Chapter 8
Is this some sort of test? A punishment?
Agnes shifted awkwardly in her chair, her nerves rising the longer that Gordon remained silent.
Why wasn’t he speaking? Why wasn’t he telling her the rules?
She was about to ask him to continue, to put her out of her misery, when an unfamiliar, older woman bustled into the room. She wore a simple dress, her sleeves rolled up, a cloth cap on her head and a harried expression on her face.
“Eat it quick before it gets cold,” she said as she set a plate in front of Gordon and then rushed around to the other side to serve Agnes. “And let me ken what ye prefer, miss. Tell Iona, and she’ll tell me. See, I wasnae sure what ye’d like, so I didnae make anythin’ special.”
The woman, presumably the cook, had an air of Aunt Tabitha about her, simultaneously caring and stern.
Agnes guessed she had probably upset the cook by arriving late to dinner, but before she could offer an apology, the older woman was gone, breezing out the door with the same force she had entered with.
Even then, Gordon didn’t speak.
He cut into a glossy chunk of meat coated in a rich, dark sauce and popped it into his mouth. He chewed as he stared at her, those grey eyes both beautiful and unnerving, until she couldn’t bear the silence anymore.
As her mouth opened to break that intolerable quiet, he finally spoke.
“Rule one,” he began, swallowing. “Ye daenae ask about me past. Ye daenae ask me or anyone else. Especially other people.”
She frowned. What could be so bad that he wanted to hide it from her?
“Because I am English?” she asked. “Are you afraid of secrets being spread? I assure you, I do not intend to say a word about anything that I might see or hear in this castle. After all, you are the one doing me a great favor. I wouldn’t betray your trust.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Nay, it’s nae because ye’re English. It’s because it’s none of yer concern.”
Fair enough. Agnes was a stranger here, and if she wanted to retain Gordon’s assistance, she should probably play nice.
But perhaps there were some gaps in her knowledge that he would not mind filling.
“Can I ask why people call you the Mad Laird?”
“Why?”
She shrugged, biting her lip. “Because you don’t look mad to me.
Then again, nor do you seem particularly cruel, and yet they call you the Cruel One.
The Last Wolf of the Highlands is at least marginally more accurate, considering your shaggy beard and…
your eyes, but you do not seem to have fangs or sharp claws. ”
A little tremor ran through her, certain she was teetering on a knife-edge of being too bold, but if he answered, it would be worth the risk.
“Ye have nay notion of me fangs and claws, lass,” he replied coolly. “I thank ye for what I assume was a compliment, but nay, ye cannae ask that. It’s still none of yer business.”
She took a sip of the wine that had been poured for her to wet her dry throat. “So, I have broken a rule already?”
“Aye, but I’ll let it pass this once.” He cut off another piece of meat. “Daenae do it again.”
If anything, he was just proving her point that he was not nearly as cruel or monstrous as she had read he was. The Mad Laird would not have allowed a transgression, however small.
She held her tongue, in case she was mistaken. Maybe the madness and cruelty only came out if pushed to it.
“Rule two,” he continued. “I’ve said it before, but it evidently warrants repetition: I daenae want to even ken that ye’re here.
Ye keep to yer room, ye keep to the places that Iona tells ye that ye can explore, and ye keep out of me way.
It’s dangerous otherwise, and if ye want danger, ye’re welcome to go back to England. ”
His tone stung her more than she had expected.
Of course, she had not come to this place with the anticipation of receiving a warm welcome, but he didn’t need to make her feel like a wretched thing that needed to be tucked away, neither seen nor heard. It was like being a girl again, under the strict tutelage of an unpleasant governess.
“So, I am a pris—” she began.
“Rule three: ye daenae interrupt me,” he cut her off sharply.
She opened her mouth to try again, but caught herself before a sound could emerge.
No, he was not being unfair or unkind. He was the one thing keeping her safe. If that meant being temporarily obedient, then she would do it, for Lizzy’s sake. Besides, she had made herself his burden, and he had allowed her to stay when he could have easily kicked her and her niece out.
I can hold my tongue.
“Good. Ye have some sense after all,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Rule four: ye are never to visit the eastern tower.”
“Why? What is in there?” The words were out of Agnes’s mouth before she could think.
But it was not a broken rule. She had not interrupted; she had not asked about his past; she was not in his way. She just hoped that he would see it like that. Surely, she could not be denied a modicum of curiosity.
He sipped his wine, and as he lowered his cup, he brushed his thumb across his lip as if to wipe away a droplet. She couldn’t see one, but the gesture fixed her attention on his mouth, concealed beneath that dark beard of his.
What do you look like beneath all of that?
She knew of several gentlemen in society who grew whiskers to hide a distinct lack of chin or to strengthen a weak jaw, but she doubted he possessed any weakness at all, not in body or in mind.
He set his cup down and gave a dark smile that made her breath catch. “According to yer keen English scholars, I’d say the heads of me enemies, stuffed and nailed to the walls like stags. Piles and piles of bodies. Ye can barely move in there for separated limbs.”
Any desire to eat the succulent piece of meat on the plate evaporated as she gawped at him. It was quite the visual. Shock reverberated through her in a sweeping chill.
Then, Iona’s voice crept in through the fear: Ye mustnae believe everythin’ ye hear.
Agnes laughed, a high and anxious sound. “I did not realize you were a comedian, my Laird,” she said through her nervous giggles. “You are joking, yes?”
He simply sat back and took the last bite of the meat.
“Of course you are,” she insisted, deciding to trust the housekeeper.
Iona would not have allowed her to come down to dinner if she had actually thought Agnes might be in danger, nor would the kindly old woman remain in a castle where there was a tower full of corpses.
“You must think me terribly gullible,” she added with a smirk, feeling rather proud of herself as she sipped her wine.
“I daenae think anythin’ of ye,” he scoffed, pouring vinegar into an earlier sting.
Her eyes narrowed into a glare. “So, am I to understand that these are all your rules?”
“Aye.”
“I am surprised. I assumed there would be more than four.”
She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile, but it was hidden behind the rim of his cup, denying her confirmation.
“I thought it best to keep it simple,” he replied.
Defiantly, she took up her knife and fork and cut into the meat. It had cooled, but the scent was mouthwatering: rosemary, something sweet like blackberries, a punch of wild garlic, and the comforting aroma of butter.
She chewed with a vengeance, the rich juices coating her throat, the taste sublime on her tongue.
Swallowing, she cut another piece and paused before she popped it into her mouth. “Well then, I suppose it is now my turn.”
“Excuse me?” He furrowed his brow.
She chewed more slowly, echoing his tactics. After all, it would have been rude for her to talk with her mouth full, and she had been raised as a proper lady who would never break such etiquette.
Her mouth longed to curve into a grin as she sensed his impatience, that wolf-like gaze flitting from her lips to her eyes. The drumming of his fingertips against the bowl of his wine cup proved to be even more satisfying than the delicious taste of the meat. Venison, if she wasn’t mistaken.
“It is only fair,” she said eventually, after dabbing her mouth and taking a little more time to annoy him. “A contract is nothing if only one party has all the control.”
He raked his fingers through his beard, the corner of his eye twitching. “I daenae remember readin’ the word ‘fair’ in yer book, lass. And a favor isnae a contract. Ye came to me; I didnae offer an arrangement.”
“I shall be sure to inform the writers of the almanac to add the word in the next edition,” she said, enjoying herself.
“Perhaps I shall add it myself. Something like, ‘Fair and willing to offer protection to the needy, with an exceptional cook but a rather dreary castle.’ Yes, something like that.”
A grumble sounded in his throat, like an angry dog that was still deciding whether or not to pounce.
“Now, where to begin?” she continued. “Ah yes, rule number one…”
I’ll never leave me windows unlocked again.
Gordon poured more wine for himself as Agnes offered up her ‘rules.’
“… you must allow me to help with the running of the castle, now that I am here. It really is dismal. Nothing too wild, just some fresh flowers, some restoration of the tapestries, some new paintings perhaps, and a few additional servants.”
He didn’t respond. Her audacity made it impossible.
“Helping to bring some grandeur back to this castle is the least I can do to return your kindness,” she added, blushing.
His lip curled at her choice of words. Kindness? Is that what she thought it was?
“Rule number two: we are to have dinner together at least twice a week,” she said, either oblivious or indifferent to his irritation.
“That way, we can discuss any matters that need to be discussed. I can tell you how my endeavors are faring, and you can tell me about the clan, or nothing at all, whichever you prefer.”
“Ye ask for so little,” he remarked dryly.
She ignored him. “Rule number three, and perhaps the most important of all: we need to be seen together, my Laird. If Edwin is to truly believe that I am the bride of the Mad Laird, then people need to believe we are actually betrothed. It must naturally spread throughout the villages, or Edwin will smell a rat, and he may be foolish enough to come here thinking he can make an offer for my capture.”
Gordon had no need of money and would never accept an Englishman’s offer of anything, but the idea of sending her out of his castle was momentarily tempting. She was bolder than he had thought, a certain degree of impudence hiding behind her cheery smile and sparkling eyes.
It made him uneasy that, despite himself, he found it so entertaining, so compelling. Her subtle resistance against his authority toyed with his mind, urging him to make her want to submit.
I wouldnae mind seein’ just how brave ye are, lass.
He gazed at her, a smirk on his lips. “And what’s yer grand plan, eh? Do ye mean to take the Mad Laird on a picnic? Will ye feed the Wolf wild strawberries and stroke his fur? Will ye kiss the cruelty out of the Cruel One and undo years of legacy?”
She almost choked on the mouthful of wine she had just supped, her eyes bulging in shock. Banging lightly on her chest, she recovered quickly and, avoiding his eyes, muttered back, “I am just saying that we need to make this betrothal convincing, regardless of whether it is real or not.”
He pushed back his chair and got up, taking his time to walk around the table to where she sat. He didn’t need to look at her. He could feel her eyes following him, hear the shallow shift in her breathing, sense her entire body tensing up… but whether in fear or anticipation, he couldn’t be sure.
He came to a stop behind her chair, his hands resting on the wooden back.
“Will ye be caught in the shadows with me, lass?” he growled, her ragged breaths making the wolf inside him howl with need.
“Will ye press yerself against me by the trainin’ yard, for all the men to see?
Will ye gasp as I lean in”—he did just that—“and whisper things in yer ear to make ye blush? Will ye sit in me lap when I invite a gatherin’ of people here?
Will ye wriggle against me, so all who see ye ken that ye’re desperate to be alone with me? ”
A soft moan threatened to tip him over the edge of his sanity, turning him into the Mad Laird she believed him to be.
His hand slid around her throat, feeling the rolling motion of her swallow against his palm.
“Perhaps that’s too much for now,” he said thickly, taking hold of her chin with his other hand and turning her head to make her look at him. “So, ye can start by meetin’ me gaze, lass.”
Her eyes gleamed in the low light of the dining hall, her breath short and sharp, her bosom rising and falling in a taunting rhythm, the promise of a fresh moan seeming to dance on the lush curve of her lips.
She held his gaze, just as he had asked.
He could have lost himself in those striking green eyes, could have lost himself entirely in her.
It would not have taken much to lift her onto the edge of the table and finish his meal with the taste of her, sweeter than any dessert.
How loudly would she cry out her euphoria?
Who would hear her in a castle so empty?
Like waking suddenly from a sorceress’s trance, he dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists.
“Ye should add one final rule, lass,” he warned.
“And… what rule might that be?” she panted, torturing him.
He schooled his expression into a mask of cold calm. “Ye should forbid me to touch ye.”
Her cheeks flushed that tempting pink, a color that his tongue could have easily coaxed out of her too. But whether this rosy blush was conjured by embarrassment, fear, or something else entirely, he had no way to be sure, and wouldn’t push himself further toward danger by finding out.
“If ye daenae impose that rule upon me,” he added sternly, “then I’ll do it meself.”
He turned and walked to the door with a cursory “Good night,” leaving her to finish her cold dinner in peace.
Despite the vastness of the castle, and the countless empty rooms and extensive grounds where he could wander, there was only one place where he would find peace. One place where he might stand a chance of forcing Agnes out of his head, even if it took all night to work her out of his thoughts.
The forbidden tower.