Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The morning dawned, chill and misty over MacFarland Castle, tendrils of fog curling around the ancient stones like ghostly fingers. Arabella sat alone in the great hall, pushing porridge around her bowl as morning light spilled through the high windows, casting long shadows across worn flagstones.
Her mind dwelled not on sustenance but on the previous night’s encounter in the library—the intensity in Roman’s masked gaze, the heat of his hand over hers, the way his voice had rumbled through her very bones.
“Ah, me dear girl.” The honeyed voice drew Arabella from her reverie.
Lady Sorcha glided into the hall, her black and silver hair elegantly arranged, her gown a deep forest green that seemed almost gaudy amid the castle’s somber palette.
“I trust ye slept well? Though I imagine our humble accommodations are quite different from what ye’re accustomed to at MacAdams.”
“The chamber is most comfortable, Me Lady.” Arabella rose and curtsied, noting how the older woman’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Poor lass, she’s still grievin’ the old Laird.
“I must thank ye for yer intervention yesterday. Yer hospitality is most appreciated.”
“Think naythin’ of it.” Lady Sorcha settled onto the bench across from her, arranging her skirts with practiced grace.
“Though I confess, I’m curious about what brings a laird’s sister so far from home—and alone, save for a maid. Particularly to seek out me...” She paused delicately, like a musician striking a false note deliberately. “Me rather tirin’ stepson.”
“I seek a book, Me Lady. The final volume of ‘In Search of Aether.’”
“Ah.” Understanding softened Lady Sorcha’s features into a mask of maternal concern. “Me dear husband’s last work.”
Arabella’s heart stuttered. “Yer... husband?”
“Indeed. Callum was quite the storyteller though few kent it was he who penned those tales.” She sighed, a perfectly calculated sound of grief that reminded Arabella of the professional mourners at Highland funerals.
“The last book was to be his masterpiece, but alas—he fell ill before he could complete it. The manuscript lies half-finished somewhere in Roman’s possession though he guards it like a dragon with his hoard. Nae that I blame him, poor boy. It’s all he has left of his faither.”
The porridge turned to lead in Arabella’s stomach. “Half-finished?”
“Mmm.” Lady Sorcha’s fingers traced patterns on the wooden table, her rings catching the light.
“Such a shame. Callum was so devoted to those stories. They were his escape, ye see, during those dark days when Roman was...” She trailed off then leaned forward conspiratorially.
“But perhaps ye havenae heard about that unfortunate business?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Arabella said carefully, remembering the rope scars on Roman’s wrists.
“Dreadful affair. The prison nearly broke him. When he returned, he was... changed. The mask wasnae just for show, ye understand. Some scars go deeper than flesh.” Lady Sorcha reached across the table to pat Arabella’s hand.
“Perhaps it’s for the best that the book remains unfinished. Some stories are better left to the imagination, daenae ye think? Especially for young ladies who should be focusin’ on more... practical matters. I understand ye’re of an age to be seekin’ a match?”
The question, seemingly innocent, carried barbs. Arabella withdrew her hand carefully. “I have some time yet before such decisions must be made.”
“Do ye?” Lady Sorcha’s smile turned knife sharp.
“How fortunate. Still, ye shouldnae linger here. Roman isnae...” She paused again, this time letting concern color her tone.
“He isnae as he once was. The Highland Beast they call him now and nae without reason. It would be best if ye returned home where it’s safe. Where suitable matches await.”
“Ye’re most kind to be concerned,” Arabella said, rising. “If ye’ll excuse me, I should prepare for our departure.”
But as she left the hall, her mind was already working. Half-finished wasn’t the same as nonexistent. And if the manuscript was hidden in Roman’s private chambers...
“Mary,” she whispered, once they were alone in the corridor, “I need ye to do something for me. Find out if the Laird is in his study.”
Her maid’s eyes went wide with horror. “Oh nay. Nay, nay, nay. Whatever ye’re thinkin’—”
“Please, Mary.” Arabella gripped her hand. “This may be me only chance. Think of it as helpin’ me avoid an unwanted marriage a while longer.”
“By gettin’ us both thrown in the dungeons?” Mary crossed herself. “Mistress, I’ve got the shivers something fierce today. Could be consumption. Or the marsh fever. Or—”
“Or too much ale with yer dinner last night,” Arabella said gently. “Please, Mary. I wouldnae ask if it wasnae important.”
Mary—very begrudgingly—agreed to help, muttering prayers under her breath as she went to scout the Laird’s location. While she waited, Arabella slipped through the castle’s winding corridors toward the family’s private wing. Her heart thundered against her ribs, but her steps remained sure.
If they can hear me heart, I’ll be in trouble.
She’d noted the location of Roman’s chambers during their tour yesterday—the heavy oak door with the Celtic knotwork that matched his mask.
The chamber was empty when she entered though signs of recent occupation lingered.
A half-empty whisky glass sat on a side table, and the bed—massive, draped in dark velvet—was rumpled.
The sight made her cheeks heat as unbidden thoughts rose in her mind.
She forced her gaze away, focusing on her search.
The room was surprisingly austere for a laird’s chamber. No ornaments adorned the walls, no luxuries softened the sparse furnishings.
Sad bedchambers—how does he nae hate it here?
But there—a heavy chest beneath the window caught her eye. It took all her strength to lift the lid, but inside she found what she sought: a leather portfolio, its pages filled with familiar handwriting.
She had just lifted it out when the door creaked open.
Arabella dove behind a folding screen in the corner, clutching the manuscript to her chest. Through gaps in the panels, she watched Roman enter.
He moved with a predator’s grace, despite his size, crossing to the side table to drain the remaining whisky.
Then, with movements that spoke of bone-deep weariness, he began to undress.
His shirt came off first, revealing a broad expanse of muscle and scars. Arabella’s breath caught.
Oh, dear gods.
The marks of his imprisonment were written across his skin in silver-white lines, yet they did nothing to diminish his raw masculine beauty.
“Enjoyin’ the view?”
His voice, touched with dark amusement, made her jump. He hadn’t turned around, hadn’t given any sign he’d noticed her presence, but somehow, he knew.
“If ye’re goin’ to keep starin’,” he continued, his hands moving to the waist of his breaches, “ye might as well come out where ye can see better.”
Heat flooded Arabella’s cheeks as she stepped out from behind the screen. “Me Laird, I—”
His eyes fell to the manuscript in her hands, and all traces of amusement vanished. “Give it to me.” He stalked toward her, still shirtless, all coiled power and barely contained fury. “Now.”
“Nay.” She backed away until she hit the wall, but her voice remained firm. “Nae until ye explain why ye’re hidin’ it. Why are ye lyin’ to me?”
“Lyin’ to ye?” He braced one hand against the wall beside her head, boxing her in with his body.
This close, she could see the pulse beating in his throat and smell the whisky and leather and male scent of him.
“I’m protectin’ it. Me faither’s last work, his last words—they’re nae for pryin’ eyes and idle curiosity. ”
“Is that what ye think this is?” Arabella lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed despite the way her body hummed with awareness of his proximity. “Idle curiosity?”
“What else could it be?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “A pretty lass like ye with yer whole life ahead of ye—what do ye ken of unfinished stories and broken promises? Of darkness that stains everythin’ it touches?”
“More than ye might think.” She met his gaze steadily, seeing past the mask to the pain beneath.
“Yer faither wrote of redemption, of findin’ light in darkness.
Of choices that can heal or destroy. These arenae just stories to me, Roman.
They’re truth wrapped in fiction’s clothin’.
Like ye, hidin’ yer true self behind that mask. ”
Something shifted in his eyes at her words. “Truth?” His laugh held no humor. “The truth is that me faither died tryin’ to finish this book. Died believin’ his son could complete it, could somehow make sense of the mess I’d made of everythin’. But I’m nay writer. I never will be.”
“Then let me help.” The words sprang from her heart before her mind could catch them. “I cannae wed until I find the right match, one that will benefit me clan. Give me one month. One month to help ye finish the story, to prove that nae all tales need end in tragedy.”
His free hand rose, almost touching her cheek before falling away. “Ye daenae ken what ye’re askin’. I’m nae fit company for anyone, least of all a laird’s sister.”
“I’ve spent me life bein’ what others think I should be,” Arabella said softly. “The proper lady, the dutiful daughter, the obedient sister. Let me choose this, just once. Let me help ye finish what yer faither began—nae out of duty, but because I want to.”
Silence stretched between them, charged with possibilities. Finally, Roman stepped back though his eyes never left her face. “One month,” he said. “But when it’s done, ye leave. Or ye’ll end up in me dungeons beggin’ for me mercy.”