Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Beatrice! Beatrice, wait!”
Dorothea’s voice rang out in the hallway, its gentle soprano bouncing off the stone walls. Guards and servants alike stayed out of Beatrice’s path as she tore her way through the castle, but Dorothea remained close, her heels clicking against the floors as she followed close behind.
“Beatrice!”
Now, her sister’s voice brought her to a halt—the same tone she used for her boy when he was misbehaving which could bring entire clans to their knees.
Slowly, Beatrice turned to face her sister, her face twisting into a scowl. She already knew what her sister wanted to say, and she had no desire to hear any of it.
But she would hear it regardless.
“Laird McArthur is waitin’ for ye,” said Dorothea, her expression and her tone softening. “He came all the way from his lands just to help us with the ball. Daenae be rude to him.”
“He’s the one who was rude to me first!” Beatrice pointed out as she threw her hands up in exasperation.
Though she and Laird McArthur had exchanged nothing more than a few words, she had already made up her mind regarding the kind of man he was.
He clearly had no respect for her or what they were doing. “Why should I appease him?”
Dorothea drew in a long, patient breath. “Because he is a laird. And because Annabel is a good friend of yers. I’m sure she wouldnae blame ye, but is it nae better to be courteous to her brother?”
This gave Beatrice pause. She supposed her sister had a point; she didn’t want to displease Annabel, who had gone into all the trouble of convincing her brother to take her place, nor did she want to cause a rift between their two clans.
Damn him! Why did he have to come?
“I suppose... I could find somethin’ for him to do,” said Beatrice, steeling herself for the next conversation she would have with the man. “The chairs, perhaps.”
“Och aye,” agreed Dorothea. “The chairs, excellent. Now let us go back and speak to them.”
With a hand on the small of her back, Dorothea led Beatrice back down the hallway, towards the great hall. Laird McArthur and Jerrid were still waiting there, half-dumbfounded and half-offended by Beatrice’s reaction.
Or at least Laird McArthur seemed to be so; Jerrid, more than anything else, seemed amused to Beatrice, his bright blue eyes twinkling with mirth, his lips twitching in a barely repressed smile.
In contrast, Laird McArthur looked as though he stood under the shadow of a storm cloud.
Upon seeing them near the great hall doors, Jerrid lit up, his smile widening.
“Miss Boyd! I, for one, would be happy to help in any way ye see fit. Is there anythin’ ye’d like me to do?
Hang a tapestry, perhaps, or help with the tables?
Or perhaps the lady would be favorable to a walk around the gardens? ”
Beatrice and Dorothea exchanged a quick glance, one that lasted only a moment and yet was enough for them to communicate to each other everything they couldn’t say out loud in front of the two men.
It wasn’t Beatrice Jerrid had addressed; rather, it was Dorothea, his gaze tracking her like a lion tracks an antelope.
Glancing at Laird McArthur, Beatrice caught him rolling his eyes without making a single attempt to conceal the act. Though he said nothing, he began to tap his foot against the floor impatiently, huffing and puffing next to his friend.
“The tables,” said Dorothea coldly, her eyes narrowing. “If ye’d be so kind.”
Jerrid’s smile faltered, and Beatrice had to suppress a giggle.
Jerrid wasn’t the first man to be fooled by Dorothea’s sweet and innocent appearance, her wide, doe eyes and cherubic cheeks that made her seem younger than her thirty years.
Behind that appearance, though, was a hardened woman who was too clever and too wise to fall for sweet words.
“Laird McArthur, I can show ye where the chairs are,” Beatrice suggested, just to escape the awkward situation. And now, with Jerrid taking Dorothea’s frigid attitude in stride and following her orders without complaint, a strange tension seemed to grow between them.
And Beatrice wanted to avoid that, too.
For a moment, the Laird seemed entirely too relieved to be away from the two of them as well, and he let out a sigh of relief as Beatrice led him to the storage room that held the chairs they would be using for the ball.
How often did he have to put up with his friend flirting with every woman who caught his eye?
How often did he have to watch him get rejected?
At least Laird McArthur doesnae seem to have any desire to court any of us.
So far. Let us nae be hasty.
Beatrice led Laird McArthur down to the storage room where they kept the chairs for the feasts, the two of them walking in an uncomfortable silence.
She didn’t know what to say to him, nor did she particularly want to talk to him in the first place, and the same seemed to be true for the Laird, who was content to glare at every door they passed as though they had personally offended him with their existence.
Once at the door, Beatrice tried the door handle, only to find the door stuck, much as she had expected.
Many of the doors in the castle were old, the wood succumbing to damp and the years, warping in this case.
With a frustrated huff, Beatrice tugged at the door handle again and again, each pull fanning the flames of her anger even more.
“Let me,” Laird McArthur offered, but Beatrice ignored him, stubbornly trying to open the door herself. All around her, a small crowd of people gathered—guards and servants who lingered as inconspicuously as they could to watch her. “Miss Boyd, would ye please allow me to open it?”
“I can do it,” Beatrice insisted.
It was a small hill to die on, all things considered. She could have just as easily let Laird McArthur do it for her, but it seemed to her like a strange admission of defeat, as though she would have to come to terms with the loss of the upper ground.
“It doesnae seem like ye can,” Laird McArthur replied, but made no effort to help. Instead, he leaned against the wall, watching Beatrice with what she could only describe as half-amusement and half-exasperation.
Beatrice paused, turning to glare at the man. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking a deep breath before she tried again.
She strained, her fingers aching and her palms stinging with the effort it took to grip the handle. Her face heated, her skin turning a bright red, and just when she thought the door would never give, it finally opened—or rather, it flew open, pulling Beatrice along with it.
A yelp escaped her, the sound high and shrill. The floor seemed to disappear from under her feet, and for a moment, she was suspended in midair, her breath catching, her heart stalling in her chest.
And then, a pair of strong hands caught her and steadied her, keeping her off the ground—and close to a solid chest, where she could lean and catch her breath.
At least for the moment it took her to realize Laird McArthur’s hand was around her breast, landing there when he tried to steady her.
“What do ye think ye’re doin’?”
Her father’s voice boomed in the hallway, loud like thunder. Both she and Laird McArthur froze, a chill running down her spine. Ever so slowly, she turned to look at him and her mother, the two of them standing at the very top of the stairs and staring at Laird McArthur in horror.
Neither she nor Laird McArthur spoke. They hardly moved at all, at least not until Laird McArthur seemed to notice he was still holding onto Beatrice.
In an instant, he let go, snatching his arms back as if he was burned, just as her parents began the long descent to the ground floor, towards them both.
The maids around them continued their work, pretending to not have seen anything.
They were clearly terrified of her parents’ reaction.
Never before had Beatrice seen her father so furious.
He was red-faced and fuming, stomping his way towards Laird McArthur like a provoked bull, and Beatrice found herself stepping between them, as though she could single-handedly stop the storm that was to come.
Her mother followed behind him in a calmer pace, but her expression betrayed the worry and fear she felt.
It was obvious she was concerned Beatrice had become a victim—just like Dorothea.
Her father came to a halt right before her, nostrils flaring. Behind him, her mother had paled, her hand trembling as she reached for the rail to steady herself. And through it all, Laird McArthur stood tall behind her, like a wall of stone—still and silent.
“If ye value yer head, ye will explain yerself right the now.”