Chapter Ten
The following morning dawned cold and sharp. Frost covered the world in a dusting, as if a great hand had sprinkled sugar over the landscape.
And what a beautiful landscape it was. The view from Mia’s window took in the mountain in all its magnificence, its snow-capped peak glistening in the sunlight, set against a clear blue sky with a faint pink haze near the horizon.
After donning her gown—which, after a fortnight’s traveling, had collected a layer of dirt at the hem that no amount of brushing could remove and a soup stain just below the neckline—Mia settled on the window seat, taking in the view.
What must it be like to call this land home, to spend each day savoring the sweet, fresh air, unencumbered by the demands of London life?
But, in all likelihood, the lot of a woman here was the same as in London. And like it or not…
Mia permitted herself a wry smile at the memory of the words spoken last night:
Like it or not, this woman is yer wife.
Like it or not! He definitely does not like.
Like it or not, she was the property of another. She had vowed to obey him. And though she may have believed that vow, and her life, were only to last a few days, she’d still uttered it, before Reverend Staines, before witnesses—and before the Almighty.
Her life was no longer hers to dictate.
It was his.
She sighed, letting her breath mist on the windowpane. Then she drew the outline of a heart with her fingertip before wiping it away.
Last night, he’d come to her in her dreams. But rather than envelop her in his huge arms and speak soft words of love, he had condemned her, calling her a demon, marked by the devil himself, to be thrown into a fiery pit, and…
Mia startled at a knock on the door. She called out and a woman entered. Her hair, black with streaks of gray, was scraped back into a severe style. Her dress was neat and plain and she wore a chain about her waist, from which hung a set of keys.
Mia retreated from the window and the woman frowned.
“Are ye unwell, lass?” Then the woman sighed and shook her head. “Forgive me, Lady MacLennan. I quite forgot.”
She dipped into a curtsy, then approached Mia and took her hands.
“Och, ye’re freezing! Curse that Ailsa! I told her to light the fire for ye before dawn. What must ye think of us?”
Mia couldn’t think of anything to say in response.
The woman sighed. “Better if ye dinnae say what ye think of us after yesterday. But, as I always say to Mr. Bron, a new day brings with it a clear head, a forgiving heart, and the chance to begin again.”
“Mr. Bron?” Mia said.
“My husband. He’s the butler and served the old laird before Master Hamish. I’m Mrs. Bron.”
Mia raised her eyebrows.
“The housekeeper,” the woman continued. She cast her gaze over Mia’s gown. “Did yer maid not travel with ye?”
“I have no maid, Mrs. Bron.”
“Well, I daresay Elspeth could take care of ye if ye wish. Och, lass—ye should have asked her to tend to ye last night, at least to help ye change into yer nightgown.”
“I don’t need a maid to do that, Mrs. Bron.”
“Then why are ye wearing the same gown ye had on yesterday?”
Mia lowered her gaze, swallowing her shame. Then a hand took hers, the fingers gnarled with callouses.
“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Mrs. Bron said. “I know nothing of ladies’ gowns—one looks the same as any other. But with a gown that flimsy, ye’ll catch yer death. Once ye’ve seen Master Hamish, I’ll ask Elspeth to fit ye out with something better suited to our climate.”
Mia didn’t know which was worse—the fact that the housekeeper realized that she had only one gown in the world or the woman’s kindness in refraining from mentioning it outright.
“Thank you, that would be…” Mia hesitated. “Forgive me…once I’ve seen Master Hamish?”
“He’s sent for ye,” Mrs. Bron said. “Best be quick—he disnae like to be kept waiting.” She cast her gaze over Mia’s gown. “Do ye have a shawl? Ye should see him looking yer best.” She flinched as her gaze flicked over Mia’s face. “I meant yer gown looking its best. I hope I didnae give offense.”
“No offense was taken,” Mia said with as much dignity as she could summon. “Besides, I’ve heard worse from…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Now wasn’t the time to wallow in self-pity.
“I understand,” came the reply. “Rest assured, ye’ll hear none of that from me—or the rest of the household, if I have my way. Be sure to tell me if anyone fails to give ye the respect ye deserve.”
At that moment, a clock struck somewhere in the distance, nine times.
“Bless me, where does the time go!” The housekeeper scuttled across the floor toward a wooden trunk and opened it. She pulled out a plaid shawl, nodded, then shook it, sneezing at a puff of dust. “One of Her Ladyship’s old shawls,” she said. “It’ll keep ye warm.”
She placed the shawl about Mia’s shoulders then secured it with a pin.
“There!” she said. “Ye look very fine. Quick, now—ye dinnae want to keep him waiting.”
The housekeeper led Mia through a series of passageways, down a flight of steps, and past a handful of servants who stared open-mouthed at Mia.
They reached a thick, dark wooden door in the shape of an arch, with a huge ringed handle fashioned from iron in the shape of twisted rope, and Mrs. Bron knocked three times.
Mia’s stomach fluttered as a deep voice called out. The housekeeper opened the door, ushered her inside, then closed it, leaving Mia alone with her husband.
He sat behind a squat wooden desk, decorated with carvings of trees, stags, and other beasts.
His chair—more of a throne, given its size and shape—formed the shape of an arch at the back, and was covered in dark metal studs.
The chair would have engulfed Mia’s frame, but it looked as if it had been made for Hamish, as if they had both been carved from solid, hard wood.
But the figure in the chair was a living, breathing man.
The room itself radiated an aura of primal strength.
The candle sconces were fashioned from a metal so black that they seemed to absorb the light.
The walls were absent of tapestries, bearing instead an array of mounted deer heads, five in total, which stared malevolently at Mia as she stood, awaiting instruction.
The man behind the desk leaned forward, bringing his face into the light, and gestured to the chair in front of the desk.
Her legs threatening to give way, Mia approached the chair and sat, wincing at the scrape of wood against stone.
He remained silent, and Mia studied his face, looking for signs of the kindness that she’d clung to during the long journey to Scotland.
But there was none. His face seemed to have been chiseled from granite—a strong, square jaw and a straight nose bearing a slight indent in the middle, as if he’d been engaged in a fight…
Doubtless, his opponent had come off worse, judging by the size of the hands that rested on the top of the desk.
The hands of a warrior.
Clear eyes, the color of hard, unyielding emeralds, focused on Mia, and her stomach clenched in fear. He appeared the kind of warrior who won his battles before they even began, felling his opponents with a single stare.
Well, he wouldn’t fell her. She had stared Death in the face and survived. This man—the beast sitting before her—couldn’t harm her any more than she had been already.
And when a hunted animal has nothing to lose, she stands her ground with a clear conscience. She stares her predator in the face, challenging him to devour her.
Wasn’t that what Lady Portia always said?
Mia suppressed a smile at the thought of her friend, who’d faced Death many times, staring at the end of a pistol and reigning triumphant over the male sex—the weaker sex.
Portia had only faltered once, when she’d faced the man she loved.
But Mia was unlikely to love a man—much less likely to be loved by one.
Therefore, there was no opponent whom she couldn’t face with courage and determination.
She met his gaze. The man across the desk widened his eyes, and Mia caught a glimmer of confusion in them. Perhaps he expected women to cower before him—or dissolve into a puddle of female desire.
Then his expression darkened and she saw, once more, the anger. She clasped her hands together, and he lowered his gaze. Mia caught a flare of surprise in his eyes as his gaze settled on her left hand—specifically, the gold band adorning the third finger.
“Ye’ll probably be wondering why I summoned ye,” he said at last.
Summoned?
Mia folded her arms. “I thought you’d said everything you wanted to say to me yesterday.”
He frowned and broke the gaze. But the frisson of triumph at making him look away dissolved when he flicked his eyes back at her and she saw the granite-hard frost in his expression.
“I see little point in pandering to the compliments ye’d expect from a London fop, Miss Lucas.”
“I assure you, sir, the last thing I expect from you is a compliment.”
She hesitated, fearing his reaction to her next words. But what did she have to lose?
“And,” she continued, “I believe I should be addressed as Lady MacLennan.”
His lips thinned as her arrow hit home.
Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile, though his eyes remained cold.
“Not, perhaps, for much longer.”
She caught her breath.
Bastard.
Though she didn’t voice the insult, her cheeks warmed at the profanity.
Then he blinked and she caught a glimmer of regret in his eyes.
“Forgive me…” he began.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, leaning back. “I take it you’ve been considering how to release yourself of the burden you find yourself under. Given, I would hope, that even you wouldn’t stoop to murder, I presume you’re contemplating an annulment?”
He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. Then he let out a sigh and nodded.
“I’ve naught against ye personally, lass, but I have the fortunes of Glenblath to consider.”
“Fortunes I contributed to.”