Chapter 7
Maisie watched as Eliza paced the room, her face red and her whole body tense and trembling with fury.
Her mistress’s anger made her afraid that Eliza would take her anger out on her in some way.
However, she somehow felt that Eliza Tewsbury was not the kind of woman who would do such a thing—she had shown herself to be gentle and kind, and Maisie was already fond of her.
Eliza had no intention of taking out her rage and frustration on Maisie, however. It was directed solely and directly at one person—Duncan Sinclair, whom she could cheerfully have knocked down with her fist had she been big enough and strong enough to do so.
“Are ye all right, Milady?” Maisie’s timid voice intruded into Eliza’s thoughts, and she stopped pacing and covered her face with her hands for a moment. When she sighed and removed them, she smiled as she looked down at Maisie’s anxious face and realised how selfishly she was behaving.
Maisie was nervously picking away at the hem of her already tattered dress, and she looked scared. In fact, Eliza realised, she nearly always looked that way.
“I am fine, Maisie,” she replied with a smile. “I had a bit of a quarrel with the Laird, but I’m sure it will blow over. I had fights with my sisters all the time, but we usually managed to make up very quickly. We love each other very much.”
Maisie smiled. “That’s lovely. Milady,” she said, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice.
Suddenly, Eliza realised that she knew next to nothing about the young woman who took care of her, and she was curious to find out more. She poured them both a glass of ale and sat down beside Maisie on the bed.
“Are you happy here, Maisie?” she asked.
The young woman’s eyes widened in disbelief, clearly astonished to be asked such a question. The upper class typically cared nothing about the feelings of their servants.
“I suppose so, Milady,” she answered. “I have never lived anywhere else.”
“Do your family live close by?” Eliza took a sip of her ale and looked keenly at the young woman. Clearly something was bothering her.
Maisie sighed. “I have nae family, Milady,” she said sadly.
“None at all?” A wave of sadness passed over Eliza. “I’m so sorry. Maisie.” She wanted to ask what had happened to them, but did not wish to distress the young woman any further.
However, Maisie obviously wanted to tell her, perhaps guessing that Eliza would be a sympathetic listener, which she was.
“My Mammy used tae work in the kitchen here,” she began. “An’ Da was a gardener. I had two brothers, Danny an’ Jimmy, who were twins. They were two years younger than me.
When I was six, scarlet fever came tae the village an’ the castle.
I caught it, but I managed tae get better, but…
” She paused, unable to go on for a moment, then said huskily, “The wee boys died first, then Mammy, an’ for a while we thought Da was goin’ tae live, but he went an’ a’.
The women in the kitchen were kind tae me.
They looked after me an’ gave me wee errantds tae dae so I could earn my keep.
I have been here ever since. But I never learned tae dae a lot o’ the things the other lassies can, like sewin’ an’ stuff. ”
Eliza felt ashamed. She had so much; she had a roof over her head, plenty of food, two loving sisters, enough to eat and drink, and a good number of skills with which to support herself should it ever be necessary.
“Then you and I must look after each other,” Eliza said warmly, putting her hand over Maisie’s.
“I lost my mother too, and my father… Well, he cares nothing about me and my sisters. But I can teach you how to sew and knit—and even read, and you can tell me about the castle and introduce me to all the staff.”
Maisie’s face lit up with joy, and she looked as though she would hug Eliza, but they were rudely interrupted as the door crashed open and Duncan barged in.
“Out, Maisie!” he commanded.
Maisie jumped to her feet and scurried away, closing the door behind her and leaving Eliza alone with Duncan.
He was a big man already, but now he and his anger together made him seem twice his normal size, so much that he filled the space around him and made himself appear terrifying.
Eliza stood up and met his gaze squarely. She was afraid; what woman would not be? However, she was determined not to let him see her fear because then he would have an advantage over her, and Eliza was determined that would never happen.
Duncan’s amber eyes were smouldering, and his fists were bunched at his sides as he looked down at her, and for a few terrifying seconds Eliza thought he was going to strike her. However, he made a visible effort to calm down as he closed his eyes, let out a long breath and unclenched his hands.
When he opened them again, however, it was clear that his rage had not subsided.
“You embarrassed me in front of the elders,” he said, his voice throbbing with anger. “You made me look like a fool. Why on earth would a woman like you need to be trained in activities that are only fit for men? It’s like asking me to have a baby!”
Eliza’s laughter could have been heard all the way to the turrets.
“You would never survive!” Her voice was scornful, then she sobered, and said with narrowed eyes, “Remember what happened on the way here, my Laird? I was almost killed by one of your enemies! Why is it so strange that I should wish to learn to defend myself?”
“You should have asked me when we were alone,” Duncan growled. “Not in front of all the council members. I cannot have them losing respect for me. That is a sure way to lose control of the clan, and I simply cannot afford to do that.”
He looked, at that moment, quite desperate, and Eliza almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite enough.
She could not forget the way he had told her she would have to submit to him when she was his wife.
She almost laughed aloud at the thought; she would never bow down to anyone—especially not this man, who was using his size and strength to try to intimidate her.
“Pfft!” Eliza scoffed. “It seems to me that you are more worried about your vanity than your clan. And if I make you so unhappy and embarrass you so much, why do you not just send me back where I came from? It’s not as though either of us cares for the other, after all!”
“Never!” Duncan’s voice was practically a snarl. “I will never let you go! I paid a fortune for you, although I am beginning to wonder why. Be that as it may, you are mine now, and what is mine stays mine. Do you understand?”
Anger fumed inside her as she looked at his too-handsome, arrogant face. “I knew it,” she said, her voice loaded with contempt. “I am just an object, a thing to you. So what is the problem? If I run away, you can always buy another thing—or perhaps you are not rich enough?”
She was sure she had struck a nerve, but Duncan did not give Eliza the satisfaction of answering her. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the room in the same violent manner in which he had entered it.
Eliza lay down on her bed and hugged herself tightly, wondering when this nightmare was going to end. She began to weep silently with a mixture of sadness and rage.
However, she was confident of one thing—she would never in a million years marry Duncan Sinclair, even if he begged her!
Duncan felt equally wretched. It was not cold enough to light a fire in his chamber, which was a pity, he thought, since the bright fire usually warmed and cheered not just his body, but his mood.
He could look into the dancing flames and see fleeting visions of all kinds of objects, places, and people.
He could become lost in a wonderful world of fantasy where there were no responsibilities and no problems at all.
Now, however, he had nothing to look at but the view from the window, but it had begun to rain, and the scenery looked like his mood; grey, wet and depressed.
Duncan knew that he was never going to cheer up by admiring the sullen scenery, so he poured himself a stiff measure of whisky and drank it all in one gulp, relishing its fire as it burned its way down his throat.
Eventually, he had no more excuses to avoid what was troubling him, however—Eliza. He sighed and looked at the whisky bottle again, but decided to forgo another glass; he needed a clear head.
Duncan, he thought. You were a rotten swine to Eliza tonight.
You didn’t have to shout at her—you are the one who brought her here, after all.
She is impulsive, but she is also incredibly brave, and you are a fool not to recognise that.
She has a fire inside her. Damn it all! I wish I could light up like that sometimes.
At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and a manservant entered with a steaming bowl of beef broth, the aroma of which immediately made Duncan’s mouth water.
A plate of freshly baked bread and a bottle of his favourite red wine accompanied it, making him aware that he had not eaten for hours and was absolutely ravenous.
Perhaps a meal would do well to help his fury dissipate.
After being alone again, he sat on his chair and dipped his spoon into the soup.
He let the broth rest on his tongue for a moment before spitting it out, disgusted by its sour taste.
Perhaps the cook had accidentally put too much vinegar in the mixture, but he had never known any such thing to happen before.
Then another possibility occurred to him, one that was much more sinister. Perhaps it was something else that was causing the foul taste—something much more dangerous than vinegar. He had to be certain.
Duncan looked around the room and saw a vase of wild bluebells which had come from the edge of the garden. He always chose them when they were in season because blue was his favourite colour, and he loved the way their heads dipped as if in deference to him—they always made him laugh.
However, he was not laughing now; he felt sad and regretful as he poured the broth into the water in which the flowers were standing.
Duncan counted five seconds before their stems began to bend, their petals shrivelled and turned black, and in less than a few minutes the whole bunch of blooms had sagged over the side of the vase. Their flower heads rested on the desktop, sad, bedraggled—dead.
Duncan’s suspicions had been confirmed; someone had just tried to poison him in his own chamber. He stared at the bluebells, not in disbelief because he was not surprised at all, but in horror that he had come so close to death.
He had always had a sensitive palate, which was why he had been so disgusted by Lord Tewsbury’s wine, and he was renowned for his excellent wine cellar for that very reason.
Now that gift and all his mother, bless her soul, had taught him once, had saved his life, but it had not told him who his potential murderer was.
A wave of anger swept over Duncan as he looked down at the poor dead flowers. That could have been me, he thought. I could be a cold corpse by now and everything I own, everything I have ever worked for, would be stolen or destroyed.
Then he straightened up and walked across the room to look out of the window again.
Ironically, the weather had changed to suit his mood once more.
Instead of the bruise-coloured clouds that had been flinging torrential rain down half an hour before, the sun was now sinking beneath the horizon in a bright red, angry blaze that was terrifyingly beautiful.
At that moment, he made a vow to himself.
I will catch them and they will wish they had never been born, he promised. No one will ever take away what is mine.
With that thought, he wrenched open the door and strode out, determination in every step he took.