Chapter 7
Wretched lass, Creighton thought repeatedly, pacing up and down his room. The door closed behind her, and the dust settled as if she’d never been here at all. And yet the memory of her stuck in his head, refusing to be brushed away. She refused to be brushed away.
Well, she would have to be, wouldn’t she? There was no room for her here. Not in his head, and certainly not in his heart.
Betrothed in name only. Pity that Evander picked such a pretty, interestin’ lass, he thought grimly, shaking his head and striding to the door. He’d assumed that his fellow laird would choose some cool, dignified lady, a woman coming to do her duty, nothing more or less. Instead, he brought Nora.
Yanking open the door, he half-expected to find Nora there. She struck him as the sort of lass who wouldn’t balk at listening at doors if it was needed.
She wasn’t there; the door to her room was resolutely closed. With a sigh, Creighton set off at a brisk stride down the hall. It did not take him long to find Andrew, huddled on a pew in the Keep’s chapel. Laurie had found him first, sitting beside him with her legs swinging.
“Did Nora get into trouble?” Laurie chirped, her voice too loud for the still chapel.
“Nae exactly,” Creighton assured her, sliding onto the pew beside Andrew. “But I went over a few rules with her. Ye should nae have been sharp with her, lad.”
“Why are ye all so mean to Nora?” Laurie demanded, pouting. “Is it because ye are boys, and boys ruin everythin’?”
Creighton thought it wise not to respond.
“She’s a witch,” Andrew whispered, swallowing. His eyes were large and round. “I’m sure of it.”
“She’s nae a witch, man.”
“But they say that the Bryden healers can do things that other healers cannae.”
“That our healers cannae,” Creighton corrected. “Bryden healers are better than ours. We could learn a lot from them. I daenae want to hear ye throwin’ such accusations around again, do ye hear?”
“But, me Laird…”
“Never again,” he interrupted, catching Andrew’s eye and holding it. “She’s me betrothed. She’s nay longer just a Bryden healer, and certainly nae a witch. Ye are to treat her with respect, Andrew. And ease up on this fear about witches, aye? Ye arenae on the brink of bein’ cursed.”
Andrew reddened, dropping his gaze. “I’m sorry, me Laird. Me parents had such a powerful fear of witches.”
“I ken. But ye cannae be havin’ a powerful fear of me betrothed, can ye?”
Andrew sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Nay.”
“Nay. So stop yer snivelin’ and save the prayin’ for later, aye?
Nora’s nae goin’ to curse ye. Probably nae, at least. But I need ye to stop bein’ so hostile toward her, do ye understand?
Ye are well-liked here, Andrew. If ye set the pattern of dislikin’ her, others will join in. Ye must be careful.”
“I’ll be careful, me Laird.”
“Good.” Creighton patted Andrew on the shoulder and rose to his feet.
“I’ll be more aware of her place here, I promise,” Andrew added, as Creighton turned to walk back up the aisle.
Frowning, Creighton paused, glancing back at him.
“Her place? She doesnae have one.”
Andrew blinked. “Aye, but…”
“Nay, make nay mistake, lad. Nora is only passin’ through. Her place is back in Keep Bryden, with this alliance solidified and her part played. It’ll do nobody any good to grow attached to her.”
He let his gaze slide past Andrew onto Laurie and hoped his meaning was taken.
Me sister cannae start to believe that Nora is part of our lives. She is nae. Nae part of me life, either.
A cold heart closed around his chest, constricted firmly. He shifted, swallowing. He thought of how quickly she’d defended Evander and bit the inside of his cheek till it stung. She certainly had been keen to leap to his defense, without even being asked.
Stop it. Don’t think of her.
Too late. In an instant, he was back in his own room, with Nora standing close in front of him. Too close, always too close. He hadn’t touched her, had fought not to touch her, but he’d wanted to.
Oh, he’d wanted to. He’d imagined it, reaching out to cup her chin in his hand. Tilting her head up to expose the long, white column of her throat. Running his fingertip down the skin there. Creighton shivered, his imagination running wild, rolling away from him, unheeded.
I could have kissed her.
She would taste like herbs, he was sure of it. She smelled like herbs, lemongrass, mint, and rosemary, a green mix of them all.
“Damn and blast it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Ye said a bad word!” Laurie gasped, gleeful. “Andrew, he said a bad word.”
“He’s the Laird,” Andrew answered firmly, getting unsteadily to his feet.
“Aye, I’m the Laird,” Creighton responded, leveling a stare at his sister. “I am allowed to say bad words.”
Nora stood behind her door, listening to Creighton’s footsteps retreat.
She had no idea where he had gone, or why, but this was likely the best opportunity she would have.
Once the hallway was silent, she slipped out, hurrying to his door.
Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she turned the door handle…
Locked. It was locked.
Cursing, she scuttled back into her room, her heart thudding.
Never mind, there was another way she could go. Biting her lip, Nora tiptoed over to the door that connected their room. It was bolted on her side, but if she remembered correctly, Creighton’s side was not.
The bolt was stiff and a little rusty, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long time. She wrestled it back and jerked the door open. She found herself in a narrow, short square hallway, thick with dust and well-strung with cobwebs. Beyond the square hallway was another door. Creighton’s door.
Swallowing hard, Nora stepped forward, placing her hand on the cold handle. She twisted it, holding her breath.
It opened a few inches, at least, then there was a quiet thump of resistance.
She remembered the books, piled up before the door.
Clenching her jaw, she pushed harder. The stack toppled over with a crash.
She would need to restack them, but of course would not be able to place them directly in front of the door as they had been.
She could only hope that he wouldn’t notice.
The door opened a few more inches, enough to let Nora slip out into the gloomy daylight beyond. Creighton’s room was just as she remembered it from a few minutes ago, notably missing Creighton. Perfect.
Now for the reports.
Nora paused, standing amongst the piles of papers and books, and her heart sank.
If Laurie were here, she could have helped, but as it was, Nora would have to work alone.
There was no telling how long Creighton would stay away.
She began to move between the piles of papers, scanning the words, looking for something that might resemble a report, whatever that was.
He hadn’t been able to look it over yet, she guessed, which meant that it would still be where Theo and Andrew had left it.
Nothing caught her eye. Some papers had thin layers of dust, a clear sign they hadn’t been moved recently.
Growing more desperate, Nora turned from the desk to the bed.
There were papers there as well. As she moved closer, she saw that at least some of them had been placed there recently, sitting halfway up the bed instead of at the bottom.
There were about a dozen or two sheets of this paper, all carefully pinned together. Words like report, hostages, and collateral damage caught her attention. Brightening, she snatched them up, flipping through the papers.
This is it.
The topmost report detailed a raid on a large farm on the outskirts of Clan Cunningham.
The soldiers had been sent to take as much freshly harvested grain as possible.
Nora frowned, perched on the edge of the bed.
The report mentioned taking the grain and a few barrels of apples, then dividing them among the hungriest crofters on the edge of Clan MacColl.
This wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. There was no mention of hostages, only a few brief lines explaining how the farmer and his wife had been restrained, watching with mulish resignation as their home was ransacked, and then released when the soldiers left.
It was not fair, of course. It was stealing. The Cunningham farmers didn’t deserve to have their food stolen and their hard work undone, but then, neither did the MacColl crofters deserve to starve.
Frowning, Nora flipped to the next report.
Almost without thinking, she tumbled onto the bed properly, crossing her legs beneath her.
There was nowhere else to sit in the room, not without moving a stack of books, at least. The mattress shifted pleasantly under her weight, not too soft but with enough give to promise a comfortable night’s sleep.
In fact, she could see a divot in the mattress and an indentation in the pillow, worn by Creighton’s body and head.
She could almost imagine how he’d thrown back the blankets when he got up that morning, carelessly, dislodging a few half-forgotten papers as he did so.
For some reason, this sent a shiver of warmth through her.
I shouldnae be here.
Oh, she had been thinking that ever since she first walked into the room. She shouldn’t be here, not in Creighton’s bedroom of all places, and definitely not sitting on his bed, her skirts getting tangled up in the crumpled mess of his sheets. Oh, no, this was a terrible idea. Terrible.
Swallowing back unease, Nora returned her attention to the reports.
The next was similar to the Cunningham report.
It detailed how soldiers made another incursion, this time into Bryden land.
This time, a middle-aged woman was taken hostage when the village men fought back.
Once the hostage was taken—dragged back across the clan boundaries—the men lost their fight, handing over the food and supplies the soldiers demanded. The woman was released promptly.