Page 24 of The Moorwitch

“Damn it all,” he grumbles, his brogue a layer thicker. “There is nae need for such dramatics. Please stay clothed, Miss Pryor. In fact ...” He rises and casts about a moment, then takes up a heavy coat from the back of his chair. He extends it to me with his good hand. “Here. Take it. The halls get drafty at night.”

Releasing a short breath, I let go of my emergency thread in order to take his coat. He waits until I sweep it around my shoulders like a cape. It smells of horse and the outdoors and some other, distinctly male scent that makes me a little lightheaded. The sleeves hang down to my knees.

Well, fine. He may have some shred of honor, but that does not absolve him of his other bad qualities.

The laird wraps a kerchief around his injured thumb. “Now, is there anything further I can do for you, or are there any other rooms into which you’d like to stick your nose?”

My shoulders stiffen beneath the heavy wool coat. Perhaps I ought not to have been snooping, but his offensive nature makes it very difficult to feel guilty. “I would like a book. Perhaps reading would help me sleep.”

His eyes narrow, as if he suspects I might try to set them on fire, but he waves his injured hand at the shelves. “Borrow what you like.” Then he turns away, looking out the window at the moors. Taking the chance, I slip the estate map down, then grab a volume from the shelf and hide the map inside.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I say. “It’s my favorite.”

Turning, Mr. North scoffs. “Only children put any stock in faerie tales.”

Bristling, I grip the book to my chest. What would he say, I wonder, if I told him an entire host of faeries is camped out just beyond the ridge he’s gazing toward? Instead, I reply pertly, “Only fools fail to comprehend that in faerie tales often lie the greatest truths of all.”

He grunts. “And what truths might these be?”

“Truths of love,” I say softly, considering the book in my hands. “Of desperation. And of folly.”

“Ach. Well, if that’s the case, I have all I need of such truths already.”

I lift my head, struck by the melancholy in his voice, as if for a moment his gruffness has cracked to reveal something deep and old and terribly sad in him. He is gazing out the dark window, eyes intent on a distant ridgeline as if searching for something or someone, as if he’s already forgotten I am here. If one of my students came into the classroom with such an expression on their face, I would pull them aside and gently ask what was wrong.

But he is not one of my students. I remind myself I am angry at him, and whatever problems he has, they are none of my concern.

“Well, thank you for the book,” I say simply.

He does not turn from the window but flicks one hand in dismissal. “You are welcome to it, Miss Pryor. Do keep your threads in their kit. And please, try to refrain from snooping through my house again.”

I cannot escape his stifling study quickly enough; the books in it which had whispered to me now seem to sulk, like children forbidden from playing.

And their master, as far as I am concerned, is an arrogant, prejudiced arse. Never mind his dimpled smirk, or the graceful cleverness of his fingers as he’d carved the wolf.

I shall be glad when dawn comes, and I can leave this moldering manor and never be forced to endure another moment of its laird’s insufferable company.

Chapter Eight

At dawn, I’m startled awake by the blast of bagpipes.

The windowpanes seem nearly to rattle at the screeching sound. I dress quickly, every blasting note like a splash of shocking icy water to my nerves. The notes are so violently played that I cannot even tell what song they’re supposed to be.

Baffled, I stumble out of my room and down to the kitchen, where Mrs. MacDougal is cooking bacon and Sylvie is sitting by the fire, her legs kicking as she eats an apple. The girl brightens when I enter. The sound is louder down here than it was upstairs. I resist the urge to clap my hands over my ears, as if it would do any good.

“What on earth is that noise?” I ask.

“Mr. North has many hobbies,” Mrs. MacDougal says, her voice strained. “Some more regrettable than others.”

“Connie only plays his pipes when he’s really happy or in a black temper,” explains Sylvie.

After my conversation with Mr. North last night, I can easily believe which is the case this morning. Before I can stop myself, I say, “He’s not very good, is he?”

Mrs. MacDougal sighs. “He makes up for it withzeal. Best to just let him get it over with.”

She puts down breakfast, and Sylvie digs in. Grand the house may be, but it seems no one stands upon much ceremony here. I sitand wince at the racket Mr. North is making and wonder why the housekeeper keeps giving me dark looks out of the corners of her eyes.

Then she says, “So you’re off to Blackswire, then, Miss Pryor? Or should I say, Sister Rose?” Her eyes flick to the trefoil knot embroidered on my collar.