Chapter 3
Violet didn’t know what to do for a second, and she hated… hated that he could see it. It was like he could see right through her and had done so since he stepped into the cell.
“Stay here?” she scoffed. “What does that mean?”
Laird Moore stood between her and the locked door with the key still in his hand, looking as if he had announced the hour for supper rather than the loss of her freedom.
“It means ye willnae leave Moore Castle with the bairn.”
“I didnae ask what it meant for the bairn.” Her fingers curled around her torn sleeve. “I asked what it meant for me.”
“It means ye are alive, which is more than ye were promised when ye were dragged down here.”
“How generous. Shall I thank ye before or after I start rattling the bars?”
His expression did not change, and that made her want to throw something at him. Her fear had teeth now, and every tooth wanted to bite.
He stood too calmly for a man who had just decided the trajectory of another person’s life.
He did not pace or even try to raise his voice.
He simply occupied the space as if stone, iron, and every breath in the dungeons answered to him.
The exit stood behind him, and he was broad enough to make it feel further away.
Violet forced herself to look at him properly, because only a fool feared what they refused to understand. She had learned that repeatedly with several of her customers.
He was taller than he had first looked in the poor light, tall enough that she had to lift her chin to hold his gaze. His shoulders filled the rough fabric of his coat, and his strength seemed trained into him. It was the kind of strength that came from steel in hand and boundaries over and over.
His long dark hair had been tied back, though a few strands had slipped loose, likely due to the speed with which he had come down here. The strands made his face look rougher rather than softer. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black in the torchlight, and much too steady.
That steadiness annoyed her, most of all. If he had been ugly, she could have hated him with cleaner satisfaction. Since he was not, she had to hate him with effort.
“Ye are staring,” he noted.
Violet lifted her eyes back to his. “I was deciding whether ye look more like a tyrant or a brigand.”
“And what have ye concluded?”
She swallowed. “The dungeons give tyrant the advantage.”
“Then I shall endeavor to disappoint ye later,” he responded.
Violet hated his dry tone.
“Daenae trouble yerself,” she said. “Ye have already made a fine beginning.”
His gaze moved over her face in a slow, assessing pass as the silence between them grew even more solemn.
There was something about him. Beyond the broad shoulders and domineering attitude, there was actually something else. Something she was trying hard to see. But no matter how hard she tried, he successfully kept it hidden.
“Where did ye come from anyway?” His voice broke through her musings.
She raised an eyebrow. “Through yer very impressive halls, obviously.”
His jaw tightened. “A village? A clan? A house?”
“Why do ye need to ken?”
A short breath escaped his lips. She was proving difficult.
Good. This would not be easy for either of them.
“So what, are ye here for money?”
Violet laughed. The sound came out hard, with no humor in it. “If I wanted money, I wouldnae be standing in yer dungeons.”
Something shifted across his face. It was almost too subtle to catch, but she was watching him as hard as he was watching her.
The stillness thrummed, and his attention sharpened.
“Then they may come for him,” he said.
“Aye.” Her throat tightened. “They may.”
“Who among them?”
Violet pressed her lips together as Henry’s false smile flashed through her mind. While she technically had no reason to, she was still a bit scared of the man. His intimidating nature and the way he spoke, as if even the air itself offended him, had always kept her on her toes.
Then she thought of Lord Tolford’s cold voice and Jane’s weak fingers clinging to blue cloth. The child’s cry, real and alive, somewhere above her in this castle. She could not hand those names to Laird Moore without knowing what he would do with them.
“It doesnae matter,” she repeated.
She must have said those words enough times to raise the dead at this point, and from the look on his face, it was clear he was tired of it as well.
For the first time, a trace of temper reached his mouth. It did not make him louder, as that would have been easier.
“What was yer plan if ye reached him?” he asked in a low voice.
“Find him.”
“And after that?”
“Take him.”
“Where?”
“Away.”
“A fine plan. Did ye also intend to defeat every man between this cell and the gate with stolen linen?”
Violet’s fingers twitched. “I would have found a way.”
“Ye probably daenae ken this, lass, but ways daenae feed bairns. They daenae stop blades, and they definitely daenae provide names, walls, or guards.”
She stared hard at him, as if she could will him to turn into stone. “And cages do?”
His jaw tightened. “If a cage keeps wolves out, aye.”
Violet stared at him.
There had to be something about this man. It wasn’t just the height or the dark eyes or the command that made guards scatter and doors feel useless. It was this. He could make the very thought of imprisonment sound like mercy and stand there expecting everyone to agree with him.
“Ye must excuse me if I daenae agree with yer notion of safety, seeing as I am literally behind bars,” she hissed.
“That is because ye broke into me castle.”
“For a baby.”
“For a baby ye tried to remove from the only place I ken he is well guarded.”
“Guarded by strangers.”
He raised a hand. “And what do ye think ye are to him?”
Violet went rigid. “Daenae speak of me love for him as if it is a trick.”
“Nae if ye willnae even tell me yer name.”
The words struck too close to the truth of her methods and too far from the truth of her purpose.
She had lied. She had hidden. She had crept through his halls in another woman’s gown with Jane’s blue cloth tucked among linen she did not own. If that made her a thief, then so be it. But she had not come for silver. She had come for a child whose mother had died asking for him.
“I will do worse than steal if that is what keeps him safe,” she declared.
Laird Moore studied her for a long moment. The look was not soft, but it was less dismissive than before, and somehow that made it harder to bear.
“Ye need time to cool down,” he said.
Violet stared at him. “I need me freedom.”
“Ye need sense first.”
“And ye think locking me away will give me that?”
“It will give ye time.”
He turned toward the door. At that moment, a wave of panic rose fast enough to shame her. If he left, he left with her still unnamed. She had made Jane a promise. She would not let this man strip her down to a charge written in his head.
She decided to speak up when he slid the key into the lock.
“Violet.”
He stopped.
The cell seemed to hold its breath around the sound, though it was only her name and her own pulse in her ears.
He turned back. “What?”
Her throat worked once, and she lifted her chin and held his gaze.
“Me name,” she said. “‘Tis Violet.”
He looked at her for a long second, his dark gaze unreadable.
“Violet,” he repeated.
The sound of it on his lips was low and controlled, and she hated that it landed differently from lass, as if she had forced one small piece of herself through the bars and made him take hold of it.
Eventually, he stepped out, pulled the cell door shut behind him, and locked it again.
Great. Just great.
Connor turned the same paper over for the third time and found he had not read a word of it.
His study had regained its order after the broken treaty, and the contract with MacAdair had been removed from the desk.
Fresh reports sat in neat stacks near his left hand while a list of winter stores waited beside an account of grazing disputes near the southern border.
Everything had its place, and every problem had an obvious line of solution he could follow. Everything except Violet and the baby.
He set the paper down and looked at the candle as it burned lower on his desk. Two hours had passed. He had not gone down to the dungeons to frighten a confession out of her. He needed facts, and he had gotten enough.
A nameless child who probably belonged to his brother had been left at his gate after being taken from his English mother—his dead English mother.
Almost a year had passed since Connor had sent Lachlan away for being a rake. For all he knew, this was probably just a result of one of his brother’s numerous dalliances.
Would Lachlan even remember her?
Connor exhaled and dragged his palm down his face. He could feel a mild headache starting at the back of his head, which meant he would need to get up soon. Yet, his thoughts would not settle.
If he let Violet leave, she would come back.
If he gave her the child, he would be handing Moore blood to roads, strangers, and whatever Englishmen had already laid over the baby’s first breath.
If he kept her locked in the dungeons, his people would start whispering, the baby would still need a safe place, and her grief would sharpen into another problem.
Connor eventually rose, rubbing his palms down his thighs. There was, in fact, a solution, and it was staring at him right in the face.
He left the study and made his way back to the dungeons, where the air held the damp of stone and iron. The guard outside Violet’s cell straightened before Connor reached him.
“Open it.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
The lock turned, and Connor stepped inside and took the key from the guard while the cell door shut behind him.
Violet was standing. That registered first. She had not curled up on the straw or spent the hours weeping in the corner.
She stood near the wall with her shoulders squared, her torn sleeve smoothed as best she could manage, and her chin lifted as if she had been waiting for him to return so she could resume their argument.
Good.
“Have ye cooled down?” Connor asked.