Eva blinked at them, still half-convinced this was some strange waking dream. “Aye… thank ye. Thank ye truly. Will ye give me one moment, please?”
They nodded, she closed the door and ran to her mother and checked her head. The heat had gone from her forehead.
“Thank the saints,” she said.
Then she moved to her brother and checked him as well to find that his fever had gone as well. “Oh, I am relieved.”
Then she set about packing their clothing into two trunks. One with her meager clothing and another with her brother and mother’s. A few moments later, she opened the door to the servants.
They stepped inside with quiet footsteps and offered immediate assistance. One moved to help carry her mother, the other fetched blankets and began assessing what would be needed to make the patients comfortable. Their presence filled the cottage with an order and calm she had lacked all night.
Eva swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath as she watched them work. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
Laird McLaren actually sent for us. And nae with guards or threats, but with comfort and help.
Her heart tightened painfully, unsure what to make of the complicated man who was now, somehow, tied to her fate.
Her hands trembled slightly as she gathered their few belongings, the reality of what lay ahead pressing down on her.The castle. The laird. The marriage he had demanded. The life she had never imagined for herself.
Yet through the swirl of fear and confusion, one thought echoed brightest.
He kept his promise.
And that, she found, meant far more than she expected.
CHAPTER NINE
Connor sat behind his desk the next morning, quill in hand and a stack of correspondence before him. He had returned late from the ceilidh, soothing over the hurt pride of Lairds who wanted their daughters considered to be his wife.
Now the study smelled of ink, parchment, and the faint smoke of the hearth as he tried to ignore the chaos of the previous night.
The door opened without a knock, and Margaret swept into the study. She moved with surprising vigor for her seventy years, tartan skirts swishing and silver hair pinned in an uncompromising knot. Her chin was lifted, her eyes sharp enough to cut through stone. Connor closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself.
“What happened last night with that young village lass?” Margaret demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
Connor did not bother looking up as he dipped his quill. “Ye wanted a granddaughter-in-law,” he said coolly. “And ye’ll be pleased to ken ye now will have one.” His voice was dry as old parchment.
Margaret gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “Ye married her outright, did ye?”
Connor lifted his gaze slowly, meeting hers with an unimpressed stare. “Nay,” he said. “But the matter is settled well enough.” He set the quill down before she could snatch it from his hand as she sometimes did when she wanted his undivided attention.
“Who is she, then?” Margaret pressed. “Who are her relations? I ken every respectable family from here to the far glens, and I’ve never once seen that lass.”
“She’s Eva Whyte,” Connor answered, leaning back in his chair. “A villager from just below the castle. Ye’ll learn more in time.” He kept his tone final, but Margaret was not a woman easily deterred.
Margaret narrowed her eyes sharply. “In time? What does that mean?”
Connor inhaled through his nose, already losing patience. “I sent a carriage to fetch her and her family. They’ll arrive soon enough. Her mother and wee brother are sick with fever, and our healer will see to them.” His expression softened just slightly at the memory of the cottage.
Margaret blinked, stunned. “Sick? Fever?”
“Aye,” Connor said. “They’ll be tended properly.” His tone left no room for argument, yet Margaret carried arguments the way other women carried knitting.
Margaret stepped closer, lowering her voice to a scolding whisper. “Connor, ye cannae drag a fevered family into a castle full of guests. What if it spreads? What if…”
“It willnae,” Connor snapped. “Nina will isolate them.” His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, his patience fraying thread by thread.
Margaret sniffed loudly. “At least tell me how she came to catch yer eye. She looked nice enough, bonnie in a simple way, but nothin’ compared to the lasses in the hall. Why pick her?”
