Euphemia
The blood-curdling howl ripped me out of sleep.
I jerked upright, heart hammering, blinking into the darkness just as a second howl tore through the night—longer, deeper, drenched in a kind of pain I’d never heard from any living creature.
A thump came from the next pallet. I jumped—but Uncle Callum’s grumbling followed a moment later.
I heard Aunt Flora whispering with him before his heavy boots hit the floorboards. I wrapped my shawl tight around my shoulders, swung my legs over the pallet, and shoved my cold feet into my boots. Curiosity tugged harder than sense, so I followed him outside.
He stood in the garden near the low stone wall.
I gasped.
A thin dusting of white blanketed the earth.
“Get yersel’ back tae bed, lass. Yer gawn tae freeze oot here,” Uncle Callum snapped.
Instead, I tipped my head back and spun once, letting the flakes kiss my skin.
They melted instantly against the warmth of my cheeks.
“It’s snowing?” I whispered, lifting both hands as if I could catch the whole sky.
“Aye. Happens every year. Noo get inside, ye daftie.” His tone softened with a weary smile.
I was about to obey when something shifted in the corner of my eye.
A black shadow—low, swift, unnatural.
My breath caught, but Uncle’s nudge broke my focus and pushed me toward the croft.
“What was that awful sound?” I asked as he bolted the door behind us.
“Ah dinnae ken,” he muttered, scratching his head. “Probably a pack o’ stray dogs.”
I stared past him toward the tiny window, the darkness pressing against the glass.
We both knew dogs didn’t howl like that.
A shiver ran up my spine, forcing me to rub my arms.
“Ah telt ye—get tae bed before ye freeze. I’ll stoke a wee fire,” Uncle Callum said.
I nodded. The wee ones would need warmth come morning.
Something pulsed low in my belly as I turned away.
An ache—deep, insistent—pulling me toward the window.
I almost went to it.
But Uncle arched an eyebrow and tapped his foot, and pride wouldn’t let me seem foolish. I shook my head at him and slipped into the shared room, checking on the weans before crawling beneath my blanket.
What a strange night.
Yet even as I lay still, eyes closed, something inside me stirred.
Not pain.
Need.
A need I did not understand.
? ? ?
“Aw, naw,” my uncle muttered before charging up the garden path.
I hurried after him—then stopped dead.
Arthur was standing beside the shattered window, hands wringing, eyes wide. The wooden frame looked as though someone had ripped it apart with their bare hands. Glass glittered across the snow, the shards spread far and wide.
I stared into the parlour, dumbstruck.
“What happened here?” Uncle Callum asked, rubbing his beard before he stepped inside for a closer look.
I could see his mind working before he spoke.
“We’ll need tae patch it up. I’ll order fresh panes o’ glass. There’s enough timber fur me tae rebuild the frame.”
“Oh, jolly good,” Arthur breathed, relieved.
“Miss MacDonald,” the Laird’s voice sounded behind me.
I turned—and my mouth fell open.
He wore black breeches tucked into matching boots… and a white shirt.
Just a shirt.
No cravat.
No collar.
No waistcoat.
No coat.
The top buttons were undone.
In the snow.
My eyes dropped before I could stop myself.
The sinew. The defined muscle.
The dark hair covering his chest.
Where in God’s name had those muscles come from?
He looked indecent.
Half-dressed.
Half-wild.
Like he’d wrestled a bear at dawn and come out looking smug about it.
“A wee word, Miss MacDonald,” he said—and had the audacity to smile at me. A rakish, crooked thing that did not belong on a sane man’s face.
“Then you can go about your day.”
I tore my gaze away, cheeks burning, and glanced at my uncle to see if he’d noticed the state of the man behind me.
But Uncle Callum was far too busy butchering the remains of the wooden frame with brute force, as though hacking wood would spare him from dealing with whatever unholy calamity had caused this mess.
I followed him inside the house—into the foyer, down the hallway, past the ruined parlour and straight into the dining room.
“Sit,” he said, pulling the chair out for me. “Have some breakfast with me.”
“Oh, I cannot—”
“Nonsense. Sit and eat,” he cut in, leaving no room for protest.
The food did smell good.
And it wasn’t porridge.
I gingerly lowered myself into the chair—only to gasp when he suddenly leaned down beside me, hands gripping the back of the chair as he lifted me—me and the chair both—and pushed it in, trapping me between the table and his chest.
His cheek brushed mine.
His whiskers scraped my cold skin.
My breath caught.
Then his mouth was near my neck.
His warm breath drifted down over my skin in a slow, devastating sweep. Time stopped. I froze entirely—every muscle locked—as he inhaled.
Deep.
Long.
So close his exhale tickled my ear and hair.
“What happened tae the parlour window?” I croaked, eyes squeezing shut.
That scent—musk and earth and him—rolled off him in waves. Before I could draw another breath, he stepped away, composed, as though he hadn’t just devoured the air around me.
“Probably some vagabond trying to break in,” he said smoothly, settling into his seat.
I squinted at him.
“The glass lay outside an’ the broken wood pointed outward. Looked more like someone was tryin’ tae break oot, no’ in.”
He kept his eyes on the teapot as he poured two cups, not a single flicker of emotion anywhere about him.
“You know,” he said lightly, “I have always admired that about you, Miss MacDonald. You are ever so intelligent.”
Miss MacDonald?
Civil?
Complimentary?
Had he taken ill?
“Did you mayhap hit your head in a struggle last night?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He chuckled.
A rich, warm sound that slid straight down my spine and made me swallow hard.
He nudged a platter toward me, and my eyes widened.
Meat. Cheese. Eggs. Bread. A whole pie. A slab of butter the size of my fist. A pot of marmalade.
It was more food than a feast day.
“What was I saying?” I murmured, momentarily stunned by the abundance.
“Eat first,” he purred.
My head snapped up.
There—there it was again.
That amber glint in his eyes.
Not a hint of blue.
Not even a flicker.
Just black and gold.
Wrong.
Unnatural.
I blinked—and it vanished.
“Your eyes…”
He tilted his head, expression mild. “Yes?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, turning away as if the plates suddenly mattered more than my sanity.
I lifted them with careful hands, passed one to him, kept the other for myself.
My mind was playing tricks on me.
It had to be.
That’s what I told myself for the rest of the day.
But no matter how many times I repeated the lie…
I never managed to convince myself.