Page 19 of When the Laird Conquers

Have I always looked so tired?

Agnes stared hard at her reflection in the long, oval mirror that occupied one corner of her new lodgings: a beautiful, airy chamber that, although sparsely furnished, would more than suffice for her simple requirements.

There was a large and comfortable bed, which she had already tested with a necessary nap after walking up so many stairs earlier. The four oak posts were carved into spirals that reminded her of a unicorn’s horn, providing the perfect support for a heavy canopy of light green brocade. A writing desk sat by the window, which offered a striking view of sprawling forests and rolling hills, with the faintest glint of the sea in the distance.

A patchwork of rugs fended off the chill of the flagstone floor, while a roaring fire warmed the rest of the room, both literally and figuratively. Meanwhile, two large tapestries added some meager decoration: one depicting a doe in the woods, the greens and golds and bronzes dimmed by the same gloomy affliction that possessed the entire castle; the other a somewhat difficult-to-decipher image of a ship at sea, the colors so dark that they muddled together.

Agnes had almost gone cross-eyed the first time she had tried to figure out what it meant.

“Is this fine enough to wear to dinner with a laird?” she mumbled to herself, turning this way and that.

The dress was not quite two Seasons old and packed into her saddlebags with such haste that it had taken Iona two hours to iron out the creases. A simple gown of coral pink; she had never been quite convinced that it suited her.

Nevertheless, it had been something of a relief to have her few belongings restored to her. The man who had interrupted breakfast had been the one to fetch her mare from the woods, though according to Iona, it was Marcus who had taken over the mare’s care.

Oh, how I would like to ride for a while, to clear my head.

Her gaze wandered to the window, where the evening sky was putting on a most remarkable display of nature’s beauty: burnished coppers and buttery golds, shot through with bolts of fiery reds and rich oranges, while the plump clouds were tinged with pinks and purples.

“At least the world out there hasn’t lost all of its color,” she said with a sigh.

She had already decided that this room, her room, would not fall prey to the dingy darkness that shrouded the whole castle. This room would have color, just as soon as she had given her ideas to the housekeeper.

As if summoned, Iona wandered into the room without knocking… and came to an abrupt standstill, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Too much? Or not enough?” Agnes asked anxiously.

The housekeeper let her hand fall. “Och, lass, ye’re a thing of beauty. I doubt I’ve ever seen a lass more lovely.” She moved closer. “What a fine color that is. I cannae say I’ve ever seen its like before.”

“In London, it would not be fashionable,” Agnes said, stumbling over her words. “It is an old gown, by society’s standards. But… it is just dinner. I do not need to be in my most resplendent gown. Not that I have anything better. And not that I care what I look like. It is just dinner.”

A grin lifted Iona’s lips. “Ye said that part already.”

“What?”

“That it’s just dinner.”

“Oh… Oh, well, what a silly goose I am,” Agnes said, chuckling tightly. “It must be the heat in this room, addling my mind. Is it hot to you? It is, isn’t it? Do you think something can be done about that? Only if it is no trouble.”

She was babbling, and she knew it. Just as she knew that the housekeeper would see right through the façade to the nerves jittering beneath.

It was the first time in twenty-two years that she would be dining alone with a man who was not family. A ‘betrothed’ who had already made her stomach do very strange things, fluttering and flipping against her wishes. How was she supposed to eat under such conditions?

And what if the conversation trickled to nothing? Would she be expected to just sit there in silence with Gordon, picking at her food? Then again, would that be better than him saying things that made her face flush with heat and no doubt turn her a damning shade of red?

Goodness, I cannot do this.

Iona rested a gentle hand on Agnes’s arm. “Ye seem stressed, lass. If it’s just dinner, why do ye look as if ye’re ready to run for the hills?”

For just this moment, Agnes wished the older woman wasn’t quite so perceptive. If Iona could sense her fear, then Gordon certainly would. And Agnes had already seen how he responded to her fear.

She had not forgotten his cold, cutting demeanor during their first encounter. Nor had she forgotten his lilting remark of, “A sweet scent. But do ye taste as sweet? I’ll soon find out.”

Of course, the logical part of her mind knew he had not meant that he wanted to eat her, but with dinner playing on her thoughts, wild possibilities and awful fates kept ricocheting into her skull.

“I just…” She stopped, shook her head, tried again. “It’s nothing. It’s absolutely nothing. I am just tired and overwrought and… But if he wanted to kill me, he would not dine with me first, would he? He would likely have done it last night when I climbed in through his window. Isn’t that so?”

What if he means to carve me up? What if that is why his clan is so dangerous?