Chapter 5
Talia woke up on a dusty ball of fluff—her itchy nose told her so—and underneath a weighted foreign encumbrance. She ran a hand over it. It felt like… wool?
Wasn’t she in the carriage?
With closed eyes, she ran her hands over her body, checking for any sign of dishevelment. Her clothes felt intact, and other than the ache in her back, she felt perfectly well.
Then where was she?
Darragh had assured her there would be no more inn stops, for they would reach the castle in only a few hours. Surely, in those few hours, their ride could not have been hijacked by mountain bandits?
The ruckus of abduction should be enough to rouse the deepest sleepers. Surely if she opened her eyes, a vagrant would not be standing over her.
Tentatively, she pried one green eye open.
Her blurry gaze landed on high windows letting sunlight into the room.
No ottoman—could be a vagrant’s room. Mahogany armchair upholstered in velvet—the journey went well, then.
Damask curtains tied with a hemp cord—she tsked at the threadbare tassels and decided that Darragh and the vagrant might as well be the same person.
The air smelled painfully different. Not like home. Home smelled earthy, of herbs and dandelion tea. McGhee Castle just smelled cold.
She watched the ceiling and counted the dust specks she deluded herself into believing were gold particles. Darragh must have had her thrown in an abandoned room. Hopefully, her luggage had been handled with better care.
She had packed her most important things.
Anything could happen to her, but not that bag.
She would have moved to find it, but her back ached, and she was frozen solid.
The chill in the air must have seeped into her bones; the single coverlet provided no protection.
And her head ached. Any rash movements, and she would find herself headlong into something, with her luck, hard.
Maybe her heart had been frozen solid, but the anger she should have felt was like a stranger to her. A faceless, disembodied stranger whose embrace she needed even if it was to provide a modicum of warmth to her barely beating heart.
She lay unmoving, wondering at what point during the journey she had decided to accept her reality. At no point in her life could anyone have referred to her as a complaisant creature.
Where women of her small stature were appropriately snuffed, she was abnormally incensed.
She was not the type to be told what to do, get pushed around a little, and then broken into submission.
But the cold was quite nice when she pulled the coverlet to her neck, and oh, what was the point of ever getting up?
Of doing anything? Why do people do anything?
Suddenly, the door to her chambers swung open, and she bolted upright.
The Laird in all his glory marched into her room, leading a trail of maids and… clothes?
She watched from over her shoulder at first, smoothing her hands over her dress to make sure she was presentable. The state of her hair was lost on her.
“Draw her a bath,” Darragh ordered, and a bundle of skirts disappeared behind a closed door.
As grateful as Talia was, what kind of man barged into a lady’s room at the crack of dawn? Where was his wife? Where was the lady of the castle?
She was absolutely mortified when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the vanity.
Her skin was paler than usual. Her lips were chapped and flaky.
Her dress was wrinkled, as if she had wrestled with a bear all night.
Her hair… Well, her hair should have been the least of her worries.
The ginger locks had come undone from her coiffure, but it looked freshly brushed, as if she had been laid in her deathbed and a mortician pruned the tresses to perfection.
In response to Darragh’s rudeness, she crossed her arms and settled on the edge of the bed. She would not stand to greet him. She would not show him the courtesy his station demanded, but he paid her no mind. He seemed deep in thought, looking around the room.
What does he intend to do?
He fixed his gaze on the fireplace and then stalked to it. He crouched and waved a hand over the unlit coals. Then he withdrew his hand, looking aghast.
So he didn’t intend to kill her. He was only dissatisfied with his staff.
A frown marred his face as he moved towards her.
“Good morning.” He did not sound penitent.
He nodded curtly and stood over her, his arms crossed like an angry seamstress.
Without returning the greeting, she scanned the clothes being hung up. “Yer gesture insults me.” Her voice was hoarse at first, then slowly gained warmth. She decided to discard propriety and went straight to the point. “I daenae need help stockin’ me wardrobe. I’ve always been well provided for.”
She would not complain about the well-needed bath and the steam and the floral scent drifting through the cracks of the shut door. Her back could use the warmth.
“I didnae give ye time to pack.” He shrugged casually, as if he weren’t imposing, standing over her unwashed, unfed, and unrested. Her brush with death did not count.
Her irritation flared.
“Ye fear me garments willnae be proper enough when ye parade me like a prized calf in front of suitors?”
There came the contrite, ill-intended shrug. “Ye are past the age of calfhood.”
She should have remarked on his rudeness, but what was the point? He had not understood anything she had said to him up until now.
“A horrible night’s sleep willnae change me mind.”
He turned away as if that did not matter. He regarded the maids with an authority she would have appreciated before almost freezing to death.
“Neither will yer charming personality sway me into helping ye. I daenae intend to marry. Ever.”
She stood up, and he glanced at her. “Ye will change yer mind.”
“I daenae intend to.”
When she crossed her arms, it seemed as if her assertion had thrown a rock at his resolve. A small stone to be precise, but it was only a pebble that fell Goliath.
Darragh smirked. “Get ready and come down for breakfast.”
Apparently, the promise of a warm meal was what it took to break her into submission.
She swallowed down her apprehension about being ordered about like a mutt and let a maid lead her to the washroom.
Talia padded down the passageway, taking inventory of every promising crevice and every dark corner, making a mental note to explore later.
If she were to escape later—which she would attempt—it would be wise to accustom herself to her surroundings. The maid in front of her was stingy with information, only relenting when it seemed unimportant. Talia guessed Darragh must have told them why he had brought her here.
The maid quickened her pace, and Talia wondered if she had grown tired of her questioning, or if there were some tasks her detours delayed. Either way, she pushed forward in her muslin dress—courtesy of Darragh’s overbearingness—and they stepped into a large pavilion.
She had not expected the breakfast room to be empty, but she had not anticipated so many faces. An older woman at the far end of the table rose as she approached. A smile so genuine that it compelled her to smile spread across her face.
Talia found herself standing in front of the woman before she could form another thought.
“Ye must be me nephew’s ward, Miss Collins.”
She barely registered the words when she was pulled into a hug.
The old woman smelled warm, like a cozy day in a warm cabin. When she pulled away, Talia studied her features. Her suspicions were correct; the woman in front of her was Lady McGhee, the Laird’s mother.
“Me son didnae do ye justice.” Lady McGhee took her hand and stared fondly into her eyes.
Talia promptly understood that she was the sentimental type.
“What has he said about me?” She let out a casual laugh, masking her curiosity.
“Oh, never mind that.” Lady McGhee’s smile was naughty. She pulled her to her side, and Talia found herself staring into three pairs of curious eyes. “I am Orlagh Boyd, and that”—she pointed left, to a man who shared the same pair of green eyes— “is me second son, Jenson.”
It was uncanny how much of a resemblance he shared with the Laird, and how much mannerisms could change a person’s looks.
Jenson was beautiful, while Darragh was handsome. Jenson’s geniality softened his features, while Darragh’s stoicism accentuated his sharp cheekbones and chiseled jawline.
Darragh could not be much older than his brother, but the ever-present frown aged his face. The way Jenson’s lips curled into a smile was boyish, half up, half down, matching the mischief in his eyes. His shoulders were not as broad as Darragh’s, which seemed to fill up a room.
“How do ye do?” Jenson didn’t even nod like his brother. While Darragh bowed his head, he lifted his.
Talia smiled in response.
“That’s Cohen Thomson, me son’s right-hand man, and his wife, Amber Thomson.”
Cohen was not one for pleasantries. He was pleasant, but not as theatrical as his wife. While his brown eyes dimmed as he nodded a greeting, his wife’s lit up as she rose to her feet.
“Pleased to meet ye.” Like two reuniting best friends, she wrapped her arms around Talia.
Talia would have thought she had imagined the woman holding her longer than was necessary if Jenson hadn’t said, “Good for ye, Amber. Nay more nights spent gossiping with the laundry maids.”
So Amber was grateful for her presence.
She looked no older than twenty-five, with perfectly smooth skin and bright eyes. You can always tell a woman’s age from her eyes.
The only other woman who seemed to be around was Lady MacGhee, who was well past the age of gossiping with childish women like themselves.
Talia was grateful for Amber’s generosity. She sat next to her, and a plate of food was placed in front of her.
“I see ye’re very excited about yer freedom to harass the maids, Jenson,” Amber rebutted.
“Harassment is for ugly men and vagrants. What I engage in is called seduction. Ye’re only worried I’ll find a proper wife to replace ye as me favorite woman.” Jenson punctuated his statement with a wink.
Cohen threw an orange at his head.
“Stay away from Jenson, Talia,” Amber whispered loudly, casting a deliberate glance in Jenson’s direction. “He is the sort of man who claims to be an artist and offers to paint ye in the nude.”
Talia widened her eyes, feigning shock.
Jenson balked. “Maither.” Lady McGhee looked up from her tea. “Do ye see how she slanders me?”
“Is what she says far from the truth?” Lady McGhee cocked one straight eyebrow.
“I see ye’ve also fallen victim to gossip.”
“Daenae ye worry yerself, I shall bring up the matter with yer braither. Cohen, can I entrust ye with this?”
Cohen rose, lifted a hand to his head, and saluted her. “The boss shall be informed.”
It felt as though they were sharing a joke at both Jenson’s and Darragh’s expense.
“I should like to withdraw me case from Court until I am provided with a more genial inspector.”
Talia ate quietly as they continued to joke, which she came to understand was about Darragh.
As if the man was disturbed by the repeated mentions of him, he appeared in the doorway. But by then, she had finished her meal.
Lady McGhee smiled up at him. “Darragh, do sit with us.”
He smiled politely. At that moment, he resembled a different man. A caring man.
“Another time,” he said ruefully. “Miss Collins, come with me.” He turned around, confident she would follow him.
What she would have done if his family were not present…
She excused herself and trailed behind him.
“How was yer meal?”
An attempt at cordiality? Ha! As if she would go along with it, not when he had been so rude to her. So she did not respond.
Eventually, they stepped into the Great Hall. Darragh stood by the entrance and stepped aside for her, allowing her to cast a curious eye about the room.
The Great Hall was large and sparsely furnished.
A grandfather clock stood in all its ancient glory, overlooking the room.
If sunlight hit it at an angle, it would be impossible to read.
Other than the armchair Darragh was occupying, the two sofas facing one another, and the low-legged table atop which a teapot and two teacups sat, there was only the fireplace.
Despite that, the furniture was arranged in a way that made her wonder whether she had imagined the unused space.
She turned back to him with a cautious look. His chivalry was suspicious. As she walked past him, his eyes flashed with an unfathomable emotion, and he appraised her from head to toe.
To her surprise, a strange man walked into the hall then, causing her to turn around. He looked young, younger than Darragh and older than her. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him. No confident young man could have a posture that bad.
She glanced at Darragh, but he was looking at the man. Neither of them said anything. So she reverted to studying the man. Outwardly, he looked well, other than the strong stench of diffidence.
She could not put a finger on it. Was he afflicted with an illness that required him to seek her out miles away from her abode? She was confident in her skills as a healer, but a lack of suspicion would be complacency. She was not a proud person.
“Miss Collins.” Darragh walked ahead of her and stopped next to the man. The man looked too small next to him. He seemed to realize that, as he puffed out his chest like a peacock. “Allow me to introduce to ye Mr. Joshua Ross.”
Mr. Ross smirked.
“Good day, sir.” Talia’s tone was not that of a confident healer, but that of a woman under the mercy of two dubious men.
Mr. Ross stared at her, and she stared back.
What was happening?
Darragh left his side, and she watched him almost with a plea.
He shouldnae leave me with this mute man.
He moved behind her and nudged her forward, clearing his throat.
That seemed to jerk Mr. Ross out of his daze. He approached her with a new light in his eyes. Talia was hesitant, almost fearful, when he took her hands in his own.
“Miss Collins, ye are far more beautiful than I have heard,” he said with a proud look, puffing out his chest further, nose upturned like a schoolboy awaiting praise after reciting a difficult essay.
She spotted Darragh retreating to the far corner, the same proud look on his face.
The two men shared a look, and that was when realization dawned on her. Darragh had found her first suitor.