behind him like a giant pair of bat wings. The night was bitter, but he didn’t mind the sting of it. Needed it, in truth, to get rid of the memory of dancing with Anna.

He flexed his hands as he walked, eager to chase away the sensation of holding her waist. Upon setting her back down, he’d noticed that he’d smudged the writing beneath the gauzy fabric, and knew he would never find out what it said. That realization irritated him far more than it should have done.

It was a silly game of hers—what do I care what it said? It likely said nothin’ and that was probably the point.

Yet, the frustration lingered as he strode on through the darkness, leaving the confines of the castle that wasn’t his behind him. Since his capture, he hadn’t slept well, and the change of scenery wouldn’t help matters. Walking to the point of exhaustion was the only way he’d rest at all that night.

He headed down the slope of the hill where Castle MacTorrach perched, and jumped a fence to wander through a fallow field, uncertain of where he was going or where he would be by the time the sun came up. Nevertheless, he was not abandoning his mission; he was merely leaving it in the distance for a while, to clear his head.

Over another fence, across a swift-moving brook, and through a thinned-out stretch of woodland, he blinked in surprise as he stumbled upon the moon. Rather, the reflection of it, the true moon coming out from behind a raincloud to shine its full glory down on the mirror-still surface of a loch.

“Aye,” he murmured, making his way to a flat boulder at the edge of a pebbled shore, “that’s better.”

He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle lap of the water whispering against the pebbles, the rhythmic sound as soothing as a lullaby to his agitated mind. Whether it was crashing surf or the babble of a stream or that soft susurration, nothing calmed him so quickly as being near to water.

I ought to just steal her away. He sighed, opening his eyes and gazing out across the serene loch. Save meself the hassle.

It wasn’t as if the Lane family were unaccustomed to the tradition of “ grabbing”. Gordon’s m an-at-a rms had informed him that the middle sister had found herself married that way.

Still, there was something about the tradition that left a sour taste in his mouth. If he were to take Anna from her home, against her will and judgment, he would be no better than the bastards who kidnapped him . And though his future wife couldn’t and shouldn’t expect much from him, he didn’t want to begin a marriage with Anna terrified of him.

But it will be her, he vowed, lying back on the flat of the boulder, staring up at the sky. As he’d already told her, he hadn’t come there for nothing, and he wouldn’t be leaving unless he had her in tow. The sooner, the better.

A knock at the door startled Anna out of her skin, her heart lurching into her throat as she dove into bed. Grabbing for the blankets, she clutched them tightly to her chest, her voice wavering as she called out, “Who is it?”

“Why, are ye expectin’ someone?” Jackson’s voice replied, a moment before the door opened and he entered without waiting for permission.

Relaxing back into her pile of cushions, she scowled at him. “Quite the opposite, considerin’ how late it is—ye’d be jumpin’ in fright too if someone knocked on yer door at such an hour while ye were tryin’ to sleep.”

“Ye’re still in yer dress, ye fibber,” Jackson teased, flopping down onto the end of her bed. “Ye werenae sleepin’ at all, unless ye’ve decided to forgo night-clothes for the duration of this auction? Another protest?”

Anna concealed a smile. “I daenae ken what ye’re talkin’ about. I’m nae protestin’ whatsoever. As ye saw yerself, I was the most welcomin’ of hosts.”

“I thought Faither’s head was goin’ to explode when ye walked in.” Jackson chuckled, twisting around to look at her. “What was that thing on yer head, though? A fox?”

Anna rolled her eyes. “It was an experiment, and I’ll have ye ken that nothin’ died in the makin’ of it.”

“And the dress?”

“Somethin’ I sewed together at the last moment,” she replied, hoping he couldn’t hear the disappointment in her voice.

She’d worked hard on that gown, despite not having much time to bring it to fruition, and yet it hadn’t remotely had the effect she’d hoped for. With Laird Glendenning, perhaps it had given him a few doubts about her suitability, but—according to Jane—he hadn’t left Castle MacTorrach either.

“Faither is goin’ to want to have a stern word with ye in the mornin’,” Jackson warned affably. “He wanted to do so tonight, but Maither talked him out of it—said it’d be better if the two of ye spoke when ye were nae feelin’ poorly anymore. Speakin’ of, how is the sickly one?”

“Better,” Anna replied, though it wasn’t the whole truth.

The rush of heat had gradually receded from her body, but she could still feel the impressive grip of Gordon’s hands on her waist, her head still in a slight daze from the evening’s unexpected ending. And that tickle of his warm breath as he’d whispered his determination: a phantom echo of it still tingled up and down the side of her neck.

“Were ye actually unwell, or did ye just want to leave?” Jackson asked, grabbing a spare cushion to rest his head on as he lay there like a loyal dog at the end of her bed.

She shot him a mock withering look. “I daenae retreat from any challenge, Jackson. Ye ken me well enough to ken that.”

“Ah, so ye admit that ye’re up to somethin’!”

“I dinnae say that,” she protested, groaning. “Och, have ye always been this annoyin’?”

He laughed. “Aye, I expect I have.” His expression turned a touch more serious. “Honestly, I was just worried about ye, so I thought I’d come and see how ye were farin’ before I took to me own bed.”

Fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of her blanket, Anna shrugged. “I feel better. Nothin’ to worry over.” She paused. “But thank ye for comin’ to make sure.”

A weighted silence appeared between the siblings. Anna avoided looking at her brother, but she could feel his eyes on her, could practically hear the questions he was deciding whether or not to ask. He had always been more perceptive than he let on, and though he liked to jest and jape, he had a talent for listening and taking care of his siblings when they needed him most.

“Out with it,” he said, after a moment. “What’s truly wrong with ye?”

She shook her head. “Nothin’—I told ye. I was dizzy from the dancin’ and thought I might be sick, but now I’m fine.”

“And I daenae believe ye,” he replied. “One moment, ye looked like ye were havin’ a grand time; the next, ye were runnin’ out of the hall like ye were bein’ chased by the English. Did Laird Lyall say somethin’ to ye? Did ye nae favor his style of dancin’? Did he say ye were too heavy or somethin’?”

Humor glimmered in Jackson’s eyes—more hazel than Anna’s green, with a dark ring around the irises—as he waited patiently for her to answer. Evidently, he wasn’t planning to leave her alone until she’d given him a satisfactory reply.

“He dinnae struggle at all, thank ye very much,” she retorted, mustering a playful tone that she didn’t feel. “And he neither said anythin’ nor danced in a way I dinnae care for. I left because I was dizzy, and I willnae say it again.”

In fact, I did care for the way he danced, the way he just lifted me up and turned me around and around. As for what he whispered to me… She shook off the thought, feeling her skin begin to flush again, as if she’d just brushed past a thicket of nettles.

“If it’s nae Laird Lyall, then what’s botherin’ ye?” Jackson pressed.

Anna puffed out a breath, bringing her knees up to her chest. Resting her chin in the dip between the peaks of those knees, she met her brother’s eye and, seeing the gentle encouragement on his face, no longer wanted to keep swallowing the truth, in case she choked on it.

“It’s nae obvious?” she said flatly.

“This whole auction thing?”

She nodded hesitantly. “I was havin’ an entertainin’ evenin’, for the most part, but… then I started to think, and those thoughts were nae good thoughts.” She cleared her dry throat. “See, even if I do have an amusin’ time with these Lairds, there’s a… shadow over the entire arrangement and it willnae go away.”

“What sort of shadow?” Jackson prompted, when she didn’t speak again.

He would have been a fool not to know what it was she was referring to, and her brother was no fool, but he was letting her say it. Giving her the time and patience she needed to put her fears and worries out into the open, where they might be vanquished or exacerbated, depending on how the conversation went.

“The truth of why they’re here,” she answered in a quiet, small voice. “They only want me for the bairns I might bear them. I am the last lass of this blessed line, after all. Och, they must be as obsessed with legacy as Faither is, or they wouldnae have responded to his invitation. And I daenae want to be this… piece of meat they’re all fightin’ and slobberin’ over. It… repulses me.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “Ye daenae want bairns of yer own?”

“I want the choice, Jackson,” she replied with some urgency in her voice, her arms wrapping around her knees. “Mercy, how I pray that Elinor has nay daughters, and our niece is spared this. Truly, it keeps me awake at night. I long for this ‘magic’ fertility to end with us, just as I long to be allowed to… choose someone I like. And if that man never appears, that I be allowed to choose that, too—to have nay husband or bairns at all.”

Sitting up, hugging the cushion to him as if he were a boy again, Jackson offered an apologetic smile. “There are only two Lairds here so far. Perhaps, when the rest come, there’ll be one or two who are nae here for the sole purpose of gainin’ an heir. There might even be a few that ye like.”

Anna closed her eyes and expelled a strained breath, heartbroken that her dear brother had missed her point entirely. It was the entire charade that appalled her. It was the cattle-market feeling of the thing that made her heart sore. Not to mention, it was na?ve of Jackson to think that any of the Lairds were there for anything other than the progression of their bloodline.

“I’m three-and-twenty, Brother,” she said tightly. “They are all comin’ here with one purpose and one alone. If I like them or I daenae is of little importance; they are all comin’ here with the motivation of gaining a broodmare to secure their future. Kennin’ that all I am is a… vessel to them would sour even the most hopeful heart, Jackson. And it’s already exhaustin’, nae to be seen or heard, but to be assessed for what me body is capable of givin’ a man.”

Jackson frowned, tilting his head to one side. For a short while, he didn’t say anything, deep in thought. She could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he decided what to say, while she prayed that it would not be another ill-judged response that told her that he wasn’t hearing her, either.

“I reckon the Devil saw ye well enough,” he said, his lips curving into an encouraging smile. “From what I ken of him, he’s nay someone who does anythin’ he doesnae want to, even if it’d be of benefit to him. Yet, he danced with ye when ye asked, though it was clear he wasnae keen to, at first. And he wasnae simperin’ over ye like Laird Glendenning.”

Anna frowned back at him, puzzled by his words. As far as she was aware, Gordon Shaw had shown no indication that he favored her, or that he saw her as anything other than a fertile prize to be attained. She had assumed that he’d danced with her for the same reason that Laird Glendenning would have, if she’d asked him instead.

“I daenae like bein’ told what to do.” The memory of Gordon’s whisper tickled her ear once more, bringing with it a seed of doubt.

But if he dinnae do it to win me favor, then why did he? She scrunched her face to try and force an answer to come, but it evaded her.

“Maybe, ye can save yerself the misery of the auction and just marry him,” Jackson continued, perhaps taking her silence for consideration of his words. “The Devil is one of the most powerful Lairds in the Highlands. He holds lands to the east of us, like Faither wanted, and he has the sort of army under his control that anyone would kill or give most of their fortune for. Our clan would become untouchable if we were tied to him by marriage. Faither couldnae argue with that.”

Anna gulped, blurring her vision as she attempted to imagine what a future with Gordon would look like. She couldn’t imagine him being a tender or considerate husband, she couldn’t imagine him doing little things to please her, she couldn’t imagine him falling in love with her, and her with him, like her mother and father had eventually done.

“But… what about all those stories?” she murmured, remembering how her entire being had responded to the intense exploration of his gaze, how keenly she had felt like he’d put her in a trance.

Absently, she touched her neck, wondering what it would feel like to be bitten, to have the blood sucked from her virgin veins. According to the castle gossips, that was how he did it, feeding from those helpless damsels where the pulse of life ticked in one’s throat.

To her astonishment, her skin began to tingle again, warming to a simmering heat as she imagined his lips on her neck, sipping from her as he’d sipped from his cup of spiced wine.

“Honestly, I’ve seen enough Lairds and lads to be a good judge,” Jackson said, oblivious to his sister’s flustered blushing. “He dinnae look as bloodthirsty as they say, and I’d wager he saves his violence for the battlefield—it’s common enough that the fiercest, most terrifyin’ warriors are also the calmest and quietest when they’re nae fightin’. Besides, ye shouldnae listen to the stories and gossip of bored folks who’ll say anythin’ to get a gasp and a thrill from those who are listenin’.”

Anna resisted the urge to hide her entire, flushed face beneath her blankets. “So, ye daenae think he’d eat me alive?”

“Nae in the literal sense,” Jackson replied, grinning. “But, now that ye mention it, he did look a little hungry… which isnae necessarily a bad thing. Nae a bad thing at all, some might say, between a husband and wife.”

He flashed his sister a wink, but she just stared back at him, completely at a loss. Perhaps it was the visions swirling in her head, conjured by those unnatural tales, but she couldn’t envision Jackson’s words as anything but literal. She certainly couldn’t think of any other reason why Gordon would be hungry. Indeed, if she remembered rightly, he’d eaten his entire bowl of broth at supper and half a loaf of bread.

She said as much to her brother, who burst out laughing.

“I’ll leave it up to ye to figure out what I mean,” he said, getting up and making his way to the door. “Get some rest, Sister. And consider what I’ve said—ye could save yerself a good deal of trouble if ye just choose him. But if ye decide that ye want to chase off all the Lairds instead, ye can count on me for that, too.”

Anna still had a thousand questions, but Jackson was gone before she could ask a single one, closing the door behind him. Maybe, he knew that they’d get no sleep at all if he let her start her inquisition, and with so many Lairds arriving tomorrow, she would need all the rest she could get to begin her plan afresh.

Just choose him… Could I really do that? She lay down in her bed and stared up at the canopy of her bed, willing inspiration or guidance to come from the gentle waft of the draped fabric. Sleep, at the very least.

But as time ticked on and her eyes remained wide open, her mind as far from settled as it was possible to be, she sat bolt upright, threw her blankets off, and leaned over to retrieve her leatherbound portfolio from her bedside table.

Skipping past the pages she had already used for her sketches, she took a stick of charcoal, hidden in the spine of the portfolio, and began to draw her worries and her thoughts out onto a fresh sheet, as pristine as newly fallen snow.

As she drew, her mind quietened, her deftly dancing charcoal absorbing all of the energy she would have used toward fretting. She wasn’t seeing what was appearing on the page, her poised fingers moving where they wanted, creating something from the soul rather than the mind, lacking any set intent or any purpose other than to get her feelings out of her head and onto the paper. Like stowing something away for safekeeping or purging a malady before it could worsen.

She wasn’t aware of how long had passed, the time filled by the soft scratch of the charcoal, nor did she know when she might finish her piece. It wasn’t something that could be constrained by hours and minutes and seconds, though she always knew when a sketch was finished: an instinct within her told her so, bringing her out of her peaceful trance as suddenly as it had submerged her inside it.

With a final flourish of the charcoal, she knew innately that it was done.

I might sleep, after all, she mused, sighing out a more contented breath. Nothing soothed her as much as her mindless sketching. Indeed, as she put the charcoal away, she barely had a worrisome thought in her head at all, each one sketched into the ether.

But as she took up her candle and held it above the page, eager to see what she had drawn, her blood ran cold. Her hopes of sleeping had just dwindled down to nothing. Her charcoal, her trance, had done something… terrible, pouring horror onto the page.

Stifling a frightened gasp, shocked that she had the ability to create something so awful, she tore the cursed paper from the portfolio, folding it up as small as it would go, and promptly shoved it under her pillow… where it would undoubtedly give her nightmares.