Chapter 1 #2
"Well," Stella continued, "since my dear brother is so busy glowering at everyone, I’d be happy tae show you to your chamber. Unless, of course, ye’d rather linger here and endure more of this delightful silence?"
Marie nearly let out a breath of relief. An escape. However temporary.
But before she could accept, another voice interrupted.
"That won’t be necessary."
Marcus.
Marie turned to find him watching them, his expression still stoic, though there was something firm, unyielding in his stance.
Stella sighed, dramatically rolling her eyes. "Really, Marcus? Must ye be so grim? I’m offering our lady some kindness, not marching her off tae war."
"She’ll be escorted by me," Marcus said simply.
Marcus led her through the keep himself, seemingly aware of the weight of every stare. Some of his people sneered, others muttered under their breath. The air was thick with unspoken resentment, pressing in on Marie like the cold stone walls around her.
She said nothing, but she felt it… felt the disdain woven into every glance, every hushed word.
The halls of MacCraith Keep were nothing like those of Drummond Castle.
Where her home was rich with warm candlelight, tapestries, and the scent of lavender and woodsmoke, this place was stark, built for war.
The stone walls loomed high, heavy beams stretching overhead like the ribs of some great beast. Torches flickered in their iron sconces, casting shifting shadows along the narrow corridors.
The scent of damp stone, wax, and old iron lingered in the air.
The great hall had been grand in its own way, but here, in the winding halls of the keep, it felt more like a fortress than a home. She supposed that was the point.
They passed a set of open doors that led to a vast training yard where MacCraith men sparred. The clash of steel rang out, followed by sharp grunts and the barked orders of a man she could not see. Beyond them, the hills rolled toward the horizon, dark and wild beneath the brooding sky.
Further along, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted from a passage that likely led to the kitchens.
A few servants passed them, their gazes skirting away the moment they met hers.
One, a young woman no older than Marie, hesitated for a fraction of a second before giving a stiff nod of acknowledgment.
It was the closest thing to a greeting she had received.
Marcus said nothing, his stride unwavering as he led her deeper into the keep.
At last, they reached a set of heavy wooden doors. Marcus pushed one open without ceremony, revealing the chamber beyond, and turned to stare intensely at her. Marie refused to cower.
She would not shrink beneath his gaze, nor let the weight of MacCraith Keep press her into submission. Her back was straight, her chin high, though the tightness in her chest made it difficult to draw a full breath.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders framed by the dim torchlight from the corridor. His face was very hard to read. She was not sure how she would get used to that.
"This will be yer chamber," he said at last, his voice as measured as it had been in the hall. "If ye have need of anything, one of the maids will see tae it."
It was a courtesy, she supposed. A small one.
Marie let her eyes sweep the room. It was not terrible…
larger than she expected, with a sturdy wooden bed draped in furs, a stone hearth that crackled with a modest fire, and a heavy oak chest at the foot of the bed.
A tall, narrow window allowed only a sliver of the gray Highland sky to be seen beyond the thick stone walls.
But for all its size, the chamber felt cold. Hollow.
Like a cage.
She turned back to Marcus, studying him.
"And what of ye, my lord?" she asked, voice smooth despite the unease curling in her stomach. "Will I be left here like some forgotten relic? Or do ye intend to speak more than two words tae me once we are wed?"
His jaw tensed.
"I will do what is expected of me."
"Expected," she repeated, her lips curling slightly. "How dutiful."
His eyes darkened, but his voice remained steady. "Ye ken as well as I that this union is not of our choosing, Lady Drummond. We need not pretend otherwise."
She stepped closer then, slow and deliberate, testing the space between them. He did not step back.
"Aye," she murmured. "But tell me this, Laird MacCraith… do ye hate this match so much that ye cannot even look at me without a scowl?"
His gaze locked with hers, and for the first time, there was something beyond indifference in his expression. Something heated. Frustrated.
"Ye are a Drummond," he said at last, his voice lower now, edged with something unspoken.
"And ye are a MacCraith," she countered, her voice unwavering. "Shall we spend our days throwing that at one another, or shall we find another way forward?"
A charged silence stretched between them, thick as the Highland mist. The fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to warm the cold space between them. Marie held Marcus’s gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.
Then, he exhaled sharply, stepping further into the chamber, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate strides. The flickering light cast harsh shadows across his face, sharpening the already unforgiving lines of his features.
"Ye should be grateful," he said, voice edged with something dark. "That ye get tae be my wife."
Marie stiffened, her fingers curling into her skirts. "Get tae?" she repeated, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.
"Aye." His gaze swept over her, unreadable, assessing. "There were other ways this could have gone. But ye are being given the chance to right the wrongs of the past."
Marie’s pulse drummed against her ribs. Anger coiled inside her, twisting tight.
"Lucky me," she said dryly.
Marcus’s expression did not change. "Aye. Lucky ye. So I suggest ye think twice before ye embarrass me again with yer sharp tongue."
She swallowed hard. "And if I dinnae?"
He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes glinting in the dim firelight. Then, slow as a prowling wolf, he took another step toward her, forcing her to lift her chin to keep his gaze.
"Then ye'll prove my people right," he murmured. "That the Drummonds are naught but lecherous snakes, cunning with words but hollow where it matters."
Marie scoffed, heat rising to her cheeks, but she had no ready retort. Not because he was right… but because she was tired of fighting ghosts. The MacCraiths would believe what they wanted, no matter what she said.
She took a slow breath, pressing her hands together to steady herself.
"Is that why ye agreed tae this match, then?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "To give me a chance to prove I am not the monster your people expect?"
His gaze flickered over her face, unreadable as ever. Then, he turned abruptly toward the door.
"Get ready," he said over his shoulder. "There will be a feast tonight in yer honor."
Marie frowned, caught off guard. "A feast?"
"Aye," he said without turning back. "And I’ll be watching ye."
Then, with a final glance, he was gone, leaving her alone in the dim, flickering light of her new prison.
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