Chapter 9
Curtains whipped like the wings of an enormous bird, blasted inward by the icy storm that turned the sky black. Snow tumbled down in thick flakes, a veil of white that blotted out the landscape, and the empty hallways of Castle Buchlann howled with each wintry gust.
Dressed in white, Agnes stumbled along those eerie halls, pulled by the iron grip of her ‘betrothed.’ When he looked back over his shoulder at her, his grey eyes were black, his skin moonlight pale, his lips unnaturally red, his mouth forming words she could not hear above the screaming wind.
He was taking her to the eastern tower, the place he had forbidden her from. She didn’t know how she knew it, but that was the logic of a dream. She had no control over it, but she understood things she could not have possibly known.
“I’ll obey,” she heard herself plead, though it did not sound at all sincere. “I will behave, my Laird. I shall not break another one of your rules.”
There was a fawning note to her voice that confused her. If she had broken the rules and was due to receive some manner of cruel punishment, surely she should be howling at the top of her lungs for forgiveness? Surely, she should be petrified?
Gordon tugged her roughly to him, and her palms came up to balance herself, slamming into the hard granite of his muscled chest. Held there for a moment, she was half-shocked, half-thrilled, excited by the imagined feel of his body against hers.
“I promise, I will be obedient,” she murmured, peering up at him.
“Aye, I mean to make sure of it,” he growled, those black eyes glinting like river pebbles.
Her scream joined the wind as he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder.
Yet, she couldn’t decide if her scream was one of terror or if it was something akin to a game, playing along with the melodrama of her nighttime imagination. Pretending to be scared to make it all the more exciting.
A wooden door lay ahead. Behind it, she had no doubt she would discover the mysteries of the eastern tower.
But what dark and twisted things would she find there that had earned him the name of the Mad Laird? She couldn’t even begin to imagine the possibilities far beyond anything her dreaming mind could conjure.
He carried her closer and closer to that door, and as his hand turned the handle and the hinges began to shriek, she woke up with a start.
Breathing hard, she lay there in the dark, staring up at the brocade canopy that blocked out even the tiniest sliver of moonlight.
The linens were drenched with her sweat, and though she knew she was no longer in that unknown hallway, heading toward that forbidden tower, a shudder had chased her out into the real world.
It was a strange feeling, her body all shivery and tingly. But she couldn’t quite determine if it was residual fear or if it was the lingering pull of anticipation.
Perhaps it is neither. Perhaps I simply didn’t eat enough at dinner.
She had lost her appetite for a second time after Gordon had departed the dining hall, and she likely still had not entirely recovered from her exhausting journey to Scotland.
Plus, not knowing Edwin’s next move had her in a state of constant unease, so there was that to consider as the cause of her odd dream and her odder shivers.
Certain that she wouldn’t easily fall back to sleep, Agnes kicked off the coverlets and dragged herself to the edge of the bed. There, she took the long hem of her nightdress and dabbed away the beads of sweat that warmed her brow.
With a groan, she rose to her feet and padded over the threshold into the adjoining nursery, to the crib that Iona and Marcus had put in the corner of the room. A silk canopy draped down over the cradle, and as Agnes teased it aside, she fully expected to find Lizzy fast asleep.
Instead, the darling little girl stared up at her with those big, beautiful eyes… while trying very hard to eat her own toe.
“Why didn’t you make a peep, my sweet little mouse?
” Agnes chuckled and lifted the baby out of the crib, rocking her as she carried her to the window.
“Oh, you are such a good baby, aren’t you?
You didn’t want to wake your poor old aunt.
Had I not had such a troubling dream, I might have rested right through until morning. ”
With a grin, she dipped her head and blew a raspberry against Lizzy’s chubby little stomach.
The baby giggled, her hands flailing around, trying to grab Agnes’s hair. And as the next raspberry unleashed a fresh burst of merriment from her, Agnes could not help but giggle in return.
No matter what happened or what she dreamed about or how cold and dismissive Gordon might be, as long as Lizzy was safe enough to keep laughing like this, then Agnes knew she would never have a reason to be melancholy.
Lizzy had gotten her through Christine’s death, and she would get her through whatever was to come, too.
“Regardless of how grumpy that man might be, this is going to work,” Agnes whispered, smiling.
It has to.
Gordon halted abruptly as laughter drifted out into the crisp night air. His head snapped up toward the open window two floors above the path where he patrolled, for though he had meant to spend most of the night in his tower, duty had called him away.
“I cannot be stopped!” Agnes’s voice rang out, more high-pitched than usual. “No, I cannot!”
An odd sound followed a second later, the sound he used to make as a boy by pressing his lips to the back of his hand and blowing. A noise that used to make his only friend laugh without fail.
Laughter exploded out of the window once more, the unmistakable sound of a baby’s shrieking giggle.
She shouldnae leave that window open at all.
He frowned, uncomfortable with the memories that those childish sounds and laughter were dredging up from the mire of his brain. Indeed, he had half a mind to shout up to her to close the window and return to bed at once.
But who was she disturbing, really? The barracks were on the other side of the castle, and the men sleeping there could sleep through anything except their commander’s shout.
He leaned against the wall, listening. He couldn’t help it. The sound of Agnes and Lizzy’s blended laughter was too compelling, inspiring in him a strengthened desire to protect them both. He might have lost his ability to laugh, but he secretly hoped that they never did.
He was so invested in the giggles that he didn’t hear footsteps approaching until it was too late to make it look like he wasn’t just standing there, listening.
“A grand sound, is it nae?”
Gordon turned to find Iona smirking, a jar tucked in her arm.
“What?” he asked, annoyed to have been caught.
The housekeeper chuckled. “The sound of joy, me Laird. Those lasses gigglin’. It’s nae a sound we hear too often around here.”
He squinted at her. Was laughter really so rare at the castle? Was joy such a novelty?
Fine, he supposed it was, but was that really so important?
It was his duty to ensure that the Buchlann soldiers were trained and ready for anything, to keep the clan prosperous, to facilitate trade with allies, to maintain the safety of his people.
But it was not his job to bother about what amused them or how much joy they had in their lives. That was for them to manage.
“This is a castle for warriors, nae gigglers,” he said gruffly, not caring to explain himself.
Iona gave a sad smile. “But I remember when it was both, me Laird. I remember when these halls were filled and every room had a purpose instead of standin’ empty.”
“And I cannae turn back time, Iona,” he replied, his tone sharp. “Ye’re nae the only one who would if they could.”
Although that was not true for everything. Just moments he wished he could change.
“I ken that, me Laird,” Iona began. “But perhaps—”
“Ye clearly have somewhere to be. I suggest ye get on with it. Goodnight,” he muttered, continuing down the path that surrounded the castle, taking himself as far from those joyful sounds as he could.