Elspeth sat bythe window looking out at the setting sun. He’d left her alone in the solace of a locked room. Oddly, she felt comfort and safety here in a place that reminded her of home, her home that she missed every day.
Safety. She hadn’t felt safe since the night her father died. She shouldn’t feel safe in the home of a Highland warrior who hated Covenanters, but he knew she had poisoned him—she was sure of it, especially when he asked her if she’d given his kin anything to eat or drink—and yet he hadn’t informed his cousins. He’d kept her safe from them, even knowing she tried to kill him.
When she had tried to stab him with his own dirk and then tried to slap his face, she was instantly afraid, but he hadn’t struck her. Good thing too. She’d been struck by far less mighty men than him, and with frightful effects. But he had merely hoisted her over his shoulder and locked her in her room alone. Thankfully, she’d slept until his cousins arrived and let her out, but he wasn’t angry with them for doing so.
He was kind to her, even when he was scowling.
Refusing to think of him another instant, she picked up the small, sharp knife she’d lifted from the small kitchen. She looked at it. It was time. She had waited long enough. He’d touched her, put his fingers in her hair. She hadn’t stopped him.
She could kill him tonight if she wanted. She didn’t need poison. She had a knife.
Lifting the blade to her temple, she pulled on a fistful of hair. She closed her eyes, but only for a moment. She wanted to see her knots falling to the floor—all that was left of her once glossysunlit waves. With them were the last shreds of any hope of her life changing. Indeed, it was going to get so much worse after she killed him.
She sliced and sawed and tossed her tangles away and out the window. She stopped combing her hair a few years ago. What was the use? She rarely could find a comb and had no time for grooming herself if she did find one. She had blamed the decline of her hair on Mr. Cameron.
She cut down to her scalp and only cursed her mortal enemy once.
When the last knot fell to the floor, she felt surprisingly better, lighter. Her knots were gone. And she had a knife.
She changed her tattered woolen breeches and threadbare chemise and tunic for tattered skirts of dark blue and stays to match. Along with her linen undergarments, she had brought three complete changes of outer clothes. Three was all she owned. They were faded, tattered, and worn—but clean.
That meant she was going to have to wash the clothes she just discarded, including her undergarments, if she meant to wear them again in the next few days.
Should she wash her clothes in the stream or did Mr. Cameron have a pot large enough to boil water for soiled garments?
She gathered up her clothes, trailing a wisp or two of hair behind her and left the room to set off and find her enemy.
She did notcompletelyfeel like his enemy, but in the same way she had instructed him to try remembering to use his left arm, she had to try remembering who he was. His easy, pleasant, extremely handsome smile made her forget everything else.
When she passed the Main Hall on her way to the sitting room, she stopped. The doors were open. His laughter drifted through the corridor, luring her closer, even against her will.
She peeped her head into the hall and tried desperately to remember—remember—while she took in the sight of him. Though he stood with two of his cousins, she saw only him. In the firelight, his chestnut hair shone with the hues of russet and autumn. His skin was tanned and golden from time under the sun, his shoulders wide, his smile genuine and warm.
Remember.
She saw her father’s faded face in her mind as Mr. Cameron’s dark gaze turned to find her.
His eyes opened wide. He abandoned the carrots he was chopping, and dropped his knife. “Lass…”
“What in blazes happened to ye, woman?” Steafan gasped, holding his palm to his forehead.
“What? Och.” She reached up to her shorn head. “’Twas too unruly.”
She backed up a step when she noticed Mr. Cameron coming closer. He said nothing but just stared at her head.
“I couldna go traipsing around with feathers in my hair.”
He smiled, then cast her a somber look. “I will make certain ye have brushes and combs.”
When he blurted out these sorts of things, it made her feel as if she just tripped over a rock and tumbled over a cliff and falling…to her death, just punishment failing to avenge her family.
“I only need to launder my clothes,” she said more harshly than she intended. Her parents were counting on her. But brushes? Combs? How could the promise of such trivial, mundane things make her eyes sting?
“I will take ye to the stream tomorrow,” he told her.
“Och, but I should—”
“Nonsense, ’tis dark ootside. I will take ye tomorrow.”
