Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Laird MacLeod’s words followed Marian as she walked toward the castle doors.
Their meaning was unmistakable, and her cheeks burned, even though she refused to acknowledge why.
He intends to madden me.
She pushed her thoughts aside as she reached the doors, taking in their size and their age.
They were larger than anything she had ever seen. They were made of heavy oak, hanging on thick metal hinges that groaned loudly as the men pushed them open.
Marian paused at the threshold, lightly scraping the soles of her shoes against the stone. They were dark and wet from the rain, and stubborn mud had stuck to the fine leather, refusing to come off despite her efforts.
“It’s no use, my Lady,” Lilly muttered behind her.
Marian nodded. “So it seems.”
She glanced down, trying one last time to get the mud off before stepping forward anyway. She lifted her wet dress as she crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, her heart beating faster with anticipation.
The air was warmer inside, providing instant relief from the cold wind that had started to seep into her bones.
She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the woody scent of the hall and smoke from the fireplace.
Warm, at last.
The air smelled nothing like the perfumed halls of England, but it wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, it was natural and fresh.
Lilly sneezed. “My Lady,” she whispered, once she’d recovered, her eyes wandering across the hall. “Are we truly going to stay here?”
Marian smiled. It was no surprise that her maid wasn’t as eager as she was. The Great Hall of Glen Carrick was not in any way similar to what they knew in England. Nothing they’d seen today was.
She stood still for a moment, looking around as her mind noted every small detail.
It certainly is far from what I expected.
The hall was massive, just like the outside of the castle had suggested, with smoke-dark beams that stretched overhead like ribs to uphold the structure.
Marian walked slowly across the smooth stone floor, her gaze moving over the room with quiet attention.
Weapons of all sorts lined the stone wall. Swords, dirks, and knives of all shapes, resting against banners whose colors had long faded with time. Some of the blades had stain marks that looked like blood, and her gaze lingered on them.
Her hands curled slightly at her sides.
She had seen weapons before. As a child, she’d often sneak into her father’s drawing room to play with ceremonial blades. But these were different. These had been used.
“It is not as dreadful as you think,” she answered Lilly at last, still sporting a small smile on her lips.
She walked across the hall to the fireplace to take a closer look. It was large, just like everything else in Glen Carrick, with delicately carved arches and intricate patterns along the edges.
She tilted her head and leaned closer, feeling the soft kiss of the flames against her skin.
Suddenly, a piece of wood shifted, causing the flames to flare unexpectedly.
“Oh!” She jumped back, chuckling when she noticed the clanswomen staring at her with cautious intrigue in their wide eyes.
“Careful, my Lady,” Lilly whispered anxiously.
Marian stepped back, allowing her hair to fall safely away. She nodded and smiled at the clanswomen before shifting her attention to other things in the hall.
In the center stood a long table, large enough to accommodate several dozen men at a time. She trailed her fingers lightly along the edge, feeling the roughness of it.
The table bore many marks. Marks of the people who’d eaten, fought, and lived in Glen Carrick for years. It was aged, with scratches, stab wounds, and signs of many repairs. And yet, it stood sturdy, fit to withstand many more years of use.
Like a piece of history.
Marian sighed, her smile wavering slightly.
Glen Carrick was far from the ruin she’d expected to find.
It was a home, bearing the souls of generations that had lived in it for years. It was a fortress, bearing the marks of hardship and the bond of a clan wound so tightly together.
It was lived in.
Lachlan did not enjoy the sight of a Sassenach walking through his halls as though she belonged in them.
He leaned against the stone wall, his brow furrowing as he watched her smile, leaning into the hearth without a single fear in the world.
English lass… bold as she is foolish.
Her long chestnut-brown hair fell just as the flame flared, and he jumped forward—a reflex he was grateful no one noticed. The entire room was staring at her, even the busy clanswomen.
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely as he watched her walk across the hall. Her steps were gentle, as though she were scared to wear out the already smooth stone floor.
She cannae last here.
His lips tightened into a thin line as she approached the old, long table.
He had expected her to look disgusted. To hold her hands up and walk out of the castle, back to whatever part of England she came from. Instead, she traced the rough surface of the table with the tips of her fingers, lingering on its scars like she understood what stories they told.
His jaw tightened slightly.
This was not the reaction he’d expected from a Sassenach dressed in fine fabrics and silk gloves. Like most Englishwomen, he’d expected her to look down on his castle and call it crude. But she did none of that.
He took a step closer, his eyebrows raised in suspicion as he followed several paces behind her.
I ken what she’s doin’.
He adjusted his posture when she paused in front of a row of portraits mounted high along the far wall.
She’s tryin’ to gather clues against me clan.
He moved closer to her, close enough that she would feel his eyes boring into the back of her neck if she paid any mind to it. But she didn’t seem to.
She stood in the same spot for minutes, staring at the faces of his ancestors as if she had known them personally. Finally, she moved, only to freeze again in front of his father’s portrait. Her shoulders dropped ever so slightly.
Lachlan cleared his throat loudly enough to draw her out of her daze, and she jumped, whipping around to look at him. He caught a glimpse of her expression before she lowered her gaze.
“Excuse me.” Her voice cracked before she moved away from the portrait wall.
Lachlan looked away.
The sudden shift in her mood caught him off guard. He had not expected himself to be so displeased by it, but something within him chafed.
He frowned.
Did the lass finally realize that Glen Carrick is nay place for a Sassenach like her?
Marian did not know how long she’d been staring for.
Seeing the stern faces of the weathered men who had fought to protect the castle while her family lived in England made her realize something important—Glen Carrick was never waiting for her. It already had a life, long before she had arrived.
Her throat tightened at the thought.
She felt a sting in her heart as her eyes fell on the last portrait—a man with an unmistakable resemblance to the Laird, with the same broad shoulders and the same steely gaze.
Next to the portrait was an empty space where, she imagined, the Laird’s picture would someday go, if no one forced him out of his home.
A sudden sound behind her made her jump. It was the Laird, she realized after she turned to face him, but it was too late to compose herself.
“Excuse me,” she whispered and quickly moved away from the portrait wall to find her maid.
“Are you all right, my Lady?” Lilly whispered.
Marian nodded, forcing a smile before anyone else could notice.
Unsatisfied, Lilly searched her face for answers, but Marian turned back to face the Laird again, holding her chin high. He studied her for a minute before speaking.
“As ye have seen with yer eyes,” he said coolly, “if ye’re searchin’ for luxury, ye’ll nae find it here.”
Marian held his gaze, her voice quiet but steady. “I wasn’t searching for luxury, my Laird. I was searching for… something else.”
He frowned at that. Then he cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on her as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve.
“Mrs. Campbell,” he called.
A round, middle-aged woman emerged from a side passage, wiping her hands on her apron. A practiced smile played on her lips, and her eyes quickly landed on Marian and Lilly.
“Aye, me Laird?” Her voice was softer than she looked.
The Laird turned to face her. “These are our… guests,” he said. “Show them to a chamber, and make them feel… welcome.” The word sounded strained, as if he would rather have them kept in the dungeons.
Mrs. Campbell’s eyebrows flew up with interest, but she nodded briskly.
The Laird glanced back at Marian. “Mrs. Campbell is the housekeeper,” he said. “Follow her, Mairi. Tomorrow mornin’, I’ll send for ye. We need to talk.”
Marian frowned at the name, but quickly decided she wasn’t in the mood for a rebuttal. She folded her hands calmly.
“Yes,” she replied coolly. “We certainly do.”