Chapter 3
It went without saying that Keith was not expecting a maid to enter his chambers in the middle of the night, especially while he was changing into his nightclothes. The element of surprise had awoken an involuntary surge through him, causing him to act without much thought. His hand pressed the knife firmly against her throat while the other covered her mouth to stifle her screams.
He held her firmly against him, her head nestled just beneath his chin.
She is tall for a lass .
His senses were flooded with a blend of confusion and something else he could not quite place. He took a deep breath, taking in her scent. It was a subtle hint of something sweet and floral.
She smells good.
Unable to help himself, he leaned in closer, his lips hovering near her ear. The words slipped past his tongue in a command, his voice low and husky. “Dinnae ye scream when I release ye, aye?”
She nodded.
His fingers reluctantly left her mouth, though the blade at her throat remained.
“Who are ye?” he demanded, his voice sharper than the blade. He struggled to make sense of why the maid had entered in such a way. She was not known to him.
“I would be more inclined to answer ye if ye werenae holdin’ a knife to me throat,” she snapped, her voice teeming with defiance.
He hesitated, caught in a web of curiosity and caution. Slowly, he lowered the knife, letting his grip loosen on the hilt. He gently took her by the shoulders, turning her around to face him.
The moment her face came into view, he was stunned.
“I got lost,” she said. A most obvious lie.
He cocked his head to the side, his eyes taking her in completely. The maid was beautiful, perhaps the most bonny lass he had ever seen. But it was her eyes that seemed to trap him. There was defiance and determination behind the blue-gray shade which bored into him with a piercing intensity that almost made him breathless. Her fear was skillfully shrouded behind her glare.
Dark as night hair had been braided and set to frame her face, an updo that most servant women wore. There was something about her, though, something that made him question who she truly was. Perhaps she was newly hired, but based on her appearance and the way she held herself, he was not sure that she was even a maid at all. She seemed fleetingly familiar.
Was she a spy? An assassin?
He frowned. Is she one of Laird Clyde’s daughters?
Her gaze, having briefly held his, drifted downward to his bare chest, tracing his torso, to where his breeches hung at his hips. Her sharp intake of air did not go unnoticed. Keith’s brow furrowed as he glanced down as well, seeing the crimson stain on his skin and clothes.
In a voice laced with tension, she asked, “Is that…”
Keith felt his face grow warm as her large eyes met his. He raised his brows, shaking his head. “’Tis nae blood if that is what worries ye,” he told her with a small chuckle, sensing her discomfort. His words seemed to ease her a bit but not much. “Now, again, who are ye?”
“If it isnae blood, then what is it?” Her eyes narrowed, doubting him.
“I dinnae believe ye are in a position to be askin’ questions,” he said.
She frowned, taking a step back. “I think ’tis a fair thing to question.”
She isnae wrong.
“Ye barge into me chambers and hound me with—”
“I will happily leave,” she said bluntly, eyeing the door behind him. She stepped to his side, hoping to get past.
Keith reached out, his arm blocking her way, as a smirk formed on his lips. “Ye will stay here until I allow ye to leave. And before ye can, ye will answer when I ask ye.”
The woman sighed, seemingly defeated. Whoever she was, she certainly was no servant. How she spoke to him, the way she held herself, it was all telling him that she was something more.
“Ye arenae a maid,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I dinnae ken who ye are, but I ken that ye arenae.”
“How can ye tell? I’ve been a maid me whole life!”
Keith shook his head. He reached out, taking her hand in both of his. His fingertips traced the soft, uncalloused skin as his eyes followed the pattern he made over the lines of her palm. “These are the hands of a lady.”
She let out a sharp breath as if his touch stung her.
He could see her mind was working on her lie, twisting and turning it so that she could trick him further. He dropped her hand. “If ye are plannin’ to tell me no truths, then I will have no choice but to hold ye here.”
Part of him meant it. He wanted to know who she was.
“Ye are covered in blood,” she stated. “What makes ye think I would wish to be here with ye?”
He shrugged as he turned his back to her, walking over to his wardrobe across the room. Keith faced her as he began to untie his breeches, pulling at the laced string as he looked back at her. The look of shock on her face and the flush of her cheeks was almost unbearable.
“What the hell do ye think ye are doing?” she hissed.
She recognized him almost immediately—the Beastly Laird. Keith O’Neil was not someone she had planned or hoped to run into. His dark, wavy hair fell in loose waves, reaching down to his broad shoulders, seemingly framing eyes that glistened like pools of ink. The flickering firelight turned his skin into smooth ivory, casting shadows that only emphasized the planes of hard muscle in his chest and stomach.
God, he might as well be in the nude.
His state of undress made her flush.
But the thing that made her certain of his name and title was the leather mask that covered the right side of his face. She could not help but wonder what was hidden beneath the supple material.
She also could not deny her curiosity about what was underneath…
Maisie shook her head, willing the thought away.
He broke the silence, his voice laced with an air of nonchalance. “If me attire offends ye, it only seems proper that I strip it from meself.”
“Not necessary,” Maisie snapped. Doubt nagged at her, clawing into her mind and refusing to release her. The dark crimson that was splattered on his breeches and torso had to be blood. It was unsettling, but she still managed to summon enough courage to ask again, “Is it blood? If it isnae blood, then what is it?”
His response was dull, almost bored. “Answer me question first.”
He is exasperating.
Maisie turned towards the door, her resolve hardening. “I have had quite enough of this,” she declared, determined to put some distance between them. “Keep yer clothin’ on until I leave, at least.”
Clutching the book hidden in her apron tightly, she reached for the door handle and began to open it when, suddenly, it slammed shut with a force that made her heart skip a beat. The Beastly Laird stood behind her, his hands on either side of her head, his palms bearing the weight of his body against the door. Maisie was trapped between his solid frame and the wood.
She turned fast to face him, anger and frustration swirling behind her eyes. Her glare met his unwavering gaze. Clenching her fists, she forced her most ladylike smile and cocked her head to the side. “Let me leave, now.”
His voice was measured and flat as he leaned in closer, his eyes boring into hers as a devious smile spread across his face. “Oh, aye. I will let ye leave,” he promised, “once ye give me what ye’re hidin’ in yer skirts.”
There is no way he kens.
Her stomach churned with unease, but she did not falter. Maisie leaned forward, standing on her toes to face him completely. “Ye dinnae frighten me, Keith O’Neil. And ye cannae intimidate me with blood on yer skin and yer quiet words.”
The tension between them faded as he rolled his eyes. “’Tis paint.”
“Paint?”
Keith stepped back. “Aye, paint.”
She still was not convinced, but what reason did he have to lie? Maisie frowned and then let out a long, uneven breath. Part of her was still not convinced, but she shrugged off her doubt.
Keith raised his brows. “So, again , what are ye doin’ in me bedchambers in the middle of the night? And what is it that ye are hiding?”
Hesitating and wrestling with the truth, she eyed him. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she decided she had no choice but to come clean. She reached into her apron and retrieved the small, leather-bound novel she had plucked from the library.
Maisie held it up for him to see as she looked away, annoyed that she had been caught.
He arched a brow, giving her an incredulous look. “A book? Truly?”
Maisie nodded and handed it to him. When he took it, their fingers brushed for the briefest of moments. A shiver ran through her, and she quickly pulled her hand back, clenching her fist at her side. “Truly.”
“I have never met a book thief.” He chuckled.
Embarrassed, she looked away. “I am not a thief.”
“Oh, forgive me. Is that yer copy of the Laird’s Mistress? ”
She swallowed. “Not quite…”
“And I can assume me own copy is where I left it?”
“I had every intention of returnin’ it.”
He chuckled. “Why didnae ye just write to borrow it?”
She could not help but scoff at the question. “Ye dinnae have the most tender reputation, Laird MacDean . And to be fair, how well would ye receive such a strange request from a stranger?”
He nodded in reluctant agreement, his expression softening. “Aye.”
“I just…”
“Ye just what?”
Maisie grimaced, her bravado seemingly crumbling as she admitted, “If I am to be honest, I craved an adventure, something… something more . I didnae intend to be caught, especially not by ye.”
Her last adventure before being wed to some old man.
Keith frowned as his brow furrowed. After a moment, he held out the novel for her to take. She hesitated, confused but pleased to have it back once more.
The Beastly Laird looked down at her, his eyes narrowed as his thoughts seemed to ebb and flow. “Tell me, how did ye end up here?”
She looked back at the door. “One of yer guards noticed me.”
He nodded, not surprised. Anyone would likely notice her.
“Do I truly not look like a maid?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
Maisie had planned meticulously. She had even spent time observing her own maids to mimic their mannerisms. She had borrowed clothes and styled her hair in a similar fashion. All of those steps had been taken, yet this man seemed to see right through her disguise.
He shook his head. “I am afraid not. There is no hidin’ yer standing.”
“So, ye ken, then?”
“I ken ye are no maid.” He nodded slowly. “But not who ye are.”
Should I tell him?
“I am Maisie Lennox, the sister of Laird MacNicols.”
Keith eyed her, obviously questioning if she was being truthful or not. Something crossed his face, something that sparked and died out immediately.
He stepped back from her and offered a stiff bow. “Me Lady,” he stated. “Does yer braither ken that ye have been invading other clan lands, stealing books, and lockin’ yerself in strange men’s chambers?”
Her face grew hot. “He is away.”
“And ye dinnae wish for him to ken?”
She nodded. “I would appreciate yer discretion, aye.”
Keith looked down at her, and his eyes narrowed as an amused look crossed his face. The soft stubble that framed his jawline grew taught as he suppressed a smile. For some time, neither said anything. Instead, they stared at each other.
Maisie was growing more and more restless.
“Ye can keep the novel,” he said finally.
A rush of relief washed over her until his next words hung in the air.
“Ye may borrow any book ye desire from me libraries. However, there is a wee condition.”
Her heart sank as she waited with bated breath. What condition could he possibly have for this? Her stomach twisted in knots as her mind raced with all of the things that a man could want from a woman.
Maisie braced herself, clutching the book close to her chest, noticing how it almost touched his chest as well. This was, she realized then, the closest she had ever been to a man she did not know.
“And what is the condition?” she dared ask, looking him in the eye.
He offered her a crooked smile. “Ye must marry me.”