Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Present
The carriage rocked to a gentle halt, and Helena still nearly pitched forward—she’d been so far hunched over her book. Hastily tucking it away, then attempting to straighten from the shrimp-like posture she’d been in, she bit back a groan as her stiff back protested. There was the usual creaking of wood around her as the driver dismounted, then shouts and the tramping of boots.
But instead of hearing the posh English accent, she heard a thick Scottish brogue, and she felt a tingle as she began to gather up her things. Chiding herself for shaking hands, dropping items hither and thither, and gasping when the door was thrown open. As though the blue-eyed Highlander would be here, grinning as he extended a hand to help her down.
Instead, a grumpy older fellow, who looked more like a distant relative of a goat with pale amber eyes to boot, extended a gloved hand with a grunt.
“Out with ye, Milady,” he said, and Helena clambered down.
“Where—?”
“The staff will see to yer things. I’m off for a nip of coffee and toast—I suggest ye do the same.” And with that, the man trotted off.
Helena rolled her eyes and looked around, her breath catching as she gazed at the early morning sky. Just past dawn, it held hues of soft rose and blue, the air crisp, fresh, and so, so cold. Snow had fallen overnight, softening the edges of the world, giving the entire scene a more fairytale feel than perhaps necessary, seeing as how lovely, wild, and strange it all was.
Behind her was a well-trod road leading through woods and fields, while ahead of her was a huge arched gate into a bailey, with stables and folk trotting back and forth. Ahead of her, Banrose Castle rose, a massive and ancient stone beast, gleaming against the distant mountains. Over her right shoulder, she could see the snowy shore of the dark blue loch, the waters turning indigo, and her stomach flipped.
Just nerves. After all, like the Wicked Queen in a Fairytale, I stand before a castle where I might have reigned as its lady.
The very thought seemed laughable, and her hands twisted around her bag’s strap. No, Queen Marianna had erred in choosing her, and it was good that Providence interfered—to make Emma the lady of this beautiful place.
Still, Helena took it all in again and felt rather staggered. Never before had she been so far from home—or in a different country. It felt so far and unfamiliar from everything she’d ever known.
Goodness, what had it been like for Emma when she’d first arrived? Was she more comfortable now?
She must be, from the way she writes about Grant—I mean, Laird Ronson.
Feeling as though she were in a dream, Helena moved forward slowly, taking it all in and breathing in the fresh air.
How lovely to be alone and free on a morn like this. Not a single Scot gave her a second look as she walked in—they merely nodded and continued on their way. Her heart soared for a moment, and she wondered if she could find some nook in the northern tower to tuck herself in.
Where I may finally finish my work.
Up ahead, she heard men’s voices, laughing and jibing in the morning air. It sent a flutter of warmth around her heart.
She was glad to hear such merriment on Emma’s wedding day. She should’ve been here sooner. Alas, her father had forbidden it.
Not until she pointed out that it might appease the Queen had he relented. And only due to a mix-up that Helena may or may not have orchestrated did she manage to get there by herself.
That would not last long, though. Too soon, her father would send hunters after her again.
In the meantime, though, she could see Banrose’s library, about which Emma had written to her in great detail—and before Emma even woke up. Her friend would be abed for at least an hour or two, and it was a blessing to arrive so early, even though her driver had not agreed.
There was more masculine laughter, and Helena started forward, entering a small yard. She saw two tall and broad men there, both wearing rough clothes. Ah, perfect. Servants who could point her where she needed to go.
The one closest to her spoke with a rasping, low voice, threaded with a smoky sort of laugh. That nudged at something in Helena’s brain, and she wondered if he’d suffered some injury to his vocal cords to speak so. Perhaps, since he looked like a warrior, even as he grinned and laughed like a boy with his friend.
“Bastard,” the man said. “Are ye comin’?”
Then, he fell silent, glanced back… and started.
Helena’s eyes widened. Gracious, but what a handsome man. Dark hair pulled back from deep green eyes that inspected her with confusion.
Helena pushed up her glasses, straightening with a smile. “Greetings, do you work here?”
His friend made a sound like a laugh, while he seemed to bite back a grin. “I?—”
Helena wondered if she’d put her foot in it and hastened to say, to get this business over with and get inside, “Oh, good, I am a guest. But before I’m announced, is it true that Laird Ronson has a big library?” She tried not to sound too eager, too informed by her best friend, but she couldn’t help adding, “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about the Banrose book collection. Would it be possible for me to see it? Emma won’t mind a whit.”
The man’s expression changed somewhat, more intrigued now, and almost softer.
Helena felt a surge of amusement, and she was unable to stop herself from saying, “And once upon a time, I was meant to wed Laird Ronson.”
Now, the man straightened, and Helena almost took a step back. No longer did his posture hold ease and boyish grace, but the honed strength and angles of a warrior. Her stomach dipped as her brain called her a right ninny, and she felt her cheeks flush.
Too late . Oh, you are the farthest thing from someone who works here.
“Ach, we meet at last, Lady Helena,” Laird Ronson said, confirming her worst fears, and her stomach contracted. “Ye are late.”
Her mind reeled even as she was unable to move, save for her hands twisting the strap of her poor, beleaguered bag.
“You—you…” she stammered out, her lips numb. “Oh. Oh no.”
Are we meant to marry? What about Emma? You love her!
“I’m—”
“Enough, Grant,” someone snapped, and the numb feeling inside Helena vanished so fast that it was as though she’d been doused with hot water.
Her breath caught at that familiar tone, then the familiar lines as the Laird’s friend stepped around him and into view.
My stolen kiss.
Her heart seemed to lurch into her throat as he elbowed his friend and stepped closer, saying, “Enough, Grant. Ye had yer fun. And I shall show ye the damn books…”
You will? was Helena’s dazed thought along with the realization that he was even bigger and stronger than she remembered, his curls wilder and darker in the winter morning, the blue of his eye piercing. His beard was trimmed down, revealing more of those full, wicked lips.
For a moment, Helena, the most sensible and oft-derided Lady Highbrow, thought she might swoon.
Oh, you are everything I remembered and more.
“What was it?” He was still speaking to her, and she snapped out of it. “Lady Helena?”
Her entire body shivered at the sound of her name on his lips, and then her eyes went wide as he bowed. Yet, something about it felt mocking. Why was he pretending not to know her?
Their last words rushed into her mind—the way he’d challenged her, even mocked her, the clear way he’d thought her a fool for being so taken with him and his kiss. Those barbs still hurt, all these months later, and anger flashed through her as he straightened. She held onto it, wishing that she’d said something cutting. At the time, she’d felt indebted to him—like the fool she was.
How could she have ever told him that his kiss was grand? She should’ve lied.
“Well met, lass,” he said, and the jibe in his voice made her want to bite him, for she also knew he never would’ve believed such a lie. And then, he added, almost like another challenge, “ Laird MacCabe. Damien.”
Her eyes went wide at the faint emphasis on his title. Laird. She almost stepped back.
No.
Och aye, his gaze seemed to say.
Now, she really thought she might faint. Was he unwed? He must be. Oh, she’d stolen a kiss from an unwed laird!
“No,” she muttered under her breath.
I would have known.
Laird MacCabe took another step toward her, much like a wolf might when he’d cornered a doe, and Helena felt a surge of fury and frustration.
Was this why her father had relented? Had the Queen told him that an unwed laird would be at Emma’s wedding? The sinking sensation in her stomach was answer enough.
I will not marry you, Helena wanted to shout at him.
Then why do ye look like ye want to beg for another kiss, sweetheart? he seemed to say with just the curl of his lip.
Then, Laird Ronson was there, grabbing his friend’s shoulder and giving it a friendly shake. He seemed to sense something amiss between Laird MacCabe and Helena, for his tone was far too light, and his smile was tight at the corners.
“Damien is right,” he said. “I was uncouth. Forgive me, Lady Helena, I am in a joyous mood and actin’ foolish.” Helena watched as he expertly and politely shoved his friend away, then bowed. “Welcome to Banrose. Ye are welcome to all our books, always. And I ken Emma has been anxiously waitin’ for ye.”
This was the Grant in Emma’s letters, and she chided herself for not realizing he’d been attempting levity. Something she would’ve appreciated more if she did not feel the Queen’s Edict hanging over her head while an unmarried laird glared at her as though he’d like to challenge her to a duel.
Somehow, she managed to grasp a remnant of herself, to act as everyone expected Lady Highbrow to act, and said to Laird Ronson, “Oh, Emma said that you like to jest.”
Unable to help himself, Laird Ronson smiled, genuine joy lighting up his face, and she knew that he loved her dearest friend with all his heart.
“Yes, I can see how you two are well suited,” she mused aloud. “I am glad that you found each other, truly.” She smiled, then.
At least Emma, the most deserving and kindest person she’d ever known, had her happy ending.
“I can show ye inside,” Laird Ronson said, offering her his arm, but she shook her head.
It was clear that he was not up early on his wedding day to escort errant bookworms around Banrose.
“No, I can find my way.”
At that, she saw Laird MacCabe move, stalking off in the direction of the stables, and she lifted her chin higher. Good, she would have immediately refused if he’d thought to make such an offer.
“Thank you,” she said to Laird Ronson, hoping that he thought it was the cold causing her cheeks to flush and not his unruly friend.
Still, his calculating gaze and drawn eyebrows suggested otherwise, so she hurried in, telling herself not to mind the sense that he watched her go.
Even if her heart sank with the certainty that Laird Ronson meant to ask his friend how he’d met Lady Highbrow.
Overbearing, mercurial fool.
She turned on the top step just in time to see a rider pushing a horse hard through the snowy fields, his bad temper evident from here.
Wait. Her eyes went wide. Laird MacCabe clearly did not forget about me even though he pretended to.
She sagged against the stone entryway, her very breath stolen, and her shaking, gloved hand touched her lips.
Why?