Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Castle MacLaren stood in front of Campbell, proud and gleaming, the sight of it filling him with unease. The stones, sandy-colored and bright under the morning sun, were punctuated by large, arching windows, their glass reflecting the golden light.
It was not a pleasant morning. What little light there was may have been bright and blinding that day, but the sky was marred by thick, dark clouds that only allowed for a few, scant gaps to let the sun through.
A storm was gathering in the distance, preparing to break and flood the castle grounds, and a chilly breeze blew past them, making the hems of their woolen cloaks flutter and hiss.
It was also not a pleasant morning in the sense that Campbell had to be there.
“Ye look like ye swallowed a bee.”
Campbell turned to look at Jerrid, his man-at-arms and—more often than not—friend. But Campbell was already rethinking their friendship now that, after a long and arduous trip through the Highlands, Jerrid had once again opened his mouth.
“Tell me, Jerrid, how does one look upon swallowin’ a bee?” Campbell asked.
“Angry,” said Jerrid. “In pain. Murderous. Like ye’ve decided, despite yer courage and tenacity, it may be better to lay down yer arms and die.”
Campbell’s dark brown eyes narrowed as he regarded Jerrid, wondering just where he found the will and the mood to joke. Upon further consideration, though, he realized it would be stranger if his friend wasn’t in a good mood.
He’s been waitin’ for a feast like a dog waits for scraps.
If there was one thing Jerrid enjoyed, it was a good celebration, and though Annabel had made it abundantly clear this would not be a ball for them to enjoy their night with a parade of different women, it didn’t seem to be stopping Jerrid from fantasizing about what was to come.
In this ball, Campbell saw nothing but flower arrangements, sweet tarts, and getting yelled at by a cohort of women who found such things much more important than he did. On the other hand, Jerrid saw it as an opportunity to flirt and prance around said women, trying to lure them in his bed.
Never mind that it never works, but he may have some luck yet with the servant lasses.
Without entertaining him any further, Campbell turned to the guards who stood in front of the gates, clearing his throat with a commanding cough.
“Campbell Taylor, Laird McArthur,” he said. “I believe we are expected by Miss Beatrice Boyd.”
With a bow, the two guards called for the gates to be opened, letting Campbell and Jerrid into a verdant, well-manicured courtyard where servants and soldiers went about their days and minor nobles milled about idly, waiting for the next time they would be needed.
Campbell looked around, his irritation ebbing and flowing as he dismounted his horse, handing it over to the stable boy who rushed to take the reins from his hands.
What am I doing here? Do these people even need me help?
What did he know about planning a feast? That was a woman’s work, and he had never had the chance—or the duty—to plan one. His duty was the crops, the treasury, war. Decorations and menus and musicians were things handled by his castle’s head housekeeper, the capable and sensible Mrs. Blair.
Surely this place had one of those, too.
Blast me inability to say nay to Annabel.
Annabel had begged and pleaded with Campbell to take her place in aiding Beatrice. She had argued that since Beatrice had agreed to tutor Gillian, his daughter, it was only proper to offer to help her.
“If ye will follow me, Me Laird,” said a young guard with a round and plump face.
He kept a swift pace as he led Campbell and Jerrid inside past the main entrance, past the entrance hall, past heavy, wooden doors with intricate designs carved on their shiny surfaces, depicting scenes from hunts and floral motifs.
Then, to the left, where the great hall stretched to the far end of the western wing: a cavernous room, its ceiling disappearing above Campbell’s head, the stone columns arching at the very top where they held its weight.
Already, the decorations seemed to be mostly in place—or at least so Campbell hoped since the room was filled with banners, tapestries, and gleaming stands, all of it glittering under the light of the candles and the torches that bathed the room in a brightness that rivaled the morning sun.
And there, in the middle of the room, stood the most radiant thing of all: a young woman, her golden hair like a glowing halo around her face, her plump cheeks rosy, her lips like two velvet petals against her pale skin.
But what stood out to Campbell the most were her eyes—a deep, warm brown that gave him an odd sense of understanding when her gaze met his.
The woman, startled, rushed to him, followed by her companion—a woman a few years older than her who resembled her remarkably and who Campbell could only assume was her sister.
This must be Beatrice and Dorothea Boyd, then.
“Welcome, Me Laird,” said the younger with a bow that Campbell was quick to return. “I am Beatrice and this is me sister, Dorothea.”
“Campbell Taylor,” replied Campbell. “Laird McArthur. And this is Jerrid Comyn.”
“Welcome, Mr. Comyn,” said Beatrice. “But I am afraid there isnae much for ye to do. Ye dinnae have to come; I could have finished everythin’ on me own.”
Campbell couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes though he did his best to hide it by looking away, cursing softly under his breath.
Of course, his assistance wasn’t needed.
He could have predicted as much himself had his sister not been so adamant that someone go in her stead because otherwise it would simply be too much for poor Beatrice to do everything on her own.
But she was not on her own; she had plenty of help.
“Well, I am here now,” said Campbell through gritted teeth, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t conceal his irritation. “So, tell me what it is ye want me to do, and I’ll do it.”
But Beatrice didn’t give him any instructions as he expected. Rather, she frowned at him and pursed her lips into a thin, flat line, giving him a look that could bring lesser men to their knees.
“Ye dinnae have to come,” she said, tilting her head to glare at him in a way that made it seem to him as though she was looking down at him despite their difference in height.
Her face, which Campbell had thought of as cherubic only moments prior, was now twisted in an unpleasant grimace, as if the mere sight of him was offensive to her.
“Ye chose to come, so I would appreciate it if ye stopped behavin’ like a beast and start behavin’ like a human. ”
Before Campbell could say another word, Beatrice stalked out of the room, her hands curled into tiny fists swinging wildly back and forth. With a muttered apology, her sister quickly followed her, calling after her, while Campbell was left there, staring at the space Beatrice had just vacated.
Silence fell over the room. No one—no guard, no servant—dared say a thing. But then, the silence was suddenly broken by Jerrid’s laugh, the sound like a whip cracking in the air.
Slowly, Campbell turned to glare at him.
“What is so funny?”
“Ach... nothin’,” said Jerrid, waving a hand dismissively. “Just that the lassie is feisty.”
That is rather the understatement.
She was not so much feisty as she was unpleasant and ungrateful.
Most of all, she was wrong. Campbell hadn’t chosen to be there, making the trip all the way from Castle McArthur and leaving behind his duties to his council just to help her with the feast. Had it not been for Annabel’s insistence and the fact that it had always been impossible for him to say no to her, he would still be in his study, poring over maps and strategies with a dram of whisky in his hand.
“She is impossible is what she is,” he grumbled, pushing his way past Jerrid. Now, not only had they started on the wrong foot, but Beatrice was gone, leaving him with nothing to do. “Let us simply get through this feast, and then once we are home, we can forget this ever happened.”
And Annabel can forget about makin’ me do things for her ever again.