Page 23 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)

23

“ S ee, I told ye,” Alison said with a smile, nudging Katie in the arm. “All ye needed was a long bath to relax, and now ye could be a Lady of anywhere ye pleased. Indeed, ye must tell me which dressmaker made ye that gown… for after I’ve had me bairn, of course. I struggle to fit in anythin’ properly at the moment.”

She chuckled, resting a tender hand on the swell of her stomach, while Katie flushed with happiness at the compliment.

“Actually, it’s one of mine,” she said shyly.

It was one of her favorites, and probably the only gown she possessed that could be considered elegant—a dress of the finest, delicately woven wool that Mrs. Shanley had given to her. The fabric, anyway.

Katie had done the rest, crafting a tight bodice and ‘sliced’ sleeves that allowed white puffs of her shift to show through, with gathered skirts that accentuated her hips. She’d had to borrow the silk petticoats from Isla’s collection, displayed between the sort of cloaked draping of the skirt.

“Well, I ken that, but where did ye get it from?” Alison asked, chuckling. “Who made it for ye?”

Katie pressed a finger to her chest, laughing at the mistake. “ I did. I made it. That’s what I meant by it’s one of mine.”

“ Ye made it?” Alison gasped. “Nay… ye’re jestin’ with me. Are ye jestin’ with me? Did ye truly make somethin’ so remarkable?”

Katie nodded. “I promise, I did. I could make ye somethin’ if ye’d like?” She smiled. “For after the wee one is born.”

“Nay, I couldnae ask ye to do that,” Alison replied with the utmost sincerity. “If we’re to become friends, I wouldnae dare to request a gown from ye. Goodness, it must be such a huge amount of work! I cannae even imagine the effort that goes into such a thing, though I suppose that’s me failin’. I’ve never considered it before.”

Katie shrugged. “I like the work, so it doesnae feel difficult or tedious. So, if ye do change yer mind, let me ken.”

She didn’t mention the ‘friend’ part. Like her little sister, she had never been particularly popular among the girls in the village, always doing something on the periphery instead of being invited into the circle. In truth, her only real friend was Mrs. Shanley; she’d never had one of her age before, but she didn’t want to get ahead of herself.

Moreover, having Alison to talk to meant that Katie didn’t have to talk to Hector at all. She didn’t even have to look at him, though it hadn’t stopped her from stealing a peek or two, to see if he had even noticed she was at his feasting table.

Not once had she caught him staring back at her, and the silly disappointment was a sharp thing lodged between her ribs, making it occasionally difficult to breathe.

He really doesnae care. He really is the man who spoke so coldly to me this mornin’. It wasnae a mistake or a bout of fleetin’ grumpiness.

At that moment, he was speaking with Duncan about the injury to his thigh.

“Sounds unpleasant,” Duncan said. “I neednae tell ye, but ye cannae be too careful with dirty blades. Nay brigand I’ve ever met has had a clean one.”

Hector shrugged and took a sip of his spiced wine. “The healer saw to it well enough. Nothin’ a tonic willnae remedy.”

Katie waited for him to mention her part in it, how fervently she had pressed her handkerchief, her hand, his sleeve, to that wound. How desperate she had been to get him to safety as if the Cù-sìth had been on its second bark for Hector’s life. How he’d have ridden on if she hadn’t insisted on them stopping at the next village.

“What’s another scar, eh?” Duncan joked.

Hector nodded. “Aye, it’s nothin’ to us.”

She stared at him in silent dismay. He wasn’t going to mention her at all. As far as she’d heard of the story he’d told, she wasn’t in it, as if she hadn’t been there.

Seizing her glass of wine, she held it to her lips and glanced up and down the feasting table, seeking distraction. The guards that Hector had invited to dine were chatting amiably among themselves, not yet merry enough to make fools of themselves. She’d seen plenty of the goings-on at the village tavern to know how celebratory nights ended.

Seated a few chairs down, Lyall was playing a game with one of Hector’s soldiers, the rules made clear as her gaze flitted to Flynn. The hopeful man-at-arms was making flirtatious conversation with a maid, and Lyall and his new friend appeared to be making fun of him, copying his gestures and mimicking his teasing words.

Katie thought about scolding her brother for it, but then she thought better of it, seeking out her other sibling.

At the far end of the Great Hall, at a little table of their own, were Bonnie and Rosie. Pipkin lay at Bonnie’s feet, waiting patiently for any dropped delicacies.

Sipping her wine, Katie noticed Isla wandering toward the two little girls. The children beamed up at the old woman as she paused by their table, leaning down to say something. It must have been interesting, for it wasn’t long before the girls were laughing wildly and nodding eagerly, so lively in their excitement that Pipkin unleashed a volley of cheerful barks to join in.

“They’re sweet lassies, are they nae?” Alison said, drawing Katie’s attention.

“Aye, the sweetest.” Katie smiled at her new friend. “Ye must feel like ye’re her maither, after so many years of havin’ her in yer care.”

Alison nodded, her affection evident on every inch of her face. “I am her maither, the one who’s raised her at least. I adore her like she is me own.”

“Do ye worry it might change when ye give birth to this one?” Katie asked, immediately regretting the question in case it was considered rude.

But Alison just chuckled and shook her head. “Me love for Rosie isnae capable of changin’. I’ve had me worries—of course, I have—but I ken that I’ll continue to love her as if she were me own for the rest of me days.” She paused, tilting her head. “Do ye think ye’ll ever have bairns of yer own?”

“Ye mean, more than the three I already have?” Katie grinned, taking a bolder gulp of her wine.

She hoped that Alison would blame that on the redness flooding her face instead of the true cause—that she hadn’t had time to consider her own wants in any capacity. Not until last night, when she had finally allowed that silenced part of herself to break free.

Just then, she felt a tap on her shoulder and found Isla standing behind her.

“Lass, I wondered if I might borrow ye for a moment,” the old woman said in a whisper.

Katie stood up abruptly. “Of course, M’Lady.”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Isla added, leading her away from the table. “There’s somethin’ urgent that I need sewin’, and it cannae wait if I dinnae want to make a holy show of meself, so I was wonderin’ if ye could meet me in me chambers in a few minutes to help me?”

Worried for the older woman, Katie nodded. “Certainly, M’Lady. Do ye want me to wait here while ye head up? Or do ye need me to go ahead of ye? Behind ye, even?”

There were only a few urgent repairs she could think of, with the back of Isla’s dress being the most obvious. But, in their current face-to-face positions, Katie couldn’t see for herself.

“Ye head up first,” Isla urged. “Get everythin’ ready for me arrival. I willnae be long. I just have to speak to one of the maids first.”

Glad to be leaving the Great Hall, so she wouldn’t be tempted—and instantly disappointed—by the pull of Hector’s presence, Katie walked out calmly, then broke into a sprint as she reached the hallway.

If there was one thing she could do without doubting herself, it was mending a piece of clothing that needed her skill, and she didn’t plan to let Isla down.

“If the treaty goes well, would it nae be a fine thing to host a clan gathering?” Duncan asked, between tearing strips of meat off a duck leg. “Yer castle is one of the nicest, and ye’ve lands aplenty for games and the like.”

Hector barked out a laugh. “Dinnae get ahead of yerself. Ye shouldnae forget what happened the last time the six clans of Braeriach had a gathering.”

“Aye, but that was… what, a hundred years ago? Two hundred?”

“Nearer to a hundred and fifty, but these lands, these clans—we have long memories,” Hector replied drily. “One spilled drink onto the wrong lad or lass and it’ll be bloodshed, as far as the eye can see.”

Duncan shrugged, smiling affably. “So, we dinnae let anyone drink,” he snorted. “Nay, I can see how that would be worse.”

Staring at the ruby tint of his spiced wine as it caught the candlelight, Hector tried to imagine what this part of Scotland would look like if no one was fighting anyone—trade routes, shared wealth and resources, clansfolk free to go wherever they pleased without fear of interrogation, no one fretting that their village would be razed to the ground in a skirmish.

It seemed impossible. A fairytale.

“Excuse me?” a bold voice piped up.

Hector twisted around in his chair, finding an endearing trio behind him: Bonnie, Rosie, and Pipkin. All three were fidgety, restless, causing him to frown.

“What is it?” he asked a tad too brusquely.

He didn’t know why, when all he wanted to do was speak softly to Rosie, who so resembled her mother. But every time he looked at her, he was seized by a wave of guilt that he had left her behind, declaring that she wasn’t his blood. Guilt that she’d had to grow up without her real mother because he hadn’t acted fast enough.

“It’s Her Ladyship,” Bonnie replied in a rush. “She went to fetch somethin’ for us, but she’s been gone for ages.”

Hector frowned. “She likely got distracted.”

“Nay, M’Laird, we heard somethin’,” Bonnie insisted. “We were about to go and find her ourselves, but… we saw someone creepin’ up the stairs. Then, we heard a huge crash! All the way down the stairs, we heard it. I think it came from Her Ladyship’s room.”

Hector was out of his chair in an instant, his hand on his sword.

“Do ye want assistance?” Duncan asked, though he had manners enough not to bring his broadsword to his host’s dining table. At his wife’s insistence, undoubtedly.

Noting the man’s glassy stare, dazed by the quantity of wine he’d consumed, Hector figured the other Laird was as good as useless.

“Nay, I’ll manage,” he replied before taking off, though his thigh protested, smarting each time he planted his foot on the floor.

With clenched teeth, he sprinted through the drafty hallway, down a short passage, and up the winding staircase to the upper floor, wondering how loud the crash could have been to make it through so much solid stone. Surely, he’d have heard it from the Great Hall? Then again, it had been rather noisy in there, with countless voices fighting to rise above the others.

Barreling through the doorway at the top of the stairs and up the adjoining hallway, he skidded to a halt outside his grandmother’s chambers.

Heart pounding, thigh burning, he pressed his ear to the wood. Immediately, he was greeted by the sound of drawers opening and closing at a hurried pace, the scuff of feet on stone, the sharp, hissed curse of someone stubbing their toe or catching themselves on something.

Someone’s in there… A thief.

Fearing they’d done the worst to his grandmother, he burst into the room, drawing out his broadsword… and skidded to a halt.

His grandmother wasn’t in the room.

There was just one person, clumsily wielding an armful of sewing supplies, her finger in her mouth.

Her eyes went wide as she saw him, sword partially drawn.

“M’Laird?” Katie gasped, fumbling to avoid dropping her supplies. “What are ye doin’ here?”

At that moment, the door he’d left open when he’d darted inside slammed shut behind him, followed by the hasty jangle of a key slotting into the lock. He lunged for the handle, just as he heard the click of the key turning.

But that wasn’t all he heard as he tried turning the iron ring. Out in the hallway came the unmistakable sound of children stifling their giggles and the faint tip-tap of a dog’s claws against the flagstones.

“I’ll kill her. Let me out—I’ll kill her!” Hector growled, pounding his fist against the door as another sound shivered up his spine—the soft, frightened gasp of someone who’d misunderstood.