Page 16 of When the Laird Conquers

Agnes smiled, admiring the old woman’s eagerness. She looked so much younger when she spoke with such excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks pinkening. Especially when she mentioned her husband, as if they were preparing for their own children to return from somewhere, not arranging things for two relative strangers.

“You really needn’t go to such trouble,” Agnes insisted anyway. “I will be perfectly fine wherever you put me. I don’t need much, and neither does this little one.”

Iona covered her mouth with her hand and laughed awkwardly. “Apologies, Miss Agnes. Ye must think me mad, prattlin’ on like this,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just that it has been years since me and me dear Marcus have had anyone else to care for, other than the Laird, so I cannae help but get carried away. Ye must permit an old goat a little bit of exuberance, just as ye’ll have to permit me to spoil ye and the bairn.”

Agnes tilted her head, certain she had misheard. “Years, you said?”

Surely, she heard wrong. The almanac that had brought her here was, by its very nature, revised every year to ensure that everything was accurate. Indeed, it had said that Gordon Declan Niall was the Laird, and the man she had met was him, so it was certainly not out of date.

But once again, how could such a prosperous clan have no visitors whatsoever? Yes, the almanac entry had stated that all English should avoid the territory, but what about fellow Scots? A successful clan had to have allies, friends, trading partners, and the easiest way to reinforce good bonds was through hosting people.

Or is that just the English way?

She had no real notion.

Then again, Lady Emma had hosted a gathering or two. It had been in the scandal sheets. Everyone who was anyone had wanted an invitation, driven by pure curiosity.

“Aye, that’s what I said,” Iona confirmed. “Five years, give or take, since there was any sort of life in this castle. It was a different time, of course, and sometimes it feels like all of that was fifty years ago, but there were gatherings here once. Feasts. Guests. Enough servants that these halls were never silent.”

Agnes leaned forward in her chair, careful to support Lizzy’s back. “What changed? What happened five years ago?”

Evidently, if it could drain a castle of its vitality and servants, it had to have been something big.

As she waited for the answer, a chill crept down the back of her neck, as if she were seated too close to a draft. The kind of gooseflesh-prickle one received when they were about to receive a juicy morsel of gossip.

The housekeeper mirrored her, leaning in too. “Well, it all started with…” The sparkle in her eyes went out, her eagerness sputtering. She wasn’t looking at Agnes anymore, but at something over her shoulder.

Perhaps it was not a draft or the thrill of gossip that had sent that bristle running down Agnes’s neck. Perhaps it was the stealthy arrival of someone else. Someone who was clearly standing behind her.

“I should see to those rooms of yers,” Iona said, her gaze still fixed on whatever, or whoever, was behind Agnes.

I know who it is.

Agnes could feel him, like the dense, warm air before a storm, or the first nip of the changing seasons after a hot summer. She could feel him with the same sense that made her shiver if she found herself alone at night, walking past shadows that seemed to stare back.

She was about to protest and urge the housekeeper to stay when the old woman suddenly recovered her vigor, practically running up the stairwell to the next floor.

A breeze rushed past Agnes’s shoulder as the shadow made himself known, sitting down in the chair that Iona had just hastily vacated.

“Looks like we need to begin the discussion about rules sooner than I thought,” Gordon said icily, his wolf-like eyes devoid of any warmth. “Ye can start with this: never ask questions about things that daenae concern ye.”

Agnes stared at him, a little disappointed to discover that he had found his shirt. She might have been braver if he was more exposed.

If there was something afoot in this castle, something that could be a danger to her or her niece, didn’t she deserve to know about it? Or perhaps it was for the best if she didn’t. She might not like what she heard, considering what had been written about this laird and this clan.

Just then, the same man who had helped Gordon with water buckets the night before came running up the stairs. Rather more sprightly than his wife.

“Miss Agnes,” the man—Marcus, she remembered—said with a quick bow of his head. “I went to fetch yer letter, but I’m afraid I daenae ken where ye put it.”

Where I put it? But it is right there on the bronze tray in the study, where your wife told me to put it.

A little anxious that something might have happened to it, Agnes shot to her feet. “Of course, let me fetch it for you.”

She was about to run for the stairs when she remembered that Lizzy was tucked loosely against her chest. Rushing down to fetch the letter might jostle the baby too much, but she could not delay if the letter was missing.

Hesitating for just a moment, she made her choice.

“Here, hold her for a moment, will you?”