Chapter 2 #2
Her own horse was a dappled gray, watching her with large, liquid brown eyes. Lifting her knee almost to her chest, she placed a foot in the stirrup. Clutching the sides of the saddle, she paused.
I might be about to make a fool of meself in front of me temporary betrothed. The man I’ll be spendin’ all me time with over the next year.
Best not to think about that.
Grimacing, Nora hauled herself upward, legs screaming, and deposited herself neatly into the saddle.
Well, perhaps not neatly. Her thighs throbbed, and something appeared to have been shaken loose in her lower back by the impact.
Ouch.
She kept the pain on the inside, as it should be, and shot a quick, almost triumphant look at Laird MacColl.
His face barely flickered.
“Very good,” he remarked, taking up the reins and angling his horse toward the forest. “Now, let’s pick up the pace if we want to be there before tomorrow.”
He annoys me already, Nora thought sourly, and made herself follow.
“There it is,” Laird MacColl called, twisting around to speak to her over his shoulder. It was the first time he’d addressed her for the whole of the interminable journey. “The Keep. On the ridge, just ahead. Do ye see it?”
“I’d be hard-pressed nae to see it,” Nora retorted, before she could consider the wisdom of saying such a thing.
Laird MacColl only snorted, however, turning to face ahead of him again.
She was right, though. MacColl Keep was huge, a great sprawling building with at least half a dozen towers, maybe more.
The walls curved over the hillside, wavy and irregular, and there was a wide path leading up to the front gates.
The gates stood open, and even from here she could see the crowds of people going in and out.
She imagined the courtyard would be full.
“Do ye have market days inside the Keep walls?” she found herself saying.
Laird MacColl twisted to look back at her again, seeming a little surprised to have her addressing him.
“Aye, we do. Wednesdays and Saturdays. Folks come from miles around.”
She nodded, and there was no more talk until they trotted through the gates. The walls were so thick that she estimated a pair of carts could have ridden side by side on top without touching cartwheels. MacColl soldiers stared at her curiously, then respectfully looked away as their laird passed.
As she’d anticipated, the courtyard was full.
People rushed to and fro, trundling wheelbarrows and pulling small carts.
A small boy rolled a trio of barrels, each in front of the other, with a practiced air.
He didn’t even glance up at them. Dogs slunk here and there, hoping for scraps or a scratch behind the ears.
Women moved by in groups, bearing baskets on their hips or shoulders, deep in conversation.
Soldiers jumped to attention. Onlookers gawped.
There was nobody, it seemed, who wasn’t looking at Nora in that moment.
“How many people live here?” she managed, swallowing hard and trying to stay calm.
She’d expected to jump off the horses as soon as they passed through the gates, but Laird MacColl was leading the way across the courtyard and toward the castle itself.
A huge, arched doorway led into darkness, wide as a yawning mouth.
I’m goin’ to have to go in there, she thought, swallowing. That’s me home now.
“Several,” Laird MacColl answered with a shrug.
Could Margaret have been taken here? She could go unnoticed amongst so many people, I’m sure of it.
“And the guards?” she prompted. “Where do they stay?”
The dungeons would be near where the guards stayed, surely?
Laird MacColl glanced at her, brows knitting together. “Ye daenae need guards. Ye will be safe enough here.”
“Oh, nay, me Laird, I wasnae sayin’…”
“Creighton.”
She paused, blinking. “What?”
“Creighton. Me name is Creighton,” he repeated. “We’re betrothed. It will look odd if ye are calling me laird, will it nae?”
“Well, I suppose so.”
“Let’s hear ye say it, then, to make sure ye have learned it.”
She licked her lips, trying to breathe evenly. “Creighton.”
“Very good.”
Very good? How dare he praise her as if she were a child learning her lessons?
Before Nora could vent her outrage, they reached the front of the castle. More soldiers waited, along with a few manservants and maids scurrying down the wide, weathered front steps. Laird MacColl—Creighton—dismounted neatly from his saddle, and Nora swung her leg over the side.
Then she hesitated.
Hauling herself up onto the horse’s back hadn’t been troublesome. Easy, even. But going down… oh dear.
The ground, made of hard cobblestones with rainwater pooled between them, seemed to stare up at her. It felt like a very long way away.
Swallowing hard, she gripped the sides of the saddle, willing herself to leap down.
The horse shifted underneath her, clearly annoyed by the change in weight.
It knew its home, no doubt, and was eager to get back to its stable with a warm blanket and sweet oats, and the sooner she dismounted, the sooner that could happen.
“Need a hand?” Creighton remarked idly, wandering around into her view.
Nora clenched her jaw. “Nay, thank ye. I can manage just fine. I just…”
“Lass, I can see that ye are stuck.”
Before she could insist that he was wrong, he reached up, seizing her around the waist, and lifted her effortlessly down onto the ground.
The instant seemed to last forever. Weightless, she sagged against him, bracing herself against his shoulders without thinking twice. He smelled of leather and something spicy-sweet and masculine. She hadn’t noticed that scent before, but now that she had, it seemed to be all she could sense.
She only got one breath of that scent, however, before he set her down and stepped away. One breath was certainly more than enough. Flexing her hands, she tried not to think about how warm and firm his shoulders had felt under her grip.
“Thank ye,” she forced out.
He gave a half smile in her direction, his gaze already distant. Turning away, he gestured to a handful of men in MacColl tartan.
“Come, lads, I’ll read yer reports now. We have things to discuss. Oh, and this lassie here is Nora Lane, she’s the promised betrothed from Laird Bryden. Take her to her room and get her bath, eh? Excuse me, lass. Duty calls.”
He was leaving, Nora realized with a jolt. She didn’t want him to stay, of course she didn’t, but he was the only familiar face in this whole Keep of people. Oh, no. Oh no.
“Wait,” she stammered out, reaching forward as if to pluck at her his sleeve. She stopped herself in time, thank goodness, and he flashed a wry smile back at her over his shoulder.
“I’m rather busy here, lassie. Go on inside. Try nae to die or cause a war, and I’ll see ye at dinner.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned to one of the men in MacColl tartan, wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, and walked away, the two of them deep in conversation.
Well, Nora thought bitterly. That’s a wonderful start.