Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Arabella sat at the edge of her borrowed bed, running her fingers over the dark oak bedpost. The wood was smooth with age, but like everything else in MacFarland Castle, it carried an air of neglect that even good craftsmanship couldn’t disguise.
Heavy velvet curtains in deep burgundy hung around the bed, their once-rich color faded to the dreary shade of old blood.
Even the tapestries that adorned the walls seemed to whisper of forgotten glory—hunting scenes where the stags’ eyes had dulled and the hounds’ teeth that had lost their fierce gleam.
“’Tis a cursed place if ye ask me,” Mary muttered, bustling around the chamber with her arms full of Arabella’s traveling clothes. The maid’s normally rosy complexion had taken on a sickly pallor in the chamber’s dim light.
“Did ye nae see the way that steward looked at us? Like a fox eyein’ spring lambs, he did.” She paused her tidying to scratch vigorously at her arm. “And now, I’ve got the curse-itch. I told ye, Mistress, naythin’ good comes from—”
“Mary,” Arabella interrupted gently, “it’s the poison ivy ye grabbed when yer horse spooked near the stream. Naythin’ more.” Though privately, she had to admit the chamber’s gloomy furnishings did little to dispel thoughts of curses.
At home in MacAdams Castle, her rooms were filled with bright tartans and fresh flowers, the windows draped with light muslin that danced in the breeze.
Here, everything seemed designed to remind one of mortality—from the somber tapestries depicting ancient battles to the heavy iron candlesticks that looked more suited to weaponry than illumination.
“Aye, well, that steward—”
“Master Oskar?”
“Him indeed. He’s got eyes like me gran’s cat before it took all the cream and blamed the dog.
” Mary shuddered, scratching now at her neck.
Her fingernails left angry red trails on her skin.
“And that Laird! Wearin’ a mask like some player in a travelin’ show.
What’s he hidin’ under there, I wonder? Could be horns… could be—”
“Could be he’s a man who values his privacy,” Arabella said firmly though she couldn’t deny her own curiosity about what lay beneath that carefully crafted mask.
The afternoon light was already fading, shadows lengthening across the stone floor like grasping fingers. Through the narrow window, Arabella could see storm clouds gathering over the distant mountains, promising a wild Highland night.
Mary lit more candles, muttering prayers under her breath with each flame that sparked to life. A draft whispered through the chamber, making the flames dance and casting strange patterns on the walls.
“Ye’re thinkin’ of somethin’ foolish,” Mary said suddenly, peering at Arabella’s face.
“I ken that look well enough. ’Tis the same one ye wore before climbin’ the bell tower to rescue that falcon’s nest or when ye decided to learn sword fightin’ by challengin’ yer brother’s men to practice matches. ”
Arabella smiled at the memories. “Those werenae foolish at all. The falcon grew strong and free, and I became quite skilled with a blade.”
“Aye, and ye gave yer poor nanny three grey hairs for every bruise ye earned. But this is different, Mistress. This castle... there’s somethin’ wrong here. Somethin’ that goes deeper than ugly furnishings and unfriendly faces.”
“All the more reason to uncover its secrets.” Arabella stood, moving to her traveling chest to retrieve the small brass lamp she’d packed.
“I’ll need ye to do somethin’ for me. Go down to the kitchens and see what ye can learn about the Laird’s habits.
When he takes his meals, where he spends his evenings—”
“Mistress Arabella!” Mary’s eyes went wide with horror. “Ye cannae be thinkin’ of—”
“I can, and I am.” She checked the lamp’s oil level, satisfied to find it nearly full. “That library holds answers, Mary. I saw it clear as day when we passed. And if the Laird willnae help me...”
“Then we should return home! What would Laird Kenneth say if he knew ye were plannin’ to go sneakin’ about a strange castle at night? And nae just any castle, but the lair of the Highland Beast himself! He’s killed men for less, they say. Tore them apart with his bare hands!”
Arabella allowed herself a small smile, remembering the brief glimpse she’d caught of those hands—strong and callused.
“Me brother would likely say I’m bein’ reckless and foolhardy.” She tucked the lamp carefully into the folds of her skirt. “And then he’d ask if I found what I was lookin’ for.”
When Mary returned an hour later, her report was both useful and concerning.
“The Laird takes nay regular meals with the household,” she said, still scratching intermittently.
“Sometimes he’s in his study until dawn, other times he roams the castle like a restless spirit.
The cook says he’s been worse these past weeks—barely eatin’, spendin’ hours in that library. ”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say he speaks to himself sometimes, arguin’ with ghosts only he can see.”
Arabella filed this information away, noting how it aligned with her own observations of a man carrying some heavy burden. The way he’d reacted to her mention of the book... there was more there than simple irritation at an unwanted guest. “And the other household members?”
“Lady Bruckley keeps to her chambers after sunset though her maid says she often hears her pacin’ late into the night. And that steward...” Mary crossed herself. “Well, nay one seems to ken what he does with his evenings, and I’m nae sure I want to ken either.”
Six hours later, the castle bell tolled the midnight hour as Arabella slipped from her chamber, her brass lamp casting a weak circle of light before her.
She’d waited until Mary’s breathing had settled into the deep rhythm of sleep before venturing out.
The stone floors were cold beneath her stockinged feet—she’d left her boots behind for silence’s sake though the chill seemed to seep straight into her bones.
The corridors seemed different in the dark, the path to the library twisted by shadows and silence.
Twice she had to duck into alcoves to avoid passing servants, their own lanterns bobbing like fairy lights in the distance.
Her heart thundered in her chest, but beneath the fear lay a thrill of excitement she hadn’t felt since her days of climbing trees and exploring caves with Kenneth, before their father’s iron hand had forced them both into more proper pursuits.
The library door was unlocked—her first stroke of luck. She slipped inside, lifting her lamp higher to illuminate rows upon rows of books.
The smell of leather and parchment wrapped around her like a familiar embrace, and for a moment, she forgot her purpose in the simple joy of being surrounded by so much knowledge. Moonlight filtered through high windows, creating pools of silver light between the towering shelves.
Reality returned quickly enough as she began her search.
The shelves seemed to have no discernible organization—histories nestled against poetry; scientific treatises jumbled with tales of folklore.
She moved methodically, careful to return each book exactly as she’d found it though her fingers lingered lovingly over fine bindings and gilt-edged pages.
“Lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?”
The voice froze her in place. A large, callused hand closed over hers where it gripped a volume of Border ballads, and Arabella felt the heat of a body close behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was—that deep voice could belong to only one man.
“Me Laird.” She was proud that her voice remained steady, even as her pulse leaped like a startled hare. “I was just—”
“Breakin’ into me library? Searching through me private possessions?
” His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her of his strength.
Heat radiated from him, along with the faint scent of whisky and leather.
“I believe I made meself clear earlier, or do ye need a stronger demonstration of me hospitality?”
Arabella turned slowly within the circle of his arm, forcing herself to meet the masked gaze that seemed to glow in the lamplight.
This close, she could see the fine craftsmanship of the mask—the way it had been shaped to follow the contours of his face, the subtle tooling in the leather that caught the light like scales.
His eyes behind it were sharp despite the whisky she could smell on his breath, and something in them made her breath catch.
“Are ye goin’ to throw me in yer dungeon then, Me Laird?” She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed.
“I should.” He stepped closer, using his height to loom over her until her back pressed against the bookshelf. “Are ye nae afraid of what I might do?”
“Nay.” The word came without thought, but she knew it for truth.
“Then ye’re a fool.”
“Because I daenae fear ye?” The whisky on his breath gave her courage as did the way his hand still held hers, more gently than a true monster would manage. “I’ve known real monsters, Me Laird. They daenae usually trouble themselves with masks.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. His other hand came up to brace against the shelf beside her head, caging her in. “Why?” he demanded. “Why risk me wrath for a book? What could be worth such reckless behavior?”
“It’s nae just a story to me. When Blake faces his demons in the first book, when he chooses mercy over vengeance in the second—I felt those moments in me very bones. The way he struggles between duty and desire, between what others expect of him and what he knows to be right...”
She drew a shaky breath, aware of how closely he watched her face. “I need to ken how his story ends. I need to ken if there’s hope for those of us who feel trapped by circumstances beyond our control.”
The Laird was very still, his hand still clasped over hers, but the menace had leaked from his posture like air from a punctured bladder. For a moment, she thought she saw something vulnerable pass behind his mask—a flash of pain so raw it made her heart ache in response.
Then his jaw hardened, and he stepped back, releasing her with a suddenness that made her sway. “If ye want to avoid real trouble,” he said, voice cold as midwinter, “ye’ll forget about the book. Forget about Blake’s story. Some tales are better left unfinished.”
He turned and stalked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “Leave tomorrow as agreed. And remember—me dungeons are always hungry for foolish lasses who flirt with danger.”