Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
No one had expected such audacity from the Englishwoman. Not even Lachlan MacLeod.
He watched her, her chest rising and falling in the rain, rain dripping down her hair and onto her dress.
For a moment, he couldn’t determine if he was irritated or intrigued.
“Bold wee thing,” Finn, one of his men, muttered loudly enough to distract his thoughts.
The others murmured in agreement, an undercurrent of amusement and disbelief lacing their Gaelic words.
Lachlan straightened his back, his eyes darkening as he took her in.
She stood barely to his shoulders, her traveling gown soaked through and clinging to her body in all the wrong places.
Her chestnut-brown hair dripped water, tangling in wet ropes down her back as the rain whipped against her red cheeks.
Mud splattered up to the hem of her dress, and she shivered lightly.
And yet, her blue eyes glared at him, daring him to do his worst.
Her defiance struck him in a way only a few things could.
She raised her chin, holding out her damp copy of the deed, as though she truly believed that the piece of paper could bend the world to her will.
Lachlan frowned.
She isnae afraid.
Not only were the English forces constantly trying to suppress the Highlands, but now they also had the nerve to send one of their own to claim his inheritance barely months after his father’s death.
She was no match for him, and yet she dared to pose a threat to him and to the land his clan had worked hard to protect over the years, glaring at him like she had no intention of backing down.
Stubborn English lass.
He took a step closer, keeping his voice low and dangerous. The English were selfish, cunning, and disloyal—he’d learned that much from his English mother when she fled at the start of the war.
He couldn’t let Marian Whitcombe think she had a chance.
“Is it now?” he asked quietly, pointing to the piece of paper in her hand. It was starting to fall apart under the rain, folding and tearing at the edges. “Ye place a mighty trust in that flimsy scrap, lass.”
She shifted from one foot to the other before handing the torn copy of the deed to her maid and reaching for her reticule.
“I have better proof,” she said coolly, pulling out sealed papers untouched by the rain. “My uncle sent me as the rightful next-in-line heiress. The Crown confirmed the claim—”
“The Crown,” Lachlan scoffed, interrupting her with open contempt.
She continued, ignoring his interruption as if it were a minor inconvenience. “—and with my father’s passing, the estate transfers legally to me.”
She extended the documents toward him, and he hissed. The Crown had contributed nothing but troubles to his cause, and now it was the English lass’s leverage.
Useless piece of paper.
He took a step toward her, ignoring her outstretched arm and the document in it. Accepting it would mean acknowledging that English authority could rewrite centuries of Highland blood, and he wasn’t about to do that.
He leaned in until he was close enough, answering her in an even tone despite the blood boiling in his veins. “That land behind ye has belonged to me clan longer than yer kingdom has worn a crown. Tell your Crown it has nay claim here.”
Marian stiffened at the Highlander’s words.
It was no news to her that the Highlanders kept to their own customs. But to openly disregard the Crown like that… she hadn’t expected it.
She could feel the eyes of every Highlander burning into her. There was a fierce loyalty in their gazes, and it was clear where they all stood—right behind their Laird.
Perhaps they are right to be so. Glen Carrick is their home.
The castle was her rightful inheritance, but only under the assumption that it had been unoccupied for years. She hadn’t been aware that Clan MacLeod still existed and that they lived here.
Yet, her pride stiffened her voice as she spoke.
“Ownership is not a matter of tradition.”
I cannot let them force me away, either.
The Laird’s eyes flashed with something wild. His mouth curved faintly, but his expression was not amused.
“Aye,” he said, nodding like he was about to agree with her. “’Tis a matter of law. And law burns well in a hearth!”
She blinked, caught off guard by the vehemence in his tone.
Laughter rippled through his gathered men, and he turned to face them, slapping his hand against his chest twice.
Marian scoffed.
I cannot let their actions get to me.
“I did not come here to take anyone’s home,” she raised her voice, loud enough to interrupt their cheers. “But neither will I abandon what I was sent to claim.”
The silence that followed rivaled that of a graveyard.
The air shifted in the courtyard. Amusement ceased, and the atmosphere vibrated with a new, dangerous energy.
Laird MacLeod turned back to her, his eyes brimming with tightly leashed anger as he closed the space between them.
“Careful, Sassenach,” he said softly, his voice now far more dangerous than his earlier mockery. “I’ve been patient with ye so far. Daenae mistake that for weakness, or ye may find yerself learnin’ exactly how far me patience stretches.”
Marian’s heart skipped a beat. She felt a shiver run down her spine, but she could barely tell if it was from the rain or his cold tone.
“You cannot threaten me, sir,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes for the first time since their meeting.
“Laird,” he corrected coolly.
She straightened, lifting her chin. “My Laird…” She swallowed, the words feeling bitter in her mouth.
If she was going to get anything out of this, she had to play by his rules. For now.
She bent her head ever so slightly. “I beg your pardon. My manners seem to have deserted me. I was… rather taken by surprise.”
The Laird nodded, although he did not seem satisfied. His expression softened for a second before shifting again.
“Ye’re bold for someone who hasnae yet survived a night here, Mairi,” he said, smirking.
Mairi? Mairi?
The name struck her like a small slap, thick with his accent.
Can the Highlander not pronounce English names?
“It is Marian,” she said softly, trying not to sound indignant.
His eyes flickered with excitement as she waited for him to correct himself.
“Aye,” he said calmly. “Mairi.”
Marian’s jaw tightened. It was clear that he was doing it to annoy her, and it worked. The thought infuriated her, and so did his men’s laughter.
They must think me a joke.
She forced a smile, trying to hide how much of their teasing got to her.
“My Lady.” Lilly tugged at her sleeve again.
Marian had forgotten about her maid for a minute. The poor girl’s cheeks were rosy with embarrassment. And even though she hesitated, her eyes already conveyed the words she was about to say.
“Perhaps we should—”
A loud rattle of wheels behind them cut her off, and they both turned to look.
It was another carriage, rolling into the courtyard and splashing through the wet ground. Its passenger was a thin, balding man in a travel-stained coat.
He hurried out, clutching a leather satchel stuffed with papers and splashing mud with his boots.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he called out breathlessly. “The rain kept me.”
Marian hesitated.
Is he a friend of the Laird’s?
“I am the steward appointed from Edinburgh, Edward Calder. I was sent to welcome the new claimant and rightful owner of Glen Carrick, after the passin’ of Laird MacLeod and his direct heir. Lord…” He peered at his papers. “George Whitcombe.”
Marian’s pulse quickened. She stepped forward, answering him before realizing how absurd it looked.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, shifting slightly on her feet. “I am Marian Whitcombe. We sent word a week ago. My father has passed, and the estate now falls under my guardianship through my uncle and mother.”
“Ah…” The steward blinked, nodding slightly as she showed him the sealed document. “I see, me Lady.”
He raised his head to look at the Laird and his armed men, obviously trying to reconcile their relationship to her. But before he could speak, the Laird stepped forward to introduce himself.
“I am Lachlan MacLeod,” he said, folding his arms. “Laird of Clan MacLeod and this castle. And as ye can plainly see,” he added dryly, “I am nay ghost.”
The steward’s face went white, and Marian could have sworn that she heard the Laird snort. But there was no time to investigate.
The Laird continued, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. “The land remains mine. And I’ll haunt this castle long before I’m driven out of it.”
“Me… Me Laird,” the steward stammered, rifling through his satchel as if to find something. “It was widely reported that ye had fallen durin’ the last skirmishes in the north.”
“Ye assumed me dead?” The Laird raised his eyebrows.
The poor steward staggered backward. “Nay!” he sputtered, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. “Survivors claimed ye were left for dead, and unfortunately, nay messages reached Edinburgh to contradict it. I will have to return to Edinburgh for clarification,” he added, before rushing to leave.
“Wait!” Marian called after him. “What about the issue of my inheritance?”
He paused, thinking for a second. “Until the Crown and the elders respond… I suppose the ownership of the property is… ah… disputed.”
The courtyard fell into an awkward hush, save for the rattling of the carriage wheels as he left.
The Laird glanced toward Marian with a smirk on his face. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from his eyebrows.
Marian scoffed. “I refuse to accept this,” she started. “Clearly, you scared him off. You should—”
“Looks like ye’re stayin’ in me castle for a while, Sassenach,” he interrupted smoothly. “Ye’re welcome,” he added, before muttering something under his breath in Gaelic, low and rough.
Marian frowned. She heard none of what he had said, but the men’s snickering told her it was about her.
“What did you say?” she demanded sharply.
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “I said,” he replied slowly, “ye’d better find a chamber far from mine… if ye hope to sleep tonight.”