Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dinner was tense that night. Another storm had rolled in, and the sounds of distant thunder and nearby rain permeated the silence that sat between them. Effie sat at the far end of the table, her face downcast and her hands knotted in her lap.
Poor thing thinks she got me in trouble. It’s nae yer fault, little one.
Beatrice shot Leo a cold glare.
It’s the beast we should be angry with.
A clattering noise came up from the hallway that led down to the kitchen, and one of the old women who had read Beatrice's fortune in the tea leaves waltzed into the Great Hall, clucking and talking as if she were in the middle of a conversation.
“I say that ye need to eat all of this slowly, do ye hear me? Oh, for the wee lassie, I’ll bring some broth if she’s still nae feeling well.” Her bright, dancing eyes landed on Beatrice, and her clucks turned to cackles. “Ah, the blushin’ bride has joined ye for the meal. What a treat!”
“Thank ye, Morag,” Leo said curtly. “Just put the food down and leave us.”
“Aye, but ye ken that the mistress and I are old friends now, arenae we?”
Beatrice did her best not to laugh. The old woman’s timing couldn’t be worse, but the levity she carried alongside the food was infectious.
She nodded, and Morag set the dishes on the table and clapped her hands together.
“We told the lass’s fortune when she first arrived, but she didnae believe any of it,” Morag continued.
Leo snorted. “That might be the only sensible thing I’ve heard out of ye.”
“Oh, aye, she thought us two silly old fools.”
“I didnae say that,” Beatrice protested, but Morag wasn’t listening.
“Ye ken the story of the bride who ran through the storm?” she asked, ladling out a thick stew and gesturing towards the pouring rain. “It’s a favorite of ours. A story about a Highland bride who runs away to escape fate but returns to find her clan and another at war.”
“I’ve never heard it,” Beatrice said.
She accidentally caught Leo’s gaze and saw how his expression had softened from anger to concern.
Just an old tale. It’s a story, nae a prophecy.
“The moral of it all is that fate cannae be escaped, mistress.” Morag bent over her, setting a bowl of stew before her. “Fate is what drives us, even when we think we’re runnin’ from it.”
A lump formed in Beatrice's throat. Whatever appetite she had vanished, and she went cold and empty on the inside.
Please, daenae speak to me of fate. I cannae even bear to hear it.
She shoved her chair back from the table, unsteady as she rose to her feet.
Leo watched her thoughtfully, the anger all but gone from his eyes. Effie tilted her face up as well, and they both stared at her with the same worried expression.
“Are ye all right, Bea?” Effie asked.
But Beatrice couldn’t bring herself to answer. She was dizzy. Her head felt detached from her body, like it was floating somewhere near the ceiling and on its way out of the castle.
“She doesnae like to contemplate her fate, Effie,” Morag said, setting another bowl of stew on the table. Beatrice could sense her bright eyes boring into her. “Do ye, mistress?”
“If ye would excuse me, I’m going to get some air,” Beatrice choked out, before sprinting out of the Great Hall, her legs growing weaker with every step.
The rain fell heavily in the garden, but she wanted to be there. She didn’t mind the damp or the cold. It braced her, brought her back down to herself. The lump in her throat dissolved as she breathed in and out through her nose, and the twisted sensation in her stomach and lungs subsided.
A noise from behind her snagged her attention.
Leo.
He came up behind her, and she felt the weight of his heavy cloak as he draped it around her shaking shoulders. His hands lingered, the warmth of them more calming than she would ever admit.
A scent rose from the cloak, smoke and musk, feral yet civilized—the wild enmeshed with the tamed. It made her head spin all over again.
Saints, I just managed to get a hold of meself.
Leo lowered his mouth to her ear, and she shivered as his warm breath tickled her neck.
“We write our own fates, Beatrice,” he told her. “They daenae belong to storms or tea leaves or the blasted stars. They belong to us.”
Beatrice spun on her heels, inhaling the scent of the rain and him. She didn’t say anything as they stared at each other for a while through the shimmering sheets that glistened around them.
“I thank ye for this, Leo.” She eventually took off the cloak and handed it back to him.
Leo pushed her hands away, pressing the cloak back into her chest. “Keep it.” He swallowed and touched the side of her face, wet with rain.
As he left her in the garden, Beatrice wrapped the cloak back around her shoulders, sinking into its weight, and his scent, with a small shiver.
“The lass’s family has arrived,” Tyler told Leo one morning as Leo lay sprawled in bed, his eyes still closed. “Her parents and her cousin. And yer cousin, me Laird.”
Leo groaned. “Allistair is here? Ugh. Can Violet handle him for me?”
“If I can find her, I’ll pass the message along.” Tyler laughed. “Ye ken how slippery yer sister can be.”
Leo sat up and began to pull on enough clothes to meet the strangers who had descended on his castle.
I shouldnae even be doing this much for them.
Still, he finished dressing and followed Tyler out to the entrance hall, where Beatrice was embracing a young woman about her age. Beside them stood an older couple, their hands entwined and their uncomfortable gazes tracing the stone walls.
Allistair stood apart from the group, an entity all unto himself, smiling glibly as Leo entered.
“Cousin, ye have guests for the betrothal ceilidh.”
“I’m Patrick Whitmore,” the unfamiliar man said. He motioned to the woman beside him. “This is Iola, me wife. I daenae remember if we’ve ever met face to face.”
“I ken ye very well,” Leo reminded him.
Patrick looked away.
“This is me cousin, Eloise.” Beatrice pushed the young woman she had been hugging forward. A handsome, tall man stood behind her, his clear eyes sweeping across the hall. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.”
“Aye, and this is me husband, Laird James MacAllister,” Eloise said, motioning to the man over her shoulder. “If he doesnae mind, Beatrice and I need to discuss some things.”
“I daenae mind at all, ” James answered in a playful tone that made Leo flinch. “MacSween and I have business to attend to. And by that, I mean ye’re takin’ me to yer liquor cabinet.” He laughed, and Leo loosened up a bit.
“Are we needed here?” Eloise asked, though she and Beatrice were already stepping away.
“The two of ye should go,” Leo urged, each word cool and crisp. “There’s nay need for ye to wait around here with us.”
Beatrice took Eloise by the wrist and led her past them towards the courtyard. As she moved past Leo, she let her hand press against his chest, a small intimate touch he had not been expecting.
What is she doing to me? And in front of them all.
Once Beatrice and Eloise were gone, Iola went to her chambers, and the men were alone. It was then that Patrick stepped forward.
He cleared his throat and released a strangled sigh. “Laird MacSween, I daenae ken if Beatrice told ye this, but we daenae support this betrothal.”
“And I daenae ken if Beatrice told ye this, but what ye support doesnae matter to me.”
“Are ye offerin’ enough to marry our beloved daughter, I wonder?” Patrick continued, somewhat drunk and very unwise.
From the sound and smell of him, Leo suspected that the man had been drinking for hours to get enough courage to ask such an outrageous question from such a weak bargaining position.
“I have frozen yer debts and can forgive the ones promised to me. If that isnae enough for ye, it isnae me concern.”
Patrick shook his head. “We need more than just a little help and forgiveness, me Laird. If we were to marry Beatrice off to some of the other creditors, it seems we could receive some coin for her hand too.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “All debts cleared. Money as we need it.”
“Surely, ye can do better for this lovely couple,” Allistair interjected with earnest goodwill that Leo didn’t believe for a moment.
“This has nothin' to do with ye, Cousin,” Leo hit out.
He ordered everyone but Patrick to go to the solar and help themselves to his whisky, his tone brooking no argument.
After everyone was gone, he turned towards Patrick again. “I have made me offer clear. Beatrice has accepted me terms, and she is under me protection as me future wife.”
“I willnae let this union go through,” Patrick stated with drunken insistence. “I cannae let meself be beggared for it. Ye must see that, Laird MacSween. It’s only a matter of a little money for ye, surely.”
“Are ye saying ye will oppose me will in this? That ye will actively oppose me marriage to yer daughter?” Leo’s tone was low and implacable, and perhaps drunken Patrick Whitmore could not hear the danger in it.
“As it stands, I will do everythin' I can to prevent it,” he slurred.
Leo stepped forward, looming over him. “Then ye’re nae welcome in me home and can find yer own way out of debt.”