Chapter Eight
Mia stepped through the castle doors into the hallway. No—a cavern.
The walls, made from huge gray slabs mottled with texture, stretched toward a high beamed ceiling, from which hung a chandelier fashioned from jagged, pointed shapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a Medieval torture chamber.
Flagstones lined the floor, in differing tones ranging from charcoal to marble white.
Though uneven, the stones looked as if they had been polished and worn with use, as if thousands of feet had walked upon them over hundreds of years.
Mia’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the floor. How many brides had been carried across it by a loving bridegroom? Perhaps that was what Mia’s husband had hoped to do with the beautiful Aurora Young.
What might Aurora have thought of this place?
A pampered lady such as her would have expected light, comfort, and warmth.
The air in the hallway seemed to shimmer with the cold and the dark.
A breeze whispered over Mia’s skin and the flames flickered from the candles on sconces, casting dancing shadows across the floor.
The place was a haven for ghosts, with dark corners and niches sunk into the walls where the shadows obscured what lay within.
Mia approached one wall where a huge tapestry rippled in the breeze.
Unlike the delicately embroidered fire screens that graced the drawing rooms of London, this tapestry was primal, earthy.
Instead of soft pastel shades, it had been woven in earthy shades of green, brown, and gray, with the occasional splash of dark red.
She drew near and traced the outline of a shape with her finger, then recoiled.
The shape was a stag, its legs thrust out at unnatural angles, as if the beast were in the final throes of death.
Its mouth was open, teeth bared, and a single white-rimmed eye stared directly at her.
A spear protruded from the animal’s flank, which was a chestnut brown save for the smears of red where the arrowhead had pierced the flesh.
The scene was set against a backdrop of a huge mountain—the same mountain, perhaps, that towered over this very building.
Yes—it was. As Mia let her gaze wander about the scene, she caught sight of the image of a dark-gray building among a forest, its turrets peeking over the tree line—the turrets she’d noticed on her arrival.
How long ago that seemed, though it could not have been more than an hour! Then, she had viewed those turrets with a sense of hope that, though her husband might be surprised to see her, he would, ultimately, be thankful that she lived.
But this was no place for her, nor a debutante such as Aurora. It was harsh, primal, and savage, where men ruled not through wealth or rank, but through pure, unbridled brutality.
Mia glanced back at the image of the stag. Did the animal accept death as she herself once had, or did it kick and scream against the cruelty of the world?
She lifted her gaze and froze. Mounted on the wall was the head of a stag, its fur identical in color to the animal in the tapestry.
Two huge antlers protruded from the stag’s head, branching out to form sharp, vicious points.
Its eyes stared at her with a baleful malevolence, and though Mia retreated, the animal’s gaze followed her.
The eyes blinked and her stomach fluttered in fear.
Then she chided herself. It was a reflection of the flickering candle flames, nothing more, a product of the ever-present breeze.
Mia drew her cloak around herself and shivered. Old buildings were known for harboring the souls of the dead—ghosts for whom no respite could be found.
And I’m just one more ghost.
Voices came from behind a set of doors carved with a pattern of leaves and vines. Creatures were carved among the leaves—birds, a catlike animal, and, in the center, the head of a stag.
Savages the folk here might be, but their craftsmanship surpassed anything Mia had seen, even from London’s finest furniture makers.
The doors led to a passageway that opened out into a hall even more cavernous than the one she’d left.
An enormous fireplace dominated the far wall like a huge, gaping mouth in which a fire blazed, as if a dragon resided in the castle.
In front of the fireplace was a long wooden table, laden with platters of food, and Mia’s stomach rumbled at the scent of roasted meats.
Similar tables ran along the perimeter, with rows of chairs either side.
Servants milled about, clearing the tables with a clatter of cutlery and the scrape of chairs.
A young boy dropped a plate that shattered into shards.
An older woman approached him, muttering, and clipped him around the ear.
Then he scuttled off and returned with a broom.
Mia retreated against the wall and held her breath, unwilling to disturb their toil while they chattered to each other.
“I dinnae care what Mrs. Bron says,” a young woman said. “It’s a right shame, that’s all I have to say.”
“Ha!” another woman said. “If that’s all ye have to say, Ailsa, then I’ll eat my arse. Ye’ve a right tongue on ye when ye get to gossiping. Come and help me with this pie—I cannae carry it on me own.”
“Ailsa’s right, though,” a manservant said as he approached them. “Here—put that down. It’s too heavy for a lass. Ye’ll drop it and earn yerself a leathering.”
“Aye, I’m right, Lachlan,” the first girl said. “She were a beautiful creature, that Miss Young. And her name! Aurora—I’ve never heard anything so pretty. She’d have given the master a dozen bonnie bairns.”
“And a sore head,” said the second woman. “A right evil tongue on her, she had. Did ye hear how she spoke to Elspeth? She’d have henpecked Master Hamish into next year.”
“That’s ladies for ye. They’re all like that.”
“And what would ye know?”
“A damned sight more than ye!”
“Stop yer cursing, Ailsa! Do ye want a hiding?”
“I’m only saying what ye’re all thinking,” Ailsa said. “It’s a cursed shame for the master. Did ye see her?”
Mia shrank back, her stomach fluttering. There was no need to ask who the girl meant by her.
“Dinnae be unkind, Ailsa,” the young man said. “Not all lasses are as pretty as ye.”
“Her face!” Ailsa continued. “She was right beside me in the chapel when she took her veil off. I’ve never seen anything the like. Do ye think she’ll give us the plague? Or put a curse on us? They say they’re the marks of the devil. I think we should…”
As the girl rattled on, Mia lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Then another woman approached the little group of servants.
Though she was tall, her shoulders were hunched.
She clung to her cane, which tap-tapped across the stone floor.
Her iron-gray hair was piled atop her head and dotted with tiny purple flowers, and she was dressed in a dark-purple gown trimmed with a plaid sash.
“Ailsa MacLennan,” she said, her tone sharp, “how many times have I told ye not to…”
The woman’s voice trailed off and her body stiffened as she looked up. Mia backed against the wall, but it made no difference. Clear green eyes widened as they focused on her, the same color and shape as the eyes that had regarded her with such contempt in the chapel.
The servants turned in unison, and a ripple of whispers threaded through the hall. The clatter of crockery ceased, and Mia’s cheeks flamed with humiliation as the company stared at her. Then, gritting her teeth, she took a step forward so that they might see her cursed face in all its devilry.
The woman in the purple gown resumed her attention on the servants.
“As I’ve told ye enough times, Ailsa,” she said, “ye’re not to gossip about yer betters. If ye’ve no kind word to say, then remain silent. Do ye understand?”
Aisla’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. “Aye, Lady MacLennan,” she mumbled. “Sorry, Lady MacLennan.”
“It’s not me ye should apologize to.”
Aisla glanced at Mia, then lowered her gaze to the floor. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Use the correct address, Ailsa,” the older woman said.
“I-I dinnae ken—”
The older woman let out a sharp sigh. “This woman is my son’s wife, as well ye know, given that ye were in the chapel earlier.”
“S-sorry, L-Lady MacLennan,” the girl said, flicking her gaze up, then stepping back as if she feared Mia might deliver a curse on her—or infect her with the pox.
“That’ll do, I suppose,” the older woman said. Then she turned and addressed the company. “And that goes for the rest of ye. It matters not what ye believe or wish. This young woman here”—she gestured to Mia—“is my son’s wife, the Lady of Glenblath. Ye shall show her the respect that title merits.”
A ripple of murmuring filled the room.
“Now, carry on with yer work. I want this room cleared before nightfall.”
The woman extended her hand to Mia and spoke more softly. “Will ye come with me?”
Mia shook her head. “I-I don’t think I ought to, Your Ladyship. Hamish…” She hesitated, her voice wavering as she recalled the disgust in his eyes. “I mean…y-your son doesn’t want me to—”
“Och, I’ll set him right, lass. If ye’re lawfully married, then this is yer home, is it not?
Ye look in a right state, and well ye might, after such a journey and such a greeting.
I’d say ye’re in need of some good, strong tea, am I right?
And dinnae call me ‘Yer Ladyship.’ Eilidh will do, seeing as ye’re family. Or Ma, if ye prefer.”
The woman spoke the first kind words Mia had heard since she’d left Surrey twelve days ago, and, unlike every soul she’d encountered on her journey, Lady MacLennan didn’t look at Mia with disgust or fear.
Such kindness, unlike the taunts she’d learned to withstand, had the power to breach Mia’s defenses.
Unwilling to trust herself to speak, she nodded.