Chapter 5
Dawn took its sweet time in arriving, but when her maid walked in and opened the curtains, letting the rays of the early morning sun caress her face, Sorcha immediately opened her eyes.
“‘Tis strange,” Poppy said, her mouth dropping open in shock.
“What is?” Sorcha asked, sitting up and throwing her mussed hair over her shoulder.
It would take quite a while to untangle the mess it had become, no thanks to her brilliant plan to behave like a demon-possessed lass in the hope of scaring the new Laird away.
Now that she thought about it, it was a foolhardy plan. Not only did it not work, but now she also had to deal with the humiliation of being bested at her own game and untangling her hair.
“Ye never wake up on yer own. Imagine me shock to see ye wide awake this morn’. It didnae seem like ye had enough sleep. What is the matter?” Poppy replied, concern and suspicion warring in her grey eyes.
The maid was way too perceptive for her own good. It was almost difficult to hide anything from her.
“There is nothing amiss. I might have just decided to turn a new leaf, set a good example as the lady of the castle.”
“Hmmph,” Poppy snorted. “And I’m sure I would spot pigs flyin’ if I look out the window.”
“Poppy!” Sorcha chided.
“I am nae a bairn, me Lady. Ye have giant black rings around yer eyes,” Poppy said, gesturing to her face.
“And yer hair looks like a bird’s nest. I am guessin’ we will have a devil of a time untanglin’ it.
I wager that ye spent last night doing something other than sleeping.
Something that reeks of mischief. But that nay concern of mine.
Come.” She took her hands and helped her out of bed.
Damn her quick mind. She was correct in a way. Instead of sleeping, Sorcha had been trying to drive the handsome Laird away and lusting after him.
The man was infuriating, and that was the reason why she had yet to find sleep since he had left her room after laying waste to her carefully laid plans and her senses as well.
Even now, she could still feel his touch on her lips, the press of the ribbon around her mouth. She remembered the amused satisfaction in his eyes as he had made her aware that he had caught on to her game. She also remembered when that amusement had turned into lust as he had stared at her lips.
She had wanted what his eyes had promised, even though she had known just how life-altering indulging him would be. But it had not mattered.
It was his fault. He could have stayed wherever he was and not returned to Dunrath to turn everything on its head and order her around, as if she were unwanted furniture instead of the lady she was.
By all accounts, she was the widow of the former Laird. It was certainly improper for William to barge into her bedchamber at such a late hour, and it was even more improper for him to touch her lips, even if it was to chase away her ‘nightmares’ in a sense.
Somehow, she did not think that a man who had embraced the title of a traitor’s son would care for what was proper.
Perhaps it was normal for him to behave in such an uncouth way, but she had no excuse for the thrill that had coursed through her when he had touched her.
And God, she had frozen when he tied the ribbon around her mouth.
Shaking off the heated images, she rushed to disabuse Poppy of her conclusion.
“I daenae ken what ye speak of. I might just have had a nightmare.”
“Except ye daenae have night terrors. Ye could sleep like a bairn on a battlefield, so there is nay chance of that. The truth is, I am grateful for that. Any other lass would be waking up in a cold sweat every night if she had suffered even half of what ye’ve been through,” Poppy said, her voice softening. It brought a smile to Sorcha’s lips.
For all her censure and nagging, Poppy reminded her of a mother hen. She was still a dear friend who understood and loved her the most—apart from her father and Caelan, of course.
Quietly, Sorcha allowed Poppy to lead her to the steaming bath. She lowered herself into the water and closed her eyes in pleasure as her muscles relaxed and the tension left her shoulders. At least for a short while.
Poppy moved around the room, possibly choosing and laying out dresses.
Not that there was anything exciting about her dresses.
Since her husband died, Sorcha had to wear mourning weeds and had only just switched to colors like brown and grey.
Depressing colors, as far as she was concerned, but it was custom, even though the man had only been her husband for barely half a day before he cocked up his toes.
The moment the priest had pronounced them man and wife, she had accepted that she had become his widow. But there was something she never understood: his daughters.
While she was far removed from grief, since she had no feelings for him, her stepdaughters seemed even more distant. They had barely reacted when they learned that their father had died.
At first, she had attributed their behavior to the shock that might follow such traumatic news. But over time, she had come to realize that there was something deeper that caused those two young ladies to be unaffected by the death of their father. Something strange.
Shaking her head once more, she reminded herself that she had no time to pity the girls, when she was the one who most needed mercy, seeing as she might soon become homeless if William made good on his threat to evict her.
She needed to come up with a better plan, and soon.
Her activities of the day had not sparked a new idea on how to avoid eviction, but she was not surprised.
The cook, while she was friendly, was not the person to seek when planning to manipulate the new Laird, and since Sorcha had spent the better part of the day planning and preparing meals with her, it was little wonder that she had not made any headway in her escape plan.
While it was certainly unheard of for a lady to be seen in the kitchens helping to prepare meals, she had always enjoyed cooking, despite Poppy’s and her father’s disapproval.
Besides, she could either die of boredom in her bedchamber or do what made her happy and distracted her from her growing irritation with the new Laird.
While it had worked at the time, she could feel that irritation returning as she sat opposite William at the dining table. The man looked far more delicious than any man had the right to be.
She watched as he spooned some soup into his mouth, quite oblivious to the glare she was leveling him with.
But then his attention was fixed elsewhere.
Those deep brown orbs of his took in the room like he was committing it to memory, or he had an important message to deliver and wanted to gauge their guests’ mood.
It seemed it was the latter, because in the next moment, he raised his tankard of ale and tapped it with the spoon, swiftly drawing everyone’s attention. The banter died down, and all eyes turned in his direction.
When he was sure he had their attention, he set the tankard down, then spoke loudly so that his voice carried across the hall. His tone rang with quiet authority that dared anyone to challenge him.
“I am pleased with how ye all welcomed me back home—”
That was either a blatant lie or sarcasm.
“I didnae realize how much I have missed home. I am happy to be here with me people. I have certainly missed the memories these walls hold. I am honored to return here as yer Laird. To celebrate me return, I would like to host a cèilidh a fortnight from now,” he announced with a wide smile that belied the sharp vigilance in his eyes.
He was provoking them just to see their reactions. He was a better manipulator than she had imagined.
As expected, murmurs rose immediately.
“It is far too soon, me Laird,” Gregor forced out, as if it hurt him to call William by his new title. “We have yet to come out of mourning. It isnae proper to have a feast when we are supposed to be mourning.”
“A dreary cloud has been hanging over this place since me arrival. The man has been dead for months; it might be better if we all moved on.”
“But he was a beloved laird—” Fergus started.
“And ye have a new laird now. It might be better if ye spend yer energy on serving yer new laird than mourning a dead one. Do ye nae think?” William asked with a dark chuckle, his head tilted in challenge.
Sorcha shifted her gaze to the girls. After all, they were the only blood relatives of the dead Laird.
She had expected to see outrage at the haste with which William was so eager to erase their father’s legacy.
However, what she saw was anything but. The girls were bent over their plates, eating with gusto.
If she had not known better and seen the strong resemblance between the former Laird and his daughters, she might have thought the girls were adopted. Which confirmed her suspicion that all had not been right between the former Laird and his daughters.
Perhaps more of an enigma than his master was Myles.
At first glance, he gave off an air of insouciance, his legs spread as he leaned back in his seat and downed his ale.
It would have been so easy to write him off as a never-do-well had she not seen how his eyes swept across the hall while he feigned interest in his drink.
What had she expected? The man was a guard, for heaven’s sake. Being vigilant was part of his job, especially since his master was one of the most hated men in Dunrath, and they had most likely come here for revenge. It seemed that they had planned it quite thoroughly.
“What has ye so quiet, me Lady?” Caelan asked from beside her. “It seems ye find the newcomers more interesting than this fantastic meal.”
“He is doing this to pick out his uncle’s supporters while searching for me replacement.”
“Replacement?” Caelan sputtered, dropping his cutlery to face her fully. “What are ye talking about?”