Chapter 2
It had taken her a few tries and some of the sparse coins she’d brought to head in the right direction for Calder Castle.
MacBain Castle had been her first assumption, given that he was the Laird, but she had been incorrect and had been lucky enough to be sent in the correct direction when she’d stopped to ask if she was on the right path.
Though not one person she asked knew why she would have any interest in heading that way, and in fact seemed somewhat perturbed by the thought of giving her any directions at all.
She had managed to convince them through sheer tenacity. They’d decided if she was so determined to act as a woman grown and see herself to the front step of a man known among the clan as a fearless killer, she could see to her own consequences.
Calder Castle sat further from the center of the throng of villages that made up their clan lands. Whereas MacBain Castle was just past the second village beyond her own, Calder Castle took the remainder of the morning and a portion of the afternoon to reach once she’d been set to the correct path.
It was located through a small forest, the path mercifully cleared and trodden well enough to keep her from wandering and getting herself turned around, backing up to a large body of water that made her think that might be part of why this area was so lush comparatively.
It could explain why the angelica by which Matthew swore seemed to appreciate growing here and refused to place its roots closer to her village and the well upon which it relied.
Finally.
She was standing in front of a set of gates that she had secretly expected to be half-rusted and in disrepair. Instead, when she gently pushed, they swung open easily and almost silently. Not locked.
“Ah, of course,” Hannah muttered to herself as she stepped slowly through the gates. “Who would dare come for this laird—attack or visit?”
She glanced around as she moved carefully beyond the gates, not noticing any signs of life beyond the well-tended garden peeking around the side of the stonework that tucked itself up against the stone wall surrounding the castle and a smattering of the exact plant she was here for, with its strange bulbous blooms.
She kept moving, one hand clutching her horse’s reins, the other hugging the satchel at her hip. Feeling like she was stepping into forbidden territory but still having good manners about it, she reflexively closed the gate behind her.
Seeing nowhere reasonable, and knowing her pony would come if called, she simply dropped his reins and patted his neck. The garden had a fence, and the grass felt like it was available if nobody was going to be keeping guard over it.
Drawing another breath to steady herself, Hannah kept walking, bulling through the courtyard and glancing around in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to reassure her that she was in the right place.
Or even a lived-in place. The only reason she kept going was the fact that everything was in such a state of fine repair.
At the front door, she knocked. Once, twice, thrice. She called out.
Finally, unable to resist the urge to explore and a guilty touch of impatience, she tried the handle.
The door opened without hesitation, and she couldn’t hold back another scoff. “Oh.”
She stepped through the door, deciding that perhaps the lack of staff was the problem and the Laird simply couldn’t hear her.
Though she had never imagined a laird simply not knowing what was happening in his own castle.
Then again, he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the villages nearby either.
Her somewhat unkind thinking stumbled when she made her way inside and found a clean home.
Warm. Tidily appointed and obviously strongly considered.
A large targe was displayed on the wall across from the entrance, the clan’s crest boldly painted across the leather that covered what she knew would be wood.
Above the shield rested a pair of broadswords that looked like they could be snatched from the wall at any moment, crossed over one another. Beneath the shield hung a horn that looked like it had seen use.
Hannah’s steps slowed as she moved through an entryway that spoke to power and practicality.
“Is anyone there?” she called, pausing for a response, and then trying again.
Part of her felt guilty, as though she had invaded a space she had no business entering, and part of her was frustrated that it was so hard to find anyone to answer her.
She kept moving, finding a room just beyond the entrance with a respectable amount of books.
Her steps stuttered on flagstone, and she couldn’t help the soft gasp of appreciation that slipped past her lips as she glanced up at shelves that would require even her reasonable height significant help to reach.
She could see that help was available in the form of a sturdy wooden ladder affixed to a pole that ran along the top of the shelves.
After a warring with herself during a moment’s pause, she couldn’t help the impulse and stepped into the room, carefully picking up a nearby book.
Her father had taught her to read. It made no sense to leave his distillery to an illiterate girl, and he knew that after Violet, their mother could not tolerate another pregnancy, so she was his choice. That meant she learned words, she learned numbers, and she was grateful for his foresight.
After skimming the title, she returned it to its location and picked up another book with an ornate leather binding.
She was distracted from the title when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the large table near a window that offered a much more generous view of the garden she’d seen hints of from the front of the castle.
She stepped around the small table she’d been perusing and made her way across the room to the larger one.
There was a massive parchment map pinned to the table.
It looked like it had been rolled and unrolled dozens or hundreds of times, the ink faded and the page worn.
Her gaze was drawn quickly to the most faded part of the map, where MacBain Castle announced itself with a sketch of a building that indeed looked like a rough sketch of a castle.
Her gaze slid from the most faded notation on the map to the newest in a different hand: Calder Castle. A more careful sketch of a castle that denoted where she stood now.
Switching the book to her other hand, she leaned closer, scanning the map and seeing a familiar word. When her father had taught her to read, he’d done so with a multitude of texts, including those from the church. Her Latin was rudimentary, but she recognized Septentrio immediately. North.
Using that as a reference point, she reached out and slid her finger across the map, recognizing the name of a river that ran near her village and spotting nearby clusters of buildings marked with village names until she found her own.
She was strangely gratified to see that they were remembered on the Laird’s large map of the land.
Suddenly, an amused chuckle sounded from behind her. Close enough that it raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she barely had time to chide herself for not noticing the presence sooner.
“Daenae let me interrupt yer visit.”
The book in her hands fell to the table with a thud, and she whipped around, finding the table holding the map suddenly an immovable force as she realized she was nearly chest-to-chest with a man who had to have a full head plus a little extra on her, and who was built broadly enough that her breath caught.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had to look up, then up again.
He was also possibly one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, ink-black hair bound at the nape of his neck, and intense blue eyes that glared directly into her bones.
If he hadn’t frightened her halfway out of her wits, she might have blushed. Instead, she found herself gawking as her heart thudded in her throat.
“Were ye lookin’ for something specific to steal?” he asked, not as unkindly as she might have expected, even as she felt her stomach drop and her legs go numb.
It took her a moment to find her command of language again.
“I’m nay thief.” She pressed her palm to the leather binding of the book behind her, as if reasserting its position as still located safely inside the room.
“Aye?” He smirked down at her. “Then why are ye here? Quite sure I didnae invite ye.”
“I came for ye. Ye are Laird MacBain, aye?” She had nothing more than gut instinct upon which to base her query, supposing as much from his easy confidence and overt amusement at finding a strange woman in what was presumably his home.
His eyebrows shot up, hair much darker than hers and stark against those blue eyes that reminded her of her sister’s. “And who’s askin’?”
She supposed he would have sounded less surprised and more suspicious had she been more than three-quarters his size, but she also noticed that he had placed himself between her and the exit, and his hands remained above his waist.
She swallowed hard. “Hannah Leon.” She spoke it as proudly as she could. “Two villages over. I daenae think ye ken what’s happening there, and I’ve arrived to—to make ye ken.”
“Is that so?” His eyebrows rose again, still looking amused at her expense, which was one of her least favorite things.
She already knew how infrequently men took women like her seriously, and when he smirked, it made her want to snarl at him. The only thing that stopped her was her little sister. She would let him find her harmless if he would help Violet.
“Aye.” She reached into her carefully kept satchel, withdrew the bottle, and held it out.
“This is a whiskey I hand-brewed at Leon Distillery. Ye may nae ken me, but ye ken the name. It’s yers for some of the angelica in yer garden.
Ye willnae miss it. We need it. Me family…
me village… the illness is getting worse every week. ”
“Are ye bribin’ me?”
He still looked amused, but she could see just a touch of a frown at the corners of his eyes. He shifted, folding brawny arms over a broad chest. He was beginning to realize she was serious, then.
Despite herself, she glanced down to where his forearms bulged against rolled-up sleeves, corded muscles standing out strongly.
She swallowed.
“Nay. I’m givin’ ye a gift. I would like to think it’d be enough for ye to help us.” She swallowed again and forced herself to keep her voice and her stance steady, inhaling through clenched teeth and holding the bottle up to him more intently.
They were still practically nose-to-chest, she was nearly shoving the bottle into his sternum as she stared up at him, still held in place by the table she’d backed into.
She tried very hard not to acknowledge how rapidly her heart was beating in her chest and how much heat the man before her seemed to be radiating.
“Tell me of yer village, lass.”
Hannah mumbled the name, gesturing toward the map as if inviting him to find the proof of it there, and desperately hoped he would simply take the bottle.
She wasn’t as weakened as her sister, but she had her limits, and she’d reached them trying to find this man and his castle after spending a part of the day riding in the wrong direction to the wrong castle.
“There’s an illness, the angelica may help ease the symptoms. Here. Please.” She pressed the bottle again.
He considered. Then, mercifully, he took the whiskey and withdrew from downright inappropriately close. He strode across what she now realized was a study, not a library, and sat at the desk as if he owned the place. Which he did.
As she stood and watched, still hugging the table at her back with her heart in her throat, he thumbed the cork from the bottle and drew a long swig.
They were both silent for a long moment.
“Five.”
“Pardon?”
“I want five of these…” He gestured to the bottle in his hand, and for a moment, she perked up. I can do that. “… one every week. Ye’ll bring them yerself.”
Relief died in her throat. Four more weeks. Four more rides to this castle. Four opportunities for him to reconsider, or for her to lose her nerve. “What—But—”
“Do ye need me help or nae?”
Hannah clenched her jaw hard and tried to remain calm. “Aye… I … we would appreciate yer help.”
She hated the way he was smirking. He looked so pleased, as though he was certain he had her at his mercy. He also wasn’t wrong.
“That’s the cost,” he said simply as he stood and approached her, still holding the bottle of her proudest whiskey in his hand so casually it made her want to snatch it back.
“Five weeks. Five bottles.” He leaned down and spoke directly next to her ear, and her breath hitched against her will.
“I wouldnae be late. Daenae make me hunt ye down.”