Ye see her as a lass ye want to take to bed. Ye see every inch of her body in yer mind when ye close yer eyes.
Beatrice didn’t answer for a long beat. She pressed her lips together and then whispered, “Ye might nae see me as yer equal, but ye see me as a full-grown woman. So I expect ye to speak to me as one.”
She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing against his.
Leo let her go, and though it might have been his imagination, he felt like she brushed against him on purpose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dinner was tense that night. Another storm had rolled in, and the sounds of distant thunder and nearby rain permeated the silence that sat between them. Effie sat at the far end of the table, her face downcast and her hands knotted in her lap.
Poor thing thinks she got me in trouble. It’s nae yer fault, little one.
Beatrice shot Leo a cold glare.
It’s the beast we should be angry with.
A clattering noise came up from the hallway that led down to the kitchen, and one of the old women who had read Beatrice's fortune in the tea leaves waltzed into the Great Hall, clucking and talking as if she were in the middle of a conversation.
“I say that ye need to eat all of this slowly, do ye hear me? Oh, for the wee lassie, I’ll bring some broth if she’s still nae feeling well.” Her bright, dancing eyes landed on Beatrice, and her clucks turned to cackles. “Ah, the blushin’ bride has joined ye for the meal. What a treat!”
“Thank ye, Morag,” Leo said curtly. “Just put the food down and leave us.”
“Aye, but ye ken that the mistress and I are old friends now, arenae we?”
Beatrice did her best not to laugh. The old woman’s timing couldn’t be worse, but the levity she carried alongside the food was infectious.
She nodded, and Morag set the dishes on the table and clapped her hands together.
“We told the lass’s fortune when she first arrived, but she didnae believe any of it,” Morag continued.
Leo snorted. “That might be the only sensible thing I’ve heard out of ye.”
“Oh, aye, she thought us two silly old fools.”
“I didnae say that,” Beatrice protested, but Morag wasn’t listening.
“Ye ken the story of the bride who ran through the storm?” she asked, ladling out a thick stew and gesturing towards the pouring rain. “It’s a favorite of ours. A story about a Highland bride who runs away to escape fate but returns to find her clan and another at war.”
“I’ve never heard it,” Beatrice said.
She accidentally caught Leo’s gaze and saw how his expression had softened from anger to concern.
Just an old tale. It’s a story, nae a prophecy.
“The moral of it all is that fate cannae be escaped, mistress.” Morag bent over her, setting a bowl of stew before her. “Fate is what drives us, even when we think we’re runnin’ from it.”
A lump formed in Beatrice's throat. Whatever appetite she had vanished, and she went cold and empty on the inside.
Please, daenae speak to me of fate. I cannae even bear to hear it.
She shoved her chair back from the table, unsteady as she rose to her feet.
Leo watched her thoughtfully, the anger all but gone from his eyes. Effie tilted her face up as well, and they both stared at her with the same worried expression.
“Are ye all right, Bea?” Effie asked.
But Beatrice couldn’t bring herself to answer. She was dizzy. Her head felt detached from her body, like it was floating somewhere near the ceiling and on its way out of the castle.
