Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
Music filled the wintry air, along with the intoxicating scents of woodsmoke, whisky, and sweets. Helena walked along, taking in the sights, the merry folk, the toasts, and the children underfoot. It seemed that no one should have a heavy heart on such a night. And yet she found herself struggling to smile.
On the other side of the lines of whirling dancers, it was easy enough to spot the wide shoulders of Laird Ronson, grinning as he conversed with an equally massive and muscular laird. This man had terrible scars on one side of his face, yet they did not detract from how handsome he was, and he was softened by the absolute love in his eyes as he gazed at his pretty, plump wife, Agnes.
It had been a shock to meet Emma’s twin, though Helena had, of course, heard of her, and how Agnes had married Laird MacLarsen in Emma’s stead. Though the twins were not identical, they were similar enough that even Helena, who’d known Emma all her life, had looked twice.
The sisters stood together now, laughing at their husbands and leaning into each other.
Helena’s heart gave a fierce throb of joy. Ah, but she was so happy for her friend and her sister. The two of them had defied the Queen’s Edict in a way, and yet when they’d married, they’d also found love and protection—and respect.
Deep down, Helena’s heartstrings got tangled as the cold, sick intuition filled her. Of course, these two good, sweet women would have these strong, brutal warriors worshipping the ground they walked on. Those men had the sense to—and good hearts tucked under that muscle to love those good, wonderful women.
Meanwhile, Helena had always known that she’d be lucky to get a husband who tolerated her and gave her a bit of respect on occasion. But never love.
Her throat tightened. Even if she was “pretty enough, despite being so tall,” as more than one suitor had said, her sharp mind, her quick wit, and her aloofness were more than any man could bear.
And those had been Englishmen.
Helena put a hand on her cheek, unable to even imagine how she and Laird Ronson would’ve been wed, never mind any others of his ilk. It was bloody unfair to force Scots to marry English ladies, never mind a bluestocking like her.
Emma was far more adaptable and braver than she gave herself credit for, which Helena knew.
She’d wondered if Emma had given herself a chance to see and live in Scotland, if she might thrive here. There was always that longing for more than Emma had—which Emma had told Helena she’d find in London. But now Helena knew she’d been mistaken—Emma had looked to the south when she should’ve looked to the north.
As for herself… Helena let out a rueful sigh. Perhaps she should not have come, but instead fled to Greece. Yet, she’d wanted to see Emma, explain her plans, and bid her a final farewell.
So, why did this melancholy weigh on her heart?
Perhaps I am already regretting the fact that I will never see Emma again or see her family grow. Perhaps, too, it is never enjoyable to see how badly one would fail at something.
Helena had never been one to flinch from the truth, not with a father who did not stop himself from saying exactly what came to his mind more than he could breathe.
Perhaps I had some foolish hope that I might prove him wrong—that I could be both a scholar and a lady.
Instead, the entire affair seemed to make Helena realize how truly foolish she’d been. It had also been a silly risk to come here—and she decided she’d leave now, during the peak of the celebration. She’d write Emma a note and slip out.
She began to make her way toward the path back to the castle when Laird MacCabe stepped in front of her, inclining his head in a sardonic nod and offering her a drink.
Swallowing her protest, she thanked him and took the cup, barely able to get a mouthful down. All the while, he stood there, silent and brooding.
Finally, Helena gave up the drink as a bad job, set it aside on the table, and then glanced at the Laird. He seemed focused on the dancing, and yet her stomach swooped with foreboding.
She needed to get out of here.
About to make her excuses, Laird MacCabe said, out of nowhere, “Ye havenae danced yet, Lady Helena.” Her breath hitched. Though he used her title, he spoke with too much familiarity, and he’d been watching her. The sidelong glance told her as much. “Why?”
“I-I don’t care to,” she got out, hating how easily he wrongfooted her.
Most men, she easily outmaneuvered, which they hated. She bit her cheek, now realizing she was taking her own medicine.
“And no one has asked.”
Her eyes closed briefly. Why on earth had she revealed that to him, of all people?
“Perhaps if ye stayed still, rather than pacin’ like a caged lion waitin’ for the right moment to slip through the bars.” Her eyes flew open as Laird MacCabe loomed over her. “Ye cannae leave in the middle of a wedding, sweetheart. Terrible form. Dinnae the English ken a bloody thing?”
Her lips parted. “I was not leavin’. I merely wanted a bit of quiet.”
Laird MacCabe furrowed his brow, and he seemed almost disappointed as he glanced at her. “And now ye’re lyin’? Why?”
“Why are you watching me?”
The infuriating man had the audacity to smirk and tilt his head to the side, taking his time to finish his drink, his powerful throat moving as he swallowed. Then, he set aside his cup and turned to face her, folding his arms. “Guess.”
Helena’s hands clenched as she faced him, too. “All that to simply mock me?”
“Mock ye?” he asked. “Come now, lass, ye ken me better than that.”
“I don’t know you at all,” Helena hissed. “Not your bloody name, not that you were a laird?—”
His smile could have cut glass as he leaned in. “Is that why ye’re so angry with me? Mayhap ye should’ve asked before we—” He shrugged, a gasped. “Well, hm, ye were there.”
Helena knew that she should walk away, make her excuses, and not get dragged further into this game. Yet, she could not stop herself, because she knew, she knew down to her marrow what would rile up this Laird and she could not resist.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said in her most even tone and then let out a small trill, the fake laugh she’d learned to wield at Court. “After all, I think we both forgot that we only met this morning, Sir.”
A muscle jumped in Laird MacCabe’s cheek, and his eye went colder than the depths of a winter sky. “Aye, how could I forget, Lady ? Only this morning.”
“Exactly,” Helena said. “When I did not realize you were a laird.” She curtseyed deeply. “My apologies. Is that better?”
A small thrill ran through Helena as his arms dropped to his sides and he took a step forward, his posture screaming, it is bloody not, even as he said, “I dinnae believe so, lady. I owe ye a debt—nay, a dance, I think.”
Helena sucked in a breath, and his grin became wolfish. “No, no,” she said even as he drew closer. “That is not—don’t you dare.”
“I do, though, sweetheart,” he said in a murmur. “Ye cannae ken how much I love to dance, and it had been a long, long time since I’d stepped with a lass. Dinnae back down now.”
“That is not what I am doing,” Helena scoffed. “I do not fear you, even if you want folk to.”
“Nae ye—never ye,” he said.
Before she could make sense of that, he’d caught her with ease and spun her onto the dance floor even as she futilely tried to drag her feet—or kick him.
“Stop, I’m already enjoyin’ meself too much without yer attempts to pretend ye’re fightin’ back.”
“I assure you,” Helena hissed. “I am not pretending.”
“Lass, lass.” He tsked into her hair. “I ken ye are smart enough to ken that the way to stop a man is to knee him straight in the balls. And since mine arenae injured—” He laughed as she tried to do that. “Cheeky bird. What did I just warn ye of?”
Helena sucked in a breath and tried to calm herself. She did not want to take down a laird in the middle of Emma’s wedding with such a move. Or rather, she knew that she shouldn’t want to do such a thing.
Instead, she let him lead her around, hating that part of her heart soared as they spun together. He was so strong and tall, the best partner she’d ever stepped with, and she’d always loved to dance—yet so few had asked, and not one had danced with her like this.
Still, this was dangerous.
Unwed laird.
“What do you want?” Helena demanded and leaned back to look into his face. Her heart jolted when his gaze focused on her, intent and singular, as though he saw nothing else. “From me, I mean.”
“I ken what ye meant,” he murmured. “And to dance.”
Helena rolled her eyes. “There are plenty of young women?—”
“And they are all afraid of me, of course.” She stared at him, and he offered a crooked grin. “With good reason.”
Helena couldn’t help it—she snorted and muttered, “Afraid of what? Your enormous ego or your foolish quips?”
At that, Laird MacCabe stared at her, and then a rough burst of sound that was almost a laugh escaped him.
Helena bit back a grin, trying to glare at him, but as they whirled, she saw more than one wide-eyed expression and heads bending together in the crowd.
That sent a surge of frustration through her and an ache around her heart. He made light of it, but it was lonely, sometimes, to choose to be yourself and thumb your nose at the world.
For that reason, Helena fell silent and decided she would continue to dance with him. Perhaps, then, some other lass might grow a bit of courage to dance with him too. And that was clearly why, when Laird MacCabe bowed at the end of a dance, she held out her hand to another. Not seeing him grin or obliging her or keeping him to herself.
They danced and danced, even as the stars began to shift overhead, and Helena knew she should’ve left long, long ago. She was not sure how much time had passed, only that she was waiting for him to break the silence, and yet he had not.
Not thinking, yet feeling she should, because such a man should be dancing with all the pretty lasses, Helena broke the silence. “Perhaps you simply need to…” she trailed off, thinking of all the times that someone had told her to do less of this or more of that.
“God, no. Never mind.”
“Glad ye caught yerself.” He executed a sharp turn that made her breath catch, and a laugh bubbled up her throat. “Canny thing. And mayhap even if I’d been asked—for I ken I’m nae a bad-lookin’ fellow, despite the beard and patch, just a scary blighter—I would have only danced with ye.”
At that, the song ended, and applause rang out.
Helena took the chance to give Laird MacCabe the slip, her entire body seething again, her hands shaking with rage. That asinine brute. How dare he toy with her so? Had he just danced with her to toy with her emotions?
Clearly, the answer is yes. Since he knows that he could get another woman to dance.
Now, it was easy to sneak out of the crowd and begin the trek back to Banrose Castle. However, as she drew even with the walls of the garden, she heard steps behind her and whirled.
This time, Laird MacCabe had the sense to step back as Helena attempted to drive her knee into his groin.
“What was that for, ye minx?” he bit out and went to grab her, but she shook him off. “Hel—Lady Helena. What’s happened?”
“Leave me alone,” she snarled. “I don’t know what game this is?—”
He stepped closer to her, and she tried to shove at him, causing him to shake his head. “Lass, I admire yer fortitude, but ye must see the difference in our sizes for all that ye are a tall creature.”
Her shoulders leaped up, and she shoved at him harder. “Get out of my way, Laird MacCabe.”
“Nay,” he said and caught her arm as she went to storm by him. “For I am also keen on kennin’ what game ye are playin’.”
That gave Helena pause, and she stared at him, her chest rising and falling.
The purpling sky filled with stars, causing the tangle of his hair to look like unruly velvet. “Whatever could you mean?”
Laird MacCabe dragged her closer. “Actin’ like we’ve never met, sweetheart. Like I didnae save yer skin.”