Chapter 9 #2
Magnus looked at the heavy oak door, at the dark corridor beyond it, at the vast shape of the castle settling into the cold evening around him.
“Then it willnae be watching anymore,” he said, his hand tightening on the hilt at his hip. “And we’ll be ready.”
Duncan said nothing. He nodded once, pulled his woolen cap back over his brow, and turned on his heel.
Magnus stood alone in his study. He pressed his palms flat against the dark wood of the desk, staring down at the ledgers open in front of him, the neat lines of figures waiting exactly where he had left them this morning.
He then let out a sigh and drew Jinny from her sheath, the polished length of the blade catching the low firelight. He turned her once in his grip before sliding her home again at his belt. He started walking toward the Great Hall.
* * *
Elspeth appeared in the doorway of the Great Hall wearing a dress he had never seen before. A deep, dark forest green. It was simple wool, with a neckline that was by every reasonable measure modest.
Her hair hung down her shoulders, loosely pinned back at the temples with small bone combs. The warm flare of the hearth fire caught the deep copper shades in it.
She looked at the long table, took in the rough men already seated, and smiled. She took the seat directly across from Duncan, which placed her diagonally from Magnus. It was, geometrically speaking, the worst arrangement available in the room.
She thanked the serving girl by name.
Magnus looked fixedly at his plate. He did not know how she had learned the girl’s name.
He had lived at Ben Cruachan for thirteen years.
He knew the girl’s face, her work, and the fact that she was efficient at it.
Elspeth had been here a mere four days and knew her name was Fenella, and now was deploying it with a quiet warmth that made the girl’s face light up with surprise and quiet joy.
“Fenella,” Elspeth said, leaning slightly forward. “Is there bread still? I apologize; I should have come down sooner.”
Fenella murmured that there was bread and hurried toward the kitchens.
Magnus cut into his venison.
“I was reading this afternoon,” Elspeth said to Duncan.
He looked up from his ale. “Aye? Find anything interesting in the dust?”
“There is an entire shelf of philosophy.” She reached for her wine chalice, her fingers slender against the dark pewter. “I didnae expect it.”
Duncan’s eyes flicked to Magnus. Magnus did not look up from his meat.
“The Laird’s a man of hidden dimensions,” Duncan said pleasantly.
“So I’m discovering,” she replied. “I found Horace,” she added softly. “The Odes. Do ye prefer them in the original Latin or the translation?”
He looked up. She was looking at him.
“Latin,” he said.
She blinked and quickly adjusted her expression. A small, silent recalibration of the man sitting before her. “Ye read Latin.”
“Aye.”
“I…” She paused, her eyes searching his flat expression. “Me apologies. I assumed—”
“Ye assumed wrong.” Magnus returned his attention to his venison, his knife scraping against the pewter. A beat of heavy silence passed. Then, composedly: “I read often.”
Duncan was smiling into his cup.
The meal continued. Elspeth spoke easily to Duncan about the grounds and the afternoon inspection.
“What are the courtship customs here?” she asked, her gaze sweeping around the table.
Magnus looked up from his plate, his voice dropping an octave. “There are none.”
It was a factual answer. He provided it as such.
She tilted her head, the firelight licking the line of her jaw. “None at all? Surely that cannae be.”
“People marry,” Magnus said flatly, “and they continue working.”
She smiled. “And what of love, me Laird?”
He looked at her. “Love?”
The word landed heavily and rather awkwardly in the drafty hall.
“Aye.” She rested her chin in her palm, comfortable as anything against the rough wood. “Quiet conversations. Walks beneath the stars. A picnic, perhaps, beside the loch.”
Magnus frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “Why would anyone stand outside at night?”
She blinked, genuinely taken aback. “To admire the stars?”
“There are wolves.”
The sound Duncan made was not a laugh so much as a violent cough, wine and amusement arriving simultaneously at an intersection in his throat he was unprepared for. He pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth, turning away from the table.
Elspeth looked at Magnus. She looked at Duncan choking. Then she shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on Magnus.
“Ye are utterly unromantic, Magnus Wallace.”
“Romance,” he said, his voice level, “is expensive and highly inefficient.”
She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again, her eyes wide. “Expensive?”
“The candles alone,” he said, returning to his plate with deliberate focus, “for the stars and the picnic ye’ve described would run a considerable expense. And the time spent standing outside in the damp could be used for something better.”
“Please,” she said, a breathless laugh catching in her throat. “Stop.”
Duncan had recovered sufficiently to drink his wine, though his eyes above the rim of his pewter cup were bright with mirth.
Magnus continued eating until his eyes betrayed him.
She leaned forward to reach the bread basket, a small, ordinary movement.
The neckline of the green dress was modest; he had already established this.
He had been thorough about it. And yet, as she moved, the flickering candlelight caught the smooth, pale curve of her collarbone, the long column of her throat, and the small, dark shadow at the base of it.
A sharp, tight heat flared in his gut. He looked away instantly.
He looked at his plate. He looked at the stone wall above her head. He looked at Duncan, who was no longer staring at him.
She was speaking again, her hands moving as she talked, small, elegant gestures to emphasize her point. Magnus kept his eyes fixed on the wall. The firelight danced across the rough granite.
Then she laughed at something Duncan muttered.
Magnus looked back. Just for a single second. The color was high in her cheeks, the same vibrant flush he had seen in the courtyard, the same one from the windy field, rising beautifully under the warm candlelight. She looked up and caught him staring.
A second. Less than a second.
Her chin rose slightly. The rich flush in her skin deepened. She did not look away in panic. Instead, she looked back at Duncan.
Magnus looked back at the wall.
He had finished his venison. He became acutely aware of his empty plate, of the untouched piece of bread he had been too distracted to eat.
He looked at the candle flame, and then, involuntarily, his eyes drifted right back to her. He traced the curve of her lips while she listened to his cousin.
Daenae look at them.
He stood up. The heavy wooden bench scraped loudly across the stone floor.
Duncan looked up. Elspeth’s eyes snapped to his. Magnus was already reaching for the pewter cup he had barely touched throughout the meal.
“Correspondence,” he said, his voice clipped and rough. “I’ll tend to it in the study.”
He turned on his heel and swiftly made his way out.
The stone corridor was significantly cooler than the hall, the draft cutting through his linen shirt. He crossed it with his hands tucked rigidly behind his back, intentionally avoiding thinking about the smooth curve of her collarbone.
His study was pitch black. He lit a single tallow candle, sat heavily behind his desk, and pulled the stack of correspondence toward him.
He focused on the top letter, a missive from an Inveraray merchant regarding winter grain that required an immediate response. He read the first line three times.
He set the paper down, his jaw tight.
Duncan appeared in the doorway soon enough.
“Ye should remove those poetry books from the library,” Magnus said, keeping his eyes down. “Before she finds more nonsense to discuss at the table.”
Duncan leaned casually against the doorframe.
“For someone who doesnae care,” he drawled, “ye’re trying very hard to stare everywhere else but at yer betrothed.”
Magnus looked up. His dark eyes locked onto his cousin’s face. He held Duncan’s gaze for one heavy moment. Then another.
“What does that mean?” Magnus asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Duncan only smiled. He pushed off the timber doorframe, turned around, and walked away down the dark corridor.
Magnus was left alone in the confined circle of candlelight. The letter from Inveraray lay before him, and Duncan’s words lay squarely in the middle of his desk.
Trying very hard to stare everywhere else.
He was not. He was managing his attention. He was directing it appropriately toward the plate, toward the walls, toward the ledgers that required his absolute focus. Because focus was what this fortress called for. Not the scent of roses. Not the pale skin of a woman’s throat.
He picked up the letter again. He read the first line. He set it down.
He looked up at the dark timber ceiling for a long moment, his chest rising with a heavy breath. Then he pulled the merchant’s letter back toward him, dipped his quill into the black ink, and began to write.