Elspeth woke up the next morning with a jolt, her eyes heavy as she slowly blinked them open.
She was warm, far too warm. As her awareness grew, she felt something firm press against her back.
Her eyes flew open. A shiver skittered down her spine. She looked over her shoulder and froze.
The Duke lay behind her, his chest pressed to her back, one arm slung around her waist. Her breath caught, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.
Good heavens!
In her shock, she jerked forward, scrambling off the bed and tumbling with a loud thwack on the hard floor.
Damn, that is goin’ to bruise!
She rolled onto her hip and rubbed her backside.
She rose to her knees and peeked over the side of the bed.
The Duke opened one eye, then both, looking at her.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well, Lady Inverhall?” he asked, his voice deep and gravely from sleep.
A tiny smirk formed on his lips, clearly amused by her tumble.
“Daenae ye dare good mornin’ me!” she spluttered, rushing to get up.
He pushed himself up on his elbow, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement in the early morning light that shone through the small window.
“Oh, but I dare. And it seems, despite your protests, you found my company quite comforting in the night. Perhaps you do like comforts, after all.”
“It is too early for yer nonsense?—”
“What were you trying to achieve, curling into me like a little cat?”
Elspeth scoffed, her cheeks burning hot with rage and something else she dared not name.
She needed to get out of this room, to get back on the road. She abhorred the idea of London. She could not stomach traveling with this man any longer, nor fight the pull of being in such close proximity. He unnerved her.
“Nothin’! I was achievin’ nothin’ but a good night’s sleep, which ye clearly ruined!” she finally answered as she stormed over to the little wooden chair in the corner and hastily put on her shoes.
She squared her shoulders and stalked out of the room, the Duke’s soft chuckle echoing behind her.
Arse.
A week later—a long, terrible week filled with stale food, shabby inns, and the relentless clip-clop of horses’ hooves—the imposing façade of Arrowfell House loomed before them. Its dark stone and severe lines were only eclipsed by Elspeth’s sour mood.
She should be glad to have finally arrived at their destination; the journey from the Highlands had been exhausting.
After that night at that inn with the single bed, she found herself subjected more to silence than actual conversation. She was grateful for the quiet, though, as it allowed her to make up stories about the people they passed, just as she had when she was a young girl.
Whenever she had walked into town, she would conjure elaborate tales with her mother and nursemaid, Morag, taking inspiration from passing elements of nature, the setting, or the people.
She became lost in her thoughts as her eyes flitted to a thin, old man hobbling down the street with the most obnoxious cane she had ever seen. It was long and golden, like a staff that an ancient king would have. She imagined he was the long-lost grandson of a French king who was usurped, and someone no one knew about, and the relic was passed down in an unmarked trunk.
“Well,” the Duke said, pulling her out of her thoughts. She noted how his voice became clipped as the carriage finally rattled to a halt. “Here we are, My Lady.”
He may as well be talkin’ about a grand vacation, not me new prison. It is time to face me fate.
Elspeth grunted, her gaze fixed on a distant gargoyle leering from the roof, its teeth jagged points.
