Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The nerve of that man! The absolute nerve.
Elaina marched down the corridor with long, determined strides.
Rules, guards and protection spoken in the same tone her father had used, as if concern excused control.
She was keenly aware of the familiar footsteps behind her. It was the same guard. He was still following. She did not look back.
Let him trail me like a shadow if he wishes.
She refused to give him or Duncan the satisfaction of seeing how deeply it unsettled her. If Castle Grant was to be another place where she was watched at every turn, then she would at least claim the right to be angry about it.
The kitchen was already alive when she entered. The warm air was thick with the scents of bread, simmering broth, and smoke from the hearth. A few servants glanced up in surprise, then quickly looked away again, as their murmurs rose and fell like birds startled from a branch.
Elaina went straight to the shelves.
Her breath eased as soon as she saw them.
Bundles of dried herbs hung neatly along the wall, some faded with age, others better preserved.
It was clear evidence of a healer long gone but not entirely erased.
She reached out almost reverently, her fingers brushing over labels written in a careful, unfamiliar hand.
Valerian root, lemon balm, chamomile, yarrow…
Her shoulders loosened for the first time that morning.
At least this is still mine.
She set to work at once, requesting hot water with politeness and choosing what she needed with practiced ease.
She crushed roots with the mortar and pestle, feeling the steady rhythm grounding her thoughts.
The sharp, earthy scent of valerian rose into the air, followed by the lighter, calming sweetness of balm.
As she worked, her anger slowly transformed, burning down into something sharper and more focused.
If she was to stay there, she would not do so meekly.
She would be useful. She would be necessary.
She would remind Duncan Grant, and everyone else in this castle, that she was not a liability to be managed but a woman with purpose and skill.
She poured the mixture carefully, watching steam curl upward, and thought grimly that if sleep refused to grant her peace, then she would take it by force, one carefully brewed draught at a time.
Time slipped past unnoticed.
It was only when her hands began to tremble slightly as she tied off the last small vial that Elaina paused. Her stomach gave a low, traitorous growl, loud enough that she froze and pressed a hand to her middle in disbelief.
She glanced toward the small window near the hearth. The light had faded to deep amber, with shadows stretching long across the stone floor.
Goodness, it’s late.
She had not eaten since the previous day. Anger and purpose had sustained her longer than sense ever could, but now her body was making its demands known.
Elaina turned toward the cook, who was stirring a pot near the fire. “May I have something tae eat?” she asked politely. “Anything will dae.”
The cook hesitated. She exchanged a glance with one of the nearby maids, which was quick, uncomfortable, and laden with meaning.
Elaina noticed at once. “What is it?”
The cook sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “I’m sorry, me lady. I was given direct orders. Ye are tae be served only in the dining hall.”
For a heartbeat, Elaina simply stared at her. Then fury surged, hot and uncontained.
Laird Grant.
This was him again. These were rules wrapped in civility, and control disguised as concern, as if dictating where she ate were necessary for the safety of the clan.
“I see,” Elaina said tightly.
She would gladly have turned away then and there, pride outweighing hunger. She had done without before. She could do so again.
But then, her stomach betrayed her with another unmistakable growl.
The cook winced sympathetically. “Please, me lady,” she said gently. “Go tae the dining hall. Ye need tae be healthy yerself and well rested if ye are tae heal others.”
The words struck despite her anger. Elaina closed her eyes briefly, then nodded once.
“Very well,” she replied, as resignation threaded through her voice.
She turned toward the door, drawing her cloak closer around her as if it could shield her irritation. As she made her way down the corridor toward the dining hall, she could only hope that it was late enough that the laird had already retired to his study.
She had endured quite enough of Duncan Grant for one day.
The dining hall was quiet in the way only late evenings could be.
Most of the household had already retired, leaving the long table sparsely set.
Duncan was sitting at the head with Iain across from him, a plate between them that neither seemed particularly intent on finishing.
Maps lay half-unfurled beside trenchers, crumbs marking borders where fingers had traced patrol routes.
“If the western road remains quiet another week,” Iain was saying, “we may assume the movement has shifted south.”
“Or that someone has grown cleverer,” Duncan replied, tearing off a piece of bread without much attention.
At that moment when the doors banged open. Both men looked up, only to see Elaina stepping into the hall with unmistakable purpose. The guard who had followed her remained discreetly outside, as if even he sensed the danger of crossing the threshold with her.
Duncan leaned back in his chair and smirked.
“Ah,” he said mildly, “me lady. How nice of ye tae join us.”
She fixed him with a look that felt remarkably like poison-tipped arrows. It amused him beyond reason.
She crossed the hall and stopped at the table, planting her hands firmly on its edge. “I would nae have interrupted,” she said coolly, “if I had been allowed tae take me meals anywhere else but here.”
Iain’s brow lifted, just slightly. He knew nothing of the guard, the orders, the careful watch Duncan had placed upon her movements.
Duncan did not apologize.
He sensed it still, that instinctive wrongness that told him she was hiding something important.
Not something malicious, perhaps, but dangerous all the same.
Until he understood what it was, he could not afford blindness.
And if there was one moment in the day when she could not refuse to be seen, it was when hunger demanded its due.
He inclined his head politely. “As yer host, it is me pleasure tae have ye join me fer meals. Especially since this is the first invitation ye’ve accepted.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Accepted is a generous word.”
“Hospitality often is,” he replied easily.
They stared at one another for a heartbeat with anger sparking and challenge flaring, until something else slipped in alongside it, and that was a mutual, unwilling delight in the clash.
She huffed. “I suppose I should thank ye fer ensuring I dinnae starve in isolation.”
“I would hate tae be accused of neglect,” he replied. “Particularly by someone with such a talent fer dramatic entrances.”
Iain leaned back, openly entertained now. “I’ll fetch another plate,” he said, rising. “It seems dinner has grown more interesting.”
Duncan watched him go, then gestured casually. “Elaina, this is Iain MacRae, Captain of the Grant army, and an old friend who has tolerated me longer than any sensible man should.”
Iain returned just in time to hear that and snorted. “Ye make it sound as though I had a choice in the matter.”
To Duncan’s distinct surprise, Elaina did not take the seat across from him. She moved instead to the chair beside Iain. Duncan stilled, only barely.
Elaina regarded Iain with open curiosity. “I hope,” she said sweetly, “that ye are nae like yer laird, deciding what people eat, where they walk, and who watches them breathe.”
Iain barked a laugh. “Nay. I’m more the sort who worries about where the enemy is hiding, how many men they’ve brought, and how tae kill them efficiently.”
Her lips curved. “How refreshing.”
Duncan felt something sharp and wholly unreasonable tug at his ribs.
Iain caught the look on Duncan’s face and nearly choked on his amusement.
“I leave the domestic tyranny tae him,” he added easily.
Elaina laughed then with a melodious sound, and Duncan’s irritation deepened at the sight of it being drawn out by someone who was decidedly not him.
He leaned forward, attempting to reclaim the conversation. “Ye’ll find I’m very reasonable.”
Elaina did not look at him. “So, I’ve heard, but am yet tae see.”
Instead, she turned to Iain. “And daes he often rescue stranded healers and place them under armed supervision?”
“Nay,” Iain replied cheerfully. “That’s a new development. I’m still taking notes.”
Duncan clenched his jaw, schooling his expression into neutrality. He told himself it was foolish and childish, even just to resent her easy smile directed at another man. Iain, of all people.
Still, he did not miss the way she avoided his gaze entirely, nor the deliberate way she angled her body away from him. Annoyance simmered, controlled but present.
He took a measured sip of wine and sternly reminded himself that he was laird first, man second. And that whatever game she was playing, he would not be the one to lose his composure.
He drew a slow breath, tamping down the irritation, and shifted the conversation onto safer ground, one that belonged to her work, not their friction.
“Did ye find everything ye needed in the kitchen?” he asked evenly. “From the old healer’s stores?”
She did not look at him.
Instead, she turned to Iain again. “Enough tae manage fer now. Though I would like tae add a few things tae the collection. Fresh herbs are always preferable.”
Iain nodded, immediately engaged. “There’s a stretch of woods east of the lake,” he explained. “Good ground, sheltered. Ye’ll find yarrow, meadowsweet, and likely valerian if ye look near the stream. But ye should be careful—”
Elaina’s gaze flicked sharply as she looked straight at Duncan. “That’s quite all right,” she said sweetly. “I have armed guards following me every step.”
The words landed like a thrown dagger. Iain glanced between them, catching the tension at once, but he knew better than to smirk. Duncan merely inclined his head, accepting the blow without flinching.
“An excellent precaution,” Duncan replied mildly.
She rose then, pushing her chair back. She had eaten only a few bites, Duncan noted, which was enough to quiet hunger, not enough to soften her temper.
“Good night,” she said crisply, her gaze returning to Iain. “Thank ye fer the conversation.”
“Any time,” Iain replied, clearly amused. “I hope the woods are kind tae ye.”
She nodded once, then turned and left the hall without another glance Duncan’s way. The door closed behind her with far less force than earlier, but the act was no less final.
Duncan watched the empty space she left behind. His mind was already working.
The war between them had only just begun.