Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“Isimply daenae think I need a man’s assistance for this. What could Laird McArthur ken about... about flowers or tapestries or ribbons?”
Surely nothin’. Men like him are only good for one thing.
By all measures, Beatrice Boyd believed the affliction that struck her was far worse than her friend Annabel’s.
Hers was only a brief and passing illness that prevented her from participating in the preparations for the upcoming charity ball.
It was one thing to be sick with a cold, confined in the warmth of one’s furs and bedclothes, suffering in body but not in spirit.
It was quite another to be burdened with the assistance of said friend’s brother, who for all his good intentions would surely only succeed in making the preparations for the ball all that more difficult.
If I cannae have Annabel’s help, then I may as well do it on me own. Dorothea will help me more than enough.
However, Annabel had insisted that her brother come in her place to help her, and Beatrice agreed reluctantly. She could never say no to her friend.
Across from her, with a bouquet in progress in her hands, her sister, Dorothea, shrugged a shoulder that feigned she was far less invested in the planning than she truly was.
Her honey blonde hair fell over her shoulder with the movement like a curtain of burnished gold, and she tucked a strand behind her ear, the gesture as much a habit as it was nervousness.
“He may be of some assistance yet,” said Dorothea, though she didn’t sound very convinced of it herself. “Either way, he is almost here now.”
That much was true. Beatrice could hardly send him away now that the man had made the journey to Castle McLaren. Any time now, he would waltz in through the front gates, followed by his men and his pages—with the rumors that surrounded him trailing behind him like a storm cloud.
Beatrice, like every young woman in her group of friends who had been sent to Lady Brown to learn the manners and ways of a proper lady, had heard those rumors.
Some of them came from Annabel herself while others, the more sinister ones, came from women who claimed to know him—or women who claimed to know someone who knew someone who knew him. Either way, Beatrice had heard it all.
“Do ye think it’s true?” she asked Dorothea as she gathered a few flowers in her hands, trimming off the ends of their green stems. Their fragrance filled the drawing room that morning, a sweet scent diffusing to the very corners of it, clinging to their hair, their clothes, their skin.
Light, dim and tinted blue, flooded in through the grand windows that lined the far wall, overlooking the courtyard of Castle McLaren where servants and soldiers went about their days and their duties, their idle chatter filling the air.
The castle was alive with it, buzzing and beautiful, like a beehive operating under nature’s perfect calibration.
“What is true?” asked Dorothea.
“What they say... about him.”
Looking up from her bouquet of flowers, Dorothea arched an elegant brow. “I think there is a reason why there are rumors.”
“Aye,” said Beatrice. “I suppose ye’re right. When so many lasses are sayin’ the same thing, it can only be true.”
After all, why would they lie?
Laird McArthur’s reputation as a ladies’ man was nothing new and nothing shocking, at least not to Beatrice.
She had seen how cruel men could be when it came to their relations with women.
She had seen her sister suffer from it, ruined by a man who had taken advantage of her love and endless kindness.
How many lasses have suffered because of Laird McArthur?
“Although I am sure some of it is exaggerated,” said Dorothea after a moment of contemplation.
She placed her bouquet on the long, mahogany table that stretched between them, her bony fingers wrapping around the wooden handle of her work knife to cut through the next batch of stems. “Surely, it cannae be true that he has courted all those lasses. What laird has the time to do all this? He has wars to fight, strategies to plan... he must have courted half of them, if that.”
Beatrice considered this; there was no smoke without fire, but it was true that sometimes, the fire was much smaller than anyone expected it to be. But what if he didn’t court those women? What if all he needed was a few kind words and a charming smile, and they all fell at his feet?
She didn’t dare say such a thing to Dorothea, though. Her sister had gone through enough, and she didn’t need to start wondering if Beatrice thought her to be one of those women who were foolish enough to fall for a few kind words.
“Either way, ye should be wary of him,” Dorothea added after a stretch of silence, her brown eyes—a feature they shared—boring into her.
The look alone was enough of a warning for Beatrice, but her sister’s words were spoken with such gentleness and care that she would be a fool not to listen.
“Those rumors... I had heard of them before, and I dinnae take heed. Look where it got me.”
“Do ye think Laird McArthur is like him?” Beatrice asked.
She didn’t dare speak the name of the man who had betrayed her sister. No one in their home ever spoke it, not since he had left her, pregnant and hopeful, for a wealthier woman, a better alliance, a more advantageous marriage.
But Beatrice didn’t want to think Annabel’s brother could be like that.
She was such a kind, caring, loving girl that to think she would be related to such a beast was a tragedy in itself.
As much truth as there surely was in those rumors, Beatrice liked to think her friend would have confided in her if her brother was that shameless.
With a sigh, Dorothea shook her head. “I daenae ken,” she said. “But I do ken men like that can be very charmin’, and they ken how to speak to a lass. And ye... ye are very young, Beatrice. Ye have yer entire life ahead of ye, and I daenae wish for ye to make the same mistake I did.”
Beatrice didn’t think it was possible, not because she thought herself wiser or more mature than Dorothea had been at her age or because she was immune to mistakes but rather because she had seen the heartache and shame her sister had been subjected to after that vile man had left her.
Dorothea had given him everything—her love, her soul, her body—and he had given her nothing in return.
Only a child, a son whom she adored but who was also the reason why so many had shunned her.
“I willnae,” said Beatrice, and it was a promise she intended to keep—if not for herself, then for Dorothea, who would be broken if she saw her sister make the same mistake as her.
Beatrice never wanted to cause her any distress, any more shame, anything that could remind her of those days, weeks, months after her lover left her.
“I promise ye, Dorothea. There is nothin’ Laird McArthur can tell me that will fool me.
I have turned away plenty of suitors already, and I will continue to do so. ”
Dorothea gave her an amused look, the corner of her mouth ticking up in a tiny smile. “Ach, what will ye do then? Become a spinster?”
“If I must,” said Beatrice without missing a beat.
She had given it plenty of thought. So far, no man had proven himself worthy of her trust, and she doubted it would happen any time soon—if ever.
She had no real duty to marry for an alliance since their clan was strong and had plenty of allies already, nor was she under any obligation to find a husband who could take on the title of Laird McLaren since her brother, Duncan, would inherit it.
Duncan was away at Inveraray at the moment, already training for his future duties.
The life of a spinster didn’t sound so bad to her; she, Duncan, and Dorothea could spend their days together, raising Dorothea’s son and dealing with the castle.
But Dorothea didn’t seem so convinced about her plan. “It is wise to be wary,” she said, “but it is also wise to be open.”
“Open to what, exactly?” asked Beatrice.
“To love, to experiences... to being courted,” said Dorothea. “To findin’ yer mate.”
“Foolish notions for foolish lasses,” argued Beatrice with a shake of her head.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, one that wasn’t quite fair.
She had seen real love between a man and a woman.
She had seen it in their parents, who adored each other as much as they adored their three children.
But such love was rare. What were the chances of her finding it?
“If I am to wed, I will wed for an alliance. I will wed a man of Mother’s and Father’s choosin’, and I will be content. ”
Dorothea stared at her in silence, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as they did whenever her boy lied—rather unconvincingly—to her. “If ye say so.”
“I say so,” insisted Beatrice. “And so, it shall be.”