Page 21 of Burning for the Beastly Laird

“Alisdair’s parents are buried here, along with his first wife.”

“He must have been devastated,” Isla murmured, thinking of her parents.

“Indeed,” Lady Moira sighed. “Pain like that never truly goes away. But it dulls in time, then becomes a memory.”

Isla nodded. She hoped that someday her pain would dull into nothing but a memory too. And walking through this castle, she found herself believing it might actually happen here. Even inside a loveless marriage, in a castle that had made its hatred of her plain.

She tightened her jaw as she followed Lady Moira back out of the chapel. She would survive, like she always had. She only wished, for once in her life, that she might actually get to live.

“Now, child,” Lady Moira said. “This is the least interesting place in the castle if ye ask me, but I promised ye a full tour.”

Isla eyed the massive door ahead with curiosity. Lady Moira had truly shown her everywhere, and her head was already full to bursting. This, apparently, was the last stop of their tour.

Lady Moira nodded to the guard, who pushed the heavy door open. Isla knew what she was looking at the instant she saw inside—the armory. She could see rows upon rows of weapons: swords, halberds, spears.

“I daenae have much taste for weapons, but I have to admit that most of the clan’s history is forged by them.”

They walked inside, and Isla took in the quiet of the room. She understood the weight of being shown this place. Not only were relics of the family kept here, but also the weapons the clan had carried to war. She was being trusted with something very important.

“Lady Moira!” a maid called from the entrance. “Lady Moira, ye are needed in the brewhouse.”

Lady Moira turned to her and nodded. “I’ll be there shortly.” Then she turned back to Isla. “I have to see to that.”

“I will join ye.”

“No need, dear,” she assured her. “Take a look at our history. I will fetch ye later.”

With that, Lady Moira left her alone in a room filled with weapons and the whole bloody history of Clan MacLeod. Perhaps the older woman knew what she was doing. This might help her understand the clan better. Besides, the room was quiet. No judging glances here, no hushed murmurs, no pointed looks.

Isla wandered through it, looking at the old swords—generations upon generations of MacLeods fighting to keep their prosperity and freedom. Some of these blades had spilled Sinclair blood.

The thought made her breath catch.

She was under no illusion that her uncle would simply let her go. She was behind MacLeod walls now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come for her.

She shivered at the thought of that heavy hand landing on her shoulder again, the old signal that she was about to be severely punished, that she was about to be dragged back down.

She shook off the thought and turned her attention to the sword in front of her, and her jaw dropped. What kind of man could even wield something this long, with a hilt this imposing?

She didn’t think before acting, drawn in by the sight of it. What harm could it do, just to lift it once? She was alone, after all. She would put it right back before anyone noticed.

The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, ancient and heavy with history. She reached out and touched it, smoothed by generations of hands before her own, then wrapped her fingers around it and tried to lift it.

The sword had barely cleared its stand before its weight dragged her forward. Dread flooded through her, cold sweat breaking out from the sheer effort of staying upright.

She had been a fool. She was about to drop a priceless heirloom and make a spectacle of herself. The thought of the whole castle seeing her embarrassment frightened her more than the fall itself.

But that fall never came, for two hands caught both the sword and her wrist before either could hit the floor.

Alisdair had been in the armory when he heard his aunt’s chatter. He was about to ask her what business she had there when he caught another voice—Isla’s.

She was there.

He couldn’t explain what that woman’s mere presence did to him. She was only standing at the far entrance of the armory, and already something inexplicable had seized his chest.

The right thing to do would be to step out of the shadows, announce himself, greet the ladies, ask after their business, and then leave for his study.

And yet he pressed further into the dark corner of the room instead, driven by a need to watch her. He could not look away—his eyes slid over the loose hair cascading down her shoulders and then flicked to the elegant hands clasped in front of her as she walked.