Page 93 of When the Laird Conquers

But no, I had to be stubborn.

She turned her face into the pillow and let it catch her slowly falling tears.

“You don’t need to fuss over me, Iona,” Agnes said gently as she pulled weeds in the overgrown garden.

The housekeeper, who had just brought out yet another tray of tea and cakes, blushed and waved a dismissive hand. “I’m nae fussin’. I’m just takin’ care of ye, that’s all. That’s what family does, and though I may nae be yer blood, we’re kin now.”

Agnes smiled. “I am glad to have you, but truly, no more cakes.”

It had been two days since the cèilidh, and only a handful of people knew what had really happened that night: Agnes, Gordon, Iona, Marcus, and Samson.

The latter had decided to stay at Castle Buchlann for a while, and had even attempted to train with some of the soldiers. Naturally, he had been trounced, but he had insisted that he would persevere. Agnes figured that he too was trying to distract himself from the horrors of the other night, for no one liked to learn that their brother was a monster and a murderer, and it seemed he was in no rush to return home to assume his new duties.

She had not bothered to tell her father anything, fearing it would send him into another bout of depression. He had been so joyful since his arrival at Castle Buchlann. Even now, he was sitting in the dilapidated pavilion on the other side of the garden, lavishing attention on his granddaughter, showing her the love and affection he should have shown her from the start.

“Very well, but I’m nae lettin’ ye pull all these weeds by yerself,” Iona said, wrenching out a great tangle of dry, dead shrubs. “Ye ken that ye can order the men from the barracks to do this, aye?”

Agnes shook her head. “I want to do it myself. It… soothes me. And it will soothe me even more when I begin planting new things, to watch them grow.”

“That’ll be a fine thing,” Iona agreed as she whipped out a dagger and started hacking away at the old foliage.

In truth, it was a distraction for Agnes, a means to try and overcome her husband’s rejection. If she could throw herself into other pursuits and tire herself out each day, then perhaps each night would not seem so cold and lonely. If she could put her mark on this castle somehow, then maybe it would begin to feel like home again.

The following evening, in the middle of his emptied tower, Gordon paused in his painting to flex his cramped hands. He had been at his work for two days, lost in every brushstroke, sleeping right there on the cold floor when fatigue forced him to stop awhile.

Everything he had previously destroyed had been burned until all that remained in that circular room were two pictures: the imagined painting of his son, and a sketch he had long forgotten about. It was a sketch of Katherine, rolling her eyes at him from across the healer’s chambers.

He remembered the day well. She had been brewing tonics, and he had knocked over a pot of steeping rosehips.

“Ye’re goin’ to annoy the life out of some poor lass one day,” she had said with a laugh. “Ye’ll need a patient wife, considerin’ how clumsy ye are.”

“Aye, and ye’ll need a husband with no sense of smell,” he remembered retorting with a grin.

“Och, then it’s fortunate I’m never gettin’ married,” she had said with a decisive nod. “I might like a bairn or two one day, but a husband? Nae on yer life.”

“I’ll have to, I suppose,” he had muttered grimly. “Me faither will insist on it. She’ll be some awful rich laird’s daughter, spoiled as anythin’.”

Katherine had turned her nose up. “Who says? Ye daenae have to do what yer faither tells ye to. One day, ye’ll be bigger than him, stronger than him, and then ye can do as ye please. Besides, ye need to find a lass that ye love. Ye should marry a lass that ye love. And I’ll be her best friend, so we can both annoy ye and I can be like an auntie to all yer bairns.”

“All me bairns?” he had laughed.

“Aye, ye must have a horde of ‘em, so this castle is never without laughter or light,” she had said with a faraway smile. “I think ye’ll be a good faither. I cannae wait to meet yer wife. Just… promise me that ye’ll choose someone ye love and that ye’ll be happy no matter what.”

He couldn’t remember what he had said to that, but he imagined it was something sarcastic.

Now, he wondered if he had been making all the wrong vows over the years since her death. His best friend had told him to be happy, to find a woman he loved, to have a horde of bairns, and yet he was refusing to abide by her wishes.

He had found a woman he loved, a woman who could make him happy, but he was pushing her away. He yearned for her, couldn’t think of anything but her, and yet he was cooped up in his tower instead of out there with her, starting a life together. All because he was afraid of losing her.

“Ye’d be livid with me,” he murmured as he sat back and studied his work.

The painting was of Agnes in the library, with the baby in her arms and the fox cub at her feet. He had painted it as he had remembered it, watching her through a gap in the door. The colors were muted, verging on gloomy, and in the background, behind Agnes’s reading chair, the shadows cast by the flickering fire had formed a figure. Tall, towering, blotting out her light.

“I am livid with ye,” a voice said, making his heart lurch.

He twisted his head back to find Iona in the doorway, holding a tray. “I’ve had to send yer guests off meself, and there’ll be gossip about what happened to ye and Her Ladyship. Nae to mention, no one wants to eat these cakes. The kitchen is full of ‘em. We’ll be eatin’ them for weeks.” She paused, glancing at the painting. “Och, that’s nice.”

“Iona, I’ve told ye nae to disturb me up here,” he said gruffly.