“She doesnae like to contemplate her fate, Effie,” Morag said, setting another bowl of stew on the table. Beatrice could sense her bright eyes boring into her. “Do ye, mistress?”
“If ye would excuse me, I’m going to get some air,” Beatrice choked out, before sprinting out of the Great Hall, her legs growing weaker with every step.
The rain fell heavily in the garden, but she wanted to be there. She didn’t mind the damp or the cold. It braced her, brought her back down to herself. The lump in her throat dissolved as she breathed in and out through her nose, and the twisted sensation in her stomach and lungs subsided.
A noise from behind her snagged her attention.
Leo.
He came up behind her, and she felt the weight of his heavy cloak as he draped it around her shaking shoulders. His hands lingered, the warmth of them more calming than she would ever admit.
A scent rose from the cloak, smoke and musk, feral yet civilized—the wild enmeshed with the tamed. It made her head spin all over again.
Saints, I just managed to get a hold of meself.
Leo lowered his mouth to her ear, and she shivered as his warm breath tickled her neck.
“We write our own fates, Beatrice,” he told her. “They daenae belong to storms or tea leaves or the blasted stars. They belong to us.”
Beatrice spun on her heels, inhaling the scent of the rain and him. She didn’t say anything as they stared at each other for a while through the shimmering sheets that glistened around them.
“I thank ye for this, Leo.” She eventually took off the cloak and handed it back to him.
Leo pushed her hands away, pressing the cloak back into her chest. “Keep it.” He swallowed and touched the side of her face, wet with rain.
As he left her in the garden, Beatrice wrapped the cloak back around her shoulders, sinking into its weight, and his scent, with a small shiver.
“The lass’s family has arrived,” Tyler told Leo one morning as Leo lay sprawled in bed, his eyes still closed. “Her parents and her cousin. And yer cousin, me Laird.”
Leo groaned. “Allistair is here? Ugh. Can Violet handle him for me?”
“If I can find her, I’ll pass the message along.” Tyler laughed. “Ye ken how slippery yer sister can be.”
Leo sat up and began to pull on enough clothes to meet the strangers who had descended on his castle.
I shouldnae even be doing this much for them.
Still, he finished dressing and followed Tyler out to the entrance hall, where Beatrice was embracing a young woman about her age. Beside them stood an older couple, their hands entwined and their uncomfortable gazes tracing the stone walls.
Allistair stood apart from the group, an entity all unto himself, smiling glibly as Leo entered.
“Cousin, ye have guests for the betrothal ceilidh.”
“I’m Patrick Whitmore,” the unfamiliar man said. He motioned to the woman beside him. “This is Iola, me wife. I daenae remember if we’ve ever met face to face.”
“I ken ye very well,” Leo reminded him.
Patrick looked away.
“This is me cousin, Eloise.” Beatrice pushed the young woman she had been hugging forward. A handsome, tall man stood behind her, his clear eyes sweeping across the hall. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.”
“Aye, and this is me husband, Laird James MacAllister,” Eloise said, motioning to the man over her shoulder. “If he doesnae mind, Beatrice and I need to discuss some things.”
“I daenae mind at all, ” James answered in a playful tone that made Leo flinch. “MacSween and I have business to attend to. And by that, I mean ye’re takin’ me to yer liquor cabinet.” He laughed, and Leo loosened up a bit.
“Are we needed here?” Eloise asked, though she and Beatrice were already stepping away.
“The two of ye should go,” Leo urged, each word cool and crisp. “There’s nay need for ye to wait around here with us.”
