“Eva, listen,” he said. “I called ye here exactly because nothing’s been set yet. We need to discuss our arrangement, set the ground rules, and then choose a date together.”
“Then who in God’s name planned a weddin’ for this weekend?” she asked, confusion drowning her anger. “Someone must’ve said it. The servants are buzzin’ about like bees.”
Connor’s expression shifted, first to suspicion, then to irritation, and finally to grim realization. Though he hadn’t spoken another word yet, Eva saw the answer flicker across his face. And the name she suspected formed in her mind even before he exhaled through his nose.
Margaret. The name fluttered back into her thoughts, and Eva felt a prickle of unease crawl along her spine. She stood before Connor’s desk, her hands clasped tight as she tried to piece together the muddled threads of gossip and truth.
Eva drew a steadying breath and lifted her chin. “Well then… if ye dinnae set a wedding date, Connor, someone else surely did,” she said, her voice tight but steady.
Connor leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing. “Nay one here sets me schedule but me. But I daenae put it past me grandmaither to do such a thing.”
Eva shook her head, her curls brushing her cheek. “Amelie spoke of a ceremony this very weekend. The servants are whisperin’, Connor. They’re curtseyin’ to me as though I’m already yer lady.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Connor felt the pressure building behind his eyes as Eva stood opposite his desk, her hands fisted at her sides. The study felt smaller with her frustration filling it, and he could feel the clash of her will against his like flint and steel. He respected it more than he wished to admit.
“I’ve a fair notion me grandmaither meddled where she shouldnae have, lass, and it sets me teeth on edge.”
Eva folded her arms, suspicion flashing in her eyes. “Why would yer grandmaither do such a thing?”
Connor let out a low groan and turned toward the door, his boots heavy against the stone floor. He yanked it open and caught a passing maid mid-step, her eyes widening as she curtsied low.
“Fetch Lady Margaret at once,” Connor ordered, his voice iron-hard. “And daenae dawdle about it, lass, for I’ve words need sayin’.”
The maid dipped into another curtsy, nearly tripping over her skirts. “Aye, me laird, I’ll bring her straightaway.”
His tone brooked no argument, and the girl nodded frantically as she scurried away. Connor shut the door again with more force than needed.
“She truly planned this without so much as askin’ ye?” Eva murmured.
Connor paced the length of the room, his hands clasped behind his back as the fire crackled low. Anger simmered beneath his skin, old and familiar where his grandmother was concerned. He had loved her all his life, but her manipulations wore thin when they crossed his authority. When the door opened again, he stopped short.
Margaret swept into the study like a conquering general, her gray hair pinned tight and her eyes alight with triumph. She looked from Connor to Eva and smiled as if she had already won some unseen battle.
Connor squared his shoulders and faced her head-on.
“Did ye set a weddin’ date without me leave, Grandmaither?” Connor asked, his voice dangerously calm. “The whole keep is whisperin’ of a ceremony this weekend.”
Margaret clasped her hands together, beaming. “Indeed, I did. Oh, Connor, me heart sings to hear ye say it aloud. I knew ye’d come round at last, marryin’ a lass and settlin’ proper.”
Eva shifted uncomfortably as Margaret’s gaze swept over her.
“It’s a pity there’s nay time to trim her figure a wee bit, but a thick bride can still bear strong heirs.”
Connor saw heat flood Eva’s cheeks, and she stared at the floor to keep her composure. His blood roared in his ears as his jaw snapped shut. A low growl rumbled from his chest before he could stop it. The fire flared as if echoing his temper.
“Enough,” Connor snarled. “Ye’ll hold yer tongue, or I’ll forget ye’re me grandmaither entirely.”
Margaret blinked, startled. “I speak only for yer good, Connor, as I always have.”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “Ye had nay right to set a date without speakin’ to me, and ye’ve less than nay right to insult me chosen bride.”
Margaret’s lips thinned, stubbornness hardening her features. She waved a dismissive hand as though brushing aside a child’s tantrum. Her eyes flicked toward Eva again, assessing and calculating. Connor felt Eva tense.
“I tried to speak with ye,” Margaret snapped. “Ye shut yerself away like a sulky bairn and left me nay choice.”
Connor’s voice cut through her words like a blade. “I wouldnae speak to ye because it wasnae yer business, and it still isnae.”
