“Does he, now? And ye wouldnae happen to ken what matter he wants to discuss with me?” she asked, her voice bending with uncertainty she hoped the servant didn’t hear.
“Cannae say. But it’s nae like the Laird tells me anything. I just do as I’m told.”
She turned her attention back to Maisie, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed cheek, silently hoping the servant would scurry off and leave them in peace.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, bobbin,” she murmured. “I want ye to get better before I get back, do ye hear?”
Maisie’s face scrunched up, as if she could hear Lavina but couldn’t do anything to pull herself out of her slumber.
Pulling in a long, deep breath, Lavina stepped back from her sister and the cot. She was going to have to figure out how to bide her time with the Laird. Marriage wasn’t exactly something she was willing to jump right into. But if it meant protection for Maisie too, it was certainly something to consider.
An icy finger slithered down her spine, and her body tensed. She was about to walk into the hornet’s nest. Surely the Laird would expect an answer from her. But what would she say?
And the fact that she had no allies here was disheartening. How could she trust anyone around her? There was no telling who among them could be trusted, or if she’d made a grave mistake by seeking help from the very man her uncle wouldneverapproach.
As she stepped further away from the cot, uneasiness settled deep into her bones. Her breath hitched as she remembered who she was dealing with. Laird McGowan was nothing more than a murderer, a fiend. The fact that she and Maisie still drew breath astonished her.
“If the lady is ready to dress,” the maid spoke up with more confidence now, “ye’ll find the changing curtain in the corner.”
Lavina’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Instead, she stepped forward and snatched the dress off the back of the chair. The fabric was fine—too fine for someone like her—and the weight of it spoke volumes about the role she was expected to play.
She moved slowly to the changing curtain, each step tugging at her heart. Itpainedher to leave Maisie’s side, even for a moment, but she understood all too well that she couldn’t avoid the Laird forever. She had to find the courage to wed or flee with her ailing sister.
As Lavina mulled over her choices, an idea grew on her like mold. It couldn’t be all that bad, being declared the Laird’s fiancée, but what price would she pay for such a title? And would she be able to handle all the pomp and posture that accompanied it?
When she emerged, dressed and composed, the maid bobbed a brief curtsy. She cast one last, lingering glance over her shoulder—her gaze softening at the sight of her sister resting peacefully—before finally daring to exit the chamber.
The corridors beyond were dimly lit, their shadows creeping across thick stone walls. The sound of women’s footsteps, gowns swishing lightly across the floor, brought a strange sense of comfort.
There was something about the rhythm, the murmur of voices, that reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone.
But no matter how warm the fires burned or how many furs were draped to soften the stone floors, it was clear these were not the halls of her father’s castle. She was inenemyterritory now, and no amount of pleasantries would let her forget it.
“Here we are now,” the maid said, stepping aside.
Lavina halted in the doorway, her breath catching as her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open slightly in awe.
The room was grand. Its high ceilings were framed with thick timber beams, and antlers lined the walls like trophies. It reminded her, achingly, of her father’s study.
She pulled in a long, deep breath, letting the scent of roasted meat and warm pastries wash over her. The table at the center of the room was overflowing with fruits, cheeses, baked bread, and delicate pastries. Surely enough to feed an entire village.
Has everyone been invited?
But as her gaze drifted past the table, it caught on the one figure that mattered most—the Laird himself, seated at the head. He sat straight-backed in his carved chair, a stoic expression masking his thoughts. Yet his gaze lingered on her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine.
She didn’t need to look directly at him to feel it. He was studying her,searchingher, like a man trying to read a book he didn’t yet trust.
Beside him sat a small child, no more than four years old, half-hidden in the shadow of his broad frame. The girl was pale, her chestnut curls wild and unruly, cascading down narrow shoulders.
There was no doubt in Lavina’s mind that the child was his. The resemblance was too striking to ignore.
She pulled in another breath to steady her nerves and moved forward. She could feel the tension with every step. The way his eyes tracked her made her skin prickle.
He’s disappointed.He was expecting more than what I have to offer.
She rubbed her palms discreetly down the fabric of her dress, trying to wipe the sweat.
“Me Laird,” she said softly, dipping into a polite curtsy as she reached the table.
