Chapter 12
"Aisla!"
Ewan's voice rang out clear and commanding, pulling Maia's attention away from the window she'd been staring at in wonder. She turned to see him standing in the doorway, gesturing to someone in the corridor.
A young woman appeared—perhaps five-and-twenty, with wild red hair barely contained by a simple braid and the kind of confident stride that spoke of someone who feared very little. She wore a practical woolen dress and had the air of someone always ready for adventure.
"Aye, me laird?" The woman, Aisla, looked between Ewan and Maia with undisguised curiosity, her green eyes bright with interest.
"This is Maia Ferguson," Ewan said, his tone carefully neutral. "She'll be stayin' with us for a time. I need ye to see to her needs, clothin', primarily. She'll need several gowns suitable for daily wear."
Aisla's gaze swept over Maia, assessing but not unkind. "Aye, of course. I can have the seamstress come up, take measurements."
"And I want somethin' comfortable," Maia interjected, then immediately felt her cheeks heat at her own forwardness.
But if she was going to be here, if she was truly going to be allowed to explore, she wanted clothing that wouldn't restrict her.
"If possible, I mean. Somethin' I can move in.
Walk in. I'd like to explore the mountains. "
The last part came out almost breathless with hope.
Ewan's eyebrows rose. "That's rather presumptuous of ye, lass."
"What is?"
"Thinkin' I'd take ye to the mountains." His voice was dry, but there was something in his eyes—a glint of amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Did I say I'd do that?"
Maia lifted her chin, emboldened by the room with no bars and the promise of freedom she'd just been given. "Nay. But I'm quite persuasive when I want to be."
"Are ye now?"
"Aye." She took a step toward him, then another, her heart racing but her voice steady. "And I'm quite sure I can convince ye to take me there today. Right now, even. The weather's beautiful, and I've been stuck on that horse for days, and I'd really love to go."
"Nay."
"But…"
"I've got work to attend to, lass. Reports to review, decisions to make.
I cannae just drop everythin' to take ye on a pleasure stroll.
" Ewan crossed his arms over his chest, but his expression had softened slightly.
"Besides, ye need proper clothin' first. And rest. Ye've been travelin' for two days. "
"I'm nae tired," Maia protested, even though her body was already telling her that was a lie. "And I could just—"
"In a few days, maybe." Ewan's voice was firm but not unkind. "Let me sort out what needs sortin', get ye properly settled, and then we'll see about the mountains."
In a few days.
Not no. Not never. Just... later.
Maia tried not to let her disappointment show, but from the way Aisla was hiding a smile behind her hand, she suspected she wasn't succeeding.
"Fine," she said, unable to keep the pout entirely out of her voice. "A few days."
"Good." Ewan nodded to Aisla. "Get her what she needs. And stay with her—help her get familiar with the castle, introduce her to the staff, that sort of thing."
"Aye, me laird." Aisla's smile was wide now, clearly entertained by the entire exchange. "I'll take good care of her."
The air in the room felt charged somehow, thick with something Maia couldn't quite name. Ewan was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read, something dark and heated that made her stomach flip and her skin prickle with awareness.
She remembered his hands in her hair. His mouth on hers. The way he'd tasted like whisky and danger.
Stop it. Stop thinkin' about that.
"I'll check on ye later," Ewan said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment ago. "Make sure ye're settlin' in alright."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.
Maia released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Well," Aisla said, her voice bright with barely contained amusement. "That was interestin'."
Maia's cheeks flamed. "I daenae ken what ye mean."
"Oh, I think ye do." Aisla moved further into the room, examining Maia with those sharp green eyes. "But we can pretend ye daenae, if that makes ye more comfortable. Now, let's talk about these clothes ye'll be needin'."
Relief flooded through Maia at the change of subject. "Ye really can get me somethin' comfortable? Nae just fancy gowns that look nice but make it impossible to move?"
"Aye, of course. We're nae prissy court ladies here." Aisla gestured at her own practical dress. "Most of us prefer clothin' we can actually do things in. I'll have the seamstress make ye some sturdy wool dresses—warm, easy to move in, suitable for walkin' and explorin'. Will that do?"
"That sounds perfect." Maia felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back quickly. It was such a small thing—the promise of comfortable clothing—but after six years of wearing the same worn gowns her uncle had deemed suitable for a prisoner, it felt like a gift beyond measure.
"Are ye alright?" Aisla's voice had gentled, concern replacing amusement.
"Aye. Just grateful, I suppose." Maia managed a watery smile. "It's been a long few days."
"I can imagine." Aisla sat down in one of the chairs near the fireplace and gestured for Maia to take the other. "It must be strange, bein' taken from yer home like that."
Home.
Castle MacMahon hadn't been her home in six years. It had been her prison.
But Maia didn't say that. Didn't know if she could trust this woman yet, friendly though she seemed.
"It's... complicated," she said instead.
"Aye, I suppose it would be." Aisla studied her with those perceptive eyes. "Well, for what it's worth, ye're safe here. The laird may be many things, but he doesnae harm women. And I'll nae let anyone else bother ye, either."
"Thank ye." Maia felt herself relaxing slightly. There was something about Aisla, something warm and genuine, that made her want to trust her. "Can I ask, have ye been here long? At Castle McGill?"
"All me life. Me family's served the McGill clan for generations." Aisla grinned. "Though 'served' is a generous word for what me brother does. Mostly he just follows the laird around and makes terrible jokes."
"Yer brother?"
"Leon. Ye met him in the courtyard." Aisla rolled her eyes fondly. "He's the laird's man-at-arms and oldest friend. Which means he thinks he can get away with anythin'."
Maia found herself smiling despite everything. "He seemed... confident."
"That's one word for it." Aisla leaned forward conspiratorially. "Fair warnin', he'll try to charm ye. He tries to charm everyone. Just ignore him and he'll eventually move on to someone else."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They talked for a while after that, an easy, comfortable conversation about nothing particularly important.
Aisla told her about the castle, about the clan, about the best places to walk when Ewan finally took her exploring.
Maia found herself laughing more than once, the tension she'd been carrying for days slowly unwinding.
It felt good. Felt normal. Felt like having a friend.
Like Mollie.
The thought sent a pang through her chest, but it wasn't the sharp agony of grief anymore. Just a dull ache, a reminder of what she'd lost but also what she'd gained. Mollie was alive. Safe. And Maia…
Maia was here, in a room with no bars, talking to a woman who might actually become a friend.
She was about to ask Aisla about the lake—how far it was, how cold the water might be—when the door burst open without warning.
A woman swept into the room as if she owned it.
She was beautiful. Stunningly, impossibly beautiful in a way that made Maia immediately aware of every one of her own flaws.
Pale blonde hair fell in perfect waves past her shoulders.
Her face was delicate and fine-boned, with high cheekbones and full lips painted rose-pink.
Her gown was expensive—deep blue silk that probably cost more than everything Maia had ever owned combined—and cut to showcase a figure that was slender and graceful and everything Maia was not.
The woman's blue eyes swept over Maia, and her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that said, I've already decided ye're beneath me, but I'll pretend to be civil.'
Maia knew that smile. She had seen it on her uncle's face countless times.
"So," the woman said, her voice light and pleasant in a way that somehow made it worse. "Ye're the MacMahon girl."
"I, aye." Maia stood, suddenly feeling awkward and ungainly in her borrowed green dress. "I'm Maia Ferguson."
"Laura Nicolson." The woman didn't offer her hand. Just continued to study Maia with that assessing, dismissive gaze. "I heard Ewan had brought someone back with him. I had to see for meself."
There was something about the way she said Ewan's name, familiar, possessive, that made Maia's stomach clench uncomfortably.
"Lady Laura," Aisla said, her voice carefully neutral. "We werenae expectin' ye."
"I daenae need to announce meself, Aisla. I'm practically family." Laura's smile widened, becoming sharper. "Or I will be, soon enough."
Maia's heart sank.
Of course.
A man like Ewan would have someone like this waiting for him. Someone beautiful and elegant and perfectly suitable. Someone who wasn't a prisoner or plus-sized or awkward.
Someone who was everything Maia could never be.
"I just wanted to make sure our little guest understood the situation," Laura continued, moving closer to Maia. "I wouldnae want ye to get any... ideas."
"Ideas?" Maia's voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
"About Ewan." Laura's tone was sweet as honey, but there was steel beneath it. "I ken how it might look, him bringin' ye here, givin' ye a nice room, payin' ye attention. But if ye think ye have any chance with him, ye're completely out of yer wits."
The words hit as hard as if Laura had slapped her. Maia felt her face heat with humiliation.
"Ewan wants me," Laura said simply, as if it were a fact. "He always has. So whatever ye're thinkin', whatever ye're hopin' for, forget it. Ye're just a pawn in some game between him and yer uncle. Nothin' more."
Maia's throat tightened. She knew that. Of course she knew that. She was Ewan's prisoner, his leverage, his tool for revenge.
But hearing it said so bluntly, by this beautiful woman who clearly believed she had every right to Ewan's affections…
It hurt more than it should have.
Why does it hurt? Ye shouldnae care who he wants. Ye shouldnae want him at all.
But she did care. No matter what the situation was, she did.
"Lady Laura, that's enough." Aisla stood. "Ye have nay business here."
"I have every business," Laura interrupted. "I'm goin' to be the Lady of this castle. I'm goin' to be Ewan's wife. And I willnae have some plump little prisoner thinkin' she can take me place."
"Me faither would never be interested in a hag like ye."
The young voice cut through Laura's tirade like a hot knife in butter.
Maia spun toward the door to find a small lad standing there, maybe ten years old, with dark hair and eyes that reminded her sharply of Ewan. He was glaring at Laura with an expression of pure disapproval.
"Kian," Aisla said warningly, but her tone was quietly approving.
"It's true!" The boy—Kian—stepped into the room, his small hands balled into fists. "Me faither thinks ye're annoyin'. He told Leon so. I heard him."
Laura's beautiful face twisted with fury. "How dare ye speak to me that way, ye insolent little boy."
"I'll speak however I want. This is me home." Kian's chin jutted out stubbornly. "And ye're nae welcome here."
"I am exactly welcome here," Laura hissed, advancing on the child.
"And once I become yer stepmaither, ye'll learn to watch that tongue of yers.
I'll have ye sent to the servants' quarters where ye belong, locked away where ye cannae embarrass me with yer presence.
Ye'll barely be let out, and when ye are, ye'll—"
Something inside Maia snapped.
She'd spent six years being locked away. Six years of being told she was worthless, too plump, too much. Six years of listening to her uncle threaten and belittle and crush any spirit she had left.
She wouldn't—couldn't —stand here and listen to this woman threaten a child with the same fate.
"I'm his betrothed."
The words burst out before Maia could think them through. Before she could consider the consequences.
Three pairs of eyes swung toward her—Laura's furious, Aisla's shocked, Kian's hopeful.
"What?" Laura's voice was dangerously quiet.
Maia's heart hammered in her chest, but she forced herself to meet Laura's gaze steadily. "I said I'm Ewan's betrothed. So I daenae ken why ye think he'd marry ye instead of me."
The lie hung in the air between them, impossible and ridiculous and completely, utterly mad.
But Maia didn't take it back.
Laura's face had gone from pale to flushed red, her hands clenching at her sides. "Ye're… lyin'."
"Am I?" Maia tilted her head, channeling every ounce of confidence she didn't actually feel. "Why else would he bring me here? Give me such a lovely chamber? Promise to take me explorin'?"
"Because ye're his… prisoner!"
"If ye say so." Maia kept her voice level, though inside she was screaming at herself.
What are ye doin'? This is madness! He's goin' to be furious!
But she couldn't seem to stop. Couldn't back down now that she'd started.
Laura stared at her for a long moment, rage and disbelief warring on her beautiful face. Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
Silence fell.
What had she done?