Chapter 5
“How dare he behave in such a way. How dare he turn his back on me like that. If I were a man, he would not have done it,” Heather ranted, as she marched through the sun-soaked grounds of Gallagher Castle.
Summer would soon give way to autumn, but the day was warm and the sky was blue, as if mocking Heather’s grief.
“If you were a man, you could duel him and be done with it,” replied her lady’s maid and confidante, Jemima Perkins. “You should’ve told me of your plan, M’Lady. I’m skinny as a rake. I could’ve slipped between the bars and beaten him six shades of black for you!”
Heather nodded in furious agreement. “Perhaps, I should duel him anyway. William taught me to use a pistol, and though I am not particularly good in the art, I know the heavens would guide my shot.” She glanced at her friend.
“I am sorry I did not inform you of my endeavor. I would have told you of it later, but I needed it to be done in secret.”
“Mr. Watson always has a way of finding you, though, doesn’t he?” Jemima smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
Mustering the ghost of a laugh, Heather nudged the younger woman. “I am no threat to your future romance, dear Jemima. He is entirely yours, once the two of you decide to confess to one another. He is protective of me, that is all.”
“M’Lady, you can’t say such things!” Jemima blushed furiously. “There’s naught between Mr. Watson and me. What would he want with a lady’s maid?”
Heather sighed. “Brandon is not like that, as you well know. He does not judge someone based upon their employment or their station or their income. Indeed, I rather wish I did have some sort of romantic attachment to him, for he would make an exemplary husband.” She flashed a wink at her friend.
“You will have to tell me, one day, if I am correct in that assumption.”
“I beg you, M’Lady, don’t speak so. If you raise my hopes, it’ll only hurt more when they’re dashed.
” Jemima looped her arm through Heather’s.
“What of this prisoner, anyway? You’ve told me so little of your encounter, though I can see you’re furious.
I heard some of the maids talking about him. Apparently, he’s incredibly handsome.”
Heather’s hackles rose. “Handsome he may be, but that does not change the monster that he is.”
She immediately regretted the curtness of her tone, as she watched Jemima’s eyes widen in panic.
It was not the maid’s fault. Gossip spread like wildfire through a rural castle, where there was little else for entertainment.
Moreover, Laird Dunn was exceptionally handsome.
The most handsome man that Heather had ever seen, which made it all the more upsetting that she could not cast his exquisite face and heroic figure from her mind.
The way he looked at me when he first saw me…
I do not think anyone has ever looked at me that way before, as if I were something truly remarkable.
She scolded herself for thinking such a thing, though the image of his twinkling eyes, half-smiling lips, exposed chest, and muscular calves would not be persuaded to go away.
“I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this, M’Lady, but do you think your father might be mistaken?
” Jemima peered up at Heather with a worried expression.
“I know I shouldn’t listen to hearsay, but some of the laundry maids overheard men from the guard talking about the prisoner.
One of them said something like, “He’s just the scapegoat.
” Of course, we shouldn’t pay it any heed… should we?”
Heather frowned toward a coppice of hawthorns in the near distance, where a pair of turtle doves nuzzled on a swaying bough.
The blossoms had long gone, but the leaves were still green.
Soon, every tree in the grounds of Gallagher Castle would lose its verdant summer plumage, and cold, unforgiving weather would make it impossible to take her pleasant walks.
“What else did they say?” she asked. It could not hurt to know what the castle residents were gossiping about.
Jemima cleared her throat, preparing herself for a torrent of information.
“Well, there was some mention that your father was overcome with grief, which is to be expected, and that he needs someone to punish in order to recover. Another said, ‘He’s lost his only heir and lost that heir fighting the Scots. Of course he’s going to want to see a Scot executed for it.
’ Then, there was a small discussion about your father blaming himself for not acting sooner, and knowing it was hopeless before that Scot even came to the camp. ”
“Is that true?” Heather came to an abrupt halt, feeling a strange tickle in the pit of her stomach. Akin to instinct, it swept up into her chest, bringing a current of something like guilt.
Why should I be the one to feel guilt? she asked herself internally, though she already knew the answer. The very fact that she was considering Jemima’s less-incriminating words and thinking constantly of Laird Dunn’s handsomeness made her guilty.
Jemima shrugged. “I don’t know, M’Lady. There might be no truth in it, or there might be some. I suppose you would’ve had to be there to know.” She paused. “Have you spoken to Mr. Watson about it? He was there.”
“He has been oddly shrewd since leaving the dungeons,” Heather replied, growing more curious.
Why had Brandon been so shrewd? In truth, now that she thought about it in greater detail, he had not behaved the way someone who had just lost a dear friend should have done while they were in the dungeons.
There had been no shouting, no demand for a duel, no release of rage.
Instead, Brandon had been strangely calm, peppered with moments of pensiveness.
Jemima urged them back into a walk. “Perhaps, you need to make him talk to you, then. I imagine he doesn’t want to upset you more, but there’s no reason anyone should be keeping secrets from you where your brother is concerned.”
“I will,” Heather replied decisively. “I will find him when our walk is done, and I will demand to know all that he knows. Although, make no mistake, I trust in my father’s judgment. He was there, too, after all.”
However, she was not as sure if she trusted in her father’s judgment while he was in the throes of despair.
Grief could do peculiar things to a person.
She was proof of that, for she could not remember the last time she had lost her temper, until she had come face to face with that beautiful man, with his wavy red hair, powerful body, and astonishing height.
That night, once the rest of the castle had retired to bed, Heather slipped out of her chambers and went in search of Brandon.
Unable to find him in his usual haunts—the library, William’s study, his guest chambers—she was disappointed to learn that he had temporarily left the castle altogether.
Apparently, he had ridden out earlier that evening, in the lull after dinner.
Still, Heather was not yet ready to retire. She had not slept well in the week that had passed since discovering her brother’s death, and she saw little use in spending empty hours in her bed, tossing and turning in the vain hope that sleep would relieve her, just once.
As such, she found herself at the door to the winding stairwell that led down into the dungeons.
The guards were gone, but the door was locked.
That might have been on obstacle if Heather did not have the key, but her brother had given her an iron ring that held every key to every door in the castle.
She kept it on her, always, for it carried the key to the “secret” library that she was not supposed to know about: a small room with books that her father did not consider appropriate for a young lady.
However, she had never had reason to use it for any other locked door.
Within minutes, she was down in the torchlit passageway, making her way to the last cell on the right.
A nervous thrill thrummed through her, for, aside from the forbidden books on alchemy and anatomy and astrology, she had never done anything to disobey her father’s wishes.
She knew he would certainly be displeased if he found out she had gone down to the dungeons alone.
“Laird Dunn?” she squeaked, stepping out in front of the cell. All her former bluster and courage had abandoned her, for though she sought the truth, what if the truth was much simpler—this handsome Scot was her brother’s murderer? What if he tried to hurt her, too?
I shall stay a good distance from the bars. Then, he cannot reach me and cannot possibly harm me. It seemed a sufficient plan.
Someone stirred in the dirty straw, though the brazier had been extinguished, so she could not see as well as before. Realizing that the gloom would not do, she padded back up the passage to fetch one of the torches and brought it back to the cell.
A scream strangled in her throat as the flickering torchlight cast its bronzed glow on the towering figure of Laird Dunn, who stood flush to the bars, his arms wrapped around them. His glittering eyes looked almost black, while fire danced in the center of them.
Are you the devil, sent to tempt me? She swallowed thickly, feeling foolish for almost unleashing an almighty scream. It would certainly have got her into more trouble than Laird Dunn.
“Apologies, Lass. I didnae mean to scare ye,” he said, in that deep, husky voice that seemed to carry the Highland mountains with it. “I assumed ye wanted to speak with me, so I came to where ye could see me better.”
Heather took a moment to catch her shallow breath, while her heart thundered in her chest. “I did not know it would be so dark.” She grabbed a rickety wooden chair that rested against the wall and pulled it nearer to the cell.
“Nor did I hear you approach the bars. You must be awfully catfooted, which is unexpected, considering your size.”