Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Ido not fancy that name,” Marian said, rolling her eyes as she turned to face him.
She should have stepped away sooner.
She had underestimated how closely the Laird was standing before she turned, and now there were merely a few inches of space between them—if it could even be called space at all.
She raised her chin, pretending that his closeness did not faze her. She maintained her composure despite his intoxicating scent and its effect on her.
“It is Marian,” she said softly as she met his eyes. “Laird MacLeod.”
The Laird’s gaze darkened with the same intensity she’d seen when he had caught her in the library. Her heart skipped a beat as the memory flashed through her mind.
She stepped back until her back hit the wall. She gasped, her cheeks reddening as her gaze dropped to his arms. The same arms that had felt like steel when they wrapped around her.
She could hardly help herself.
In between their search for the ghost, he must have rolled up his sleeves. His muscles flexed slightly, and his veins bulged even as he crossed his arms.
She swallowed hard.
Her mind replayed that moment until her cheeks turned red, and suddenly, it felt like she was living it all over again—the pounding of her heart, the dryness of her mouth, and the absurd, insistent flutter in her stomach.
This is ridiculous.
She cleared her throat and stepped away from him.
The Laird did not say a word. His eyes followed her, watching as she looked around the corridor for the cat as though she had suddenly developed an interest in it.
“Your ghost appears to have lost interest in haunting me,” she said dryly.
He shrugged, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile. “Perhaps ye frightened it away with yer shoutin’.”
“My shouting?” Marian rolled her eyes again, but she did not wait for a response this time.
She walked up and down the corridor awkwardly, still conscious of his dark, burning eyes on her. She tucked some curls behind her ear, bending as she pretended to study the pattern on the stone floors and walls, anything that might justify her sudden interest in her surroundings.
Anything at all was easier than looking at the Laird right now. Easier than acknowledging that they were the only two people in this small space, and that her pulse had yet to settle.
His gaze on her did not make things any better.
She breathed in and out deeply, acutely aware of every little movement her body made, including the heavy rise and fall of her chest.
Why won’t he stop staring? Perhaps it is because I avoid his eyes.
She glanced at him. No, she glared at him, and still, she couldn’t feel the ease she had carried only moments ago.
I need to get out of here.
Her eyes fell on the staircase, and she held her breath for a moment. Her eyes narrowed as she peered up the flight of endless steps.
I do not know where that leads.
Still, anything seemed better than remaining in that narrow corridor with him.
She quickened her pace, climbing the long flight of stairs without stopping to breathe. They were longer than they had any right to be, narrow, winding, and uneven beneath her feet.
Her breathing grew shallow as she climbed, her hands brushing against the walls for balance. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard his footsteps behind her, and that somehow managed to make it worse.
He must think that I’m trying to flee.
Heat rose to her cheeks at the thought, and she quickened her pace again, determined to reach the top before he did.
“Mairi!” the Laird called out with urgency once she reached the top, but she ignored him, looking around the upper hall in breathless awe.
It is so… different.
Marian had never been to this part of the castle before. Until that moment, she hadn’t even heard of its existence.
The air felt different, still, with a certain warmth that the rest of Glen Carrick did not possess. There were no windows overlooking the outside of the castle, and torches lit up the space, their dim light leaving pockets of shadows that stretched along the walls.
This must be where he came from.
She ran her fingers over the walls as she turned into a corridor. The stones were rougher, as though fewer hands had passed this way over the years.
Marian walked ahead, her curiosity pulling her toward the far end of the corridor, where it twisted and narrowed into older stone.
What is this place?
She touched the walls again, and this time, they were devoid of the warmth she’d felt earlier as she passed by unused chambers.
A chill ran through her, and she slowed down, approaching a cracked door that let out a sliver of soft light.
Is this where Lachlan was?
Marian swallowed. She had just thought of the Laird by his first name.
She pushed the door further open.
Her chest tightened with a feeling that she couldn’t understand, her heart breaking at the sight of the chamber.
It was not in a state of disarray. No. It was the most beautiful chamber she’d ever seen. Unlike the rest of the unused chambers she had passed by, there was not a speck of dust in sight.
She stood still at the threshold, her eyes falling on the bed beside the window—the first and only window she would find on this floor.
The bed had a tall canopy, draped in beautiful pink linen, with delicate embroidery along its edges and red tassels at its corners.
On the other side of the room stood a narrow table, with an unfinished embroidery frame and an open book atop it. Its pages were worn, and a dried rose stem was nestled between them.
A token of love, perhaps.
Her eyes stung, her throat tightening as she blinked back tears.
It is not an abandoned chamber.
She had stumbled upon a memory that was not hers, and yet she understood it so well.
The air carried a faint scent of something floral, softened with time but not entirely gone. It lingered in the linens, in the stillness, in the very space itself.
This chamber is alive.
Marian inhaled before taking a step inside, feeling the warmth of the room wrap around her in a way that felt both strange and familiar. Her gaze moved gently over the objects left behind.
She stopped in front of the open wardrobe by the door, her eyes immediately catching the intricate detailing on the first dress. She reached out to feel it, but her fingers hovered over the fabric, afraid to touch something that looked too precious.
Suddenly, someone snatched her hand from behind.
Marian jumped, letting out a gasp. She had been so absorbed in the room that she’d forgotten about his presence altogether.
Lachlan stepped in front of her, his chest heaving. He braced his other hand against the wardrobe, and she looked up at him, immediately sensing a shift.
Something in him had changed.
For a moment, he said nothing. His jaw tightened, sharper at that moment than it had been the first time she had seen him. His face was hard, stripped of any trace of his earlier amusement.
His chest rose slowly with a measured breath. His brow furrowed in a way that accentuated his scar.
His eyes darkened dangerously, and his hand curled tighter against the wardrobe, yet his grip on her arm remained gentle. His gaze shifted past her into the room behind, lingering there only for a brief moment. When it returned to her, whatever softness had been there before had entirely vanished.
Have I angered him by wandering here?
“My Laird…” Marian whispered, unsure of what to say.
She briefly considered offering an apology, but he spoke before she could.
“Leave,” he said through gritted teeth.
Marian stepped back, her jaw hanging slightly open in surprise.
“What?” the question slipped past her lips in an almost whisper.
Lachlan’s throat tightened. The air in the room was heavier around him, pressing down on his shoulders like a weight. And yet, she just stood there, innocent, curious, and English.
His nostrils flared, and his knuckles turned white.
“I told ye before,” he said, his voice rougher than he had intended. “There are parts of this castle that answer only to me.”
His words were sharp enough to cut through stone, making her flinch.
Good. Let her flinch.
His gaze dropped to her parted lips for a moment, and his jaw tightened.
’Tis better than—
He released his grip on her arm, one finger at a time, then dragged his hand down his face with a low grunt.
Marian looked at him, confusion written all over her face.
She doesnae understand. How could she?
His gaze flicked past her into the room. His mother’s bed, the embroidery, the dried rose stem…
Sassenach.
Marian was English, just like his mother. And the best thing Englishwomen knew to do was wander into places they had no business being in, make men believe they’d stay, and then vanish the moment things grew difficult.
His hand twitched against the wardrobe as he glared down at her. She was standing in the same space his mother had once occupied, her hand hovering over the dresses as though she had a right to them. As though she had a right to him.
She was trampling over his deepest wounds as though they were just another part of her Highland adventure.
“I didn’t realize—” she started, but he raised his hand, cutting her off.
“Ye werenae meant to.” His jaw tightened as he stepped back, putting space between them. “This chamber isnae for guests.”
And that’s all ye’ll ever be, Mairi.
He needed to remember it himself more than he needed her to understand it, so he did not say it out loud.
Marian hesitated. Her gaze flicked once more to the dried rose stem and the unfinished embroidery frame. Then she nodded.
“All right,” she whispered.
Lachlan stepped aside without another word, his chest tightening at how easily she’d agreed to leave.
She stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his side just enough to set his teeth on edge. She paused at the doorway, looking back at him only once.
“I meant no disrespect,” she murmured.
Lachlan did not respond. He couldn’t.
’Tis better that she hates me now.
He closed the door behind her with quiet finality, leaving her alone in the corridor.