“Where are ye takin’ me?” she asked.
Eva looked up at Connor, who kept walking, his grip never loosening, as he didn’t respond. She wondered if he heard the whispered insults. Perhaps such comments slid off him. To her, though, each word struck deep, bruising more than her pride.
Inside her cloak pocket, the stolen yarrow weighed on her like a burning coal. She felt its presence with every step, and panic stirred each time she imagined Connor discovering it. The thought of being named a thief before all these people made her stomach twist painfully. She wondered if fate had dragged her into the lion’s den at the exact wrong moment.
They reached a quieter corridor off the great hall, though the music and chatter still echoed faintly behind them. Connor finally released her arm, and she rubbed the place where his fingers had pressed, unsure whether relief or fear filled her more.
“Well? What is the meanin’ of this?” she asked.
The laird looked at her with an unreadable expression, as if assessing what manner of woman she was. She wished desperately that she understood any part of what was happening.
Does he ken I am a thief?
Her thoughts spun so wildly that she struggled to steady her breath. She knew nothing of this laird beyond stories, and even less of marriage arrangements made on a whim. If this was a jest or a challenge hurled at his grandmother, why drag her into it? And if it was not a jest, then the path ahead seemed more dangerous than sneaking into the healer’s room had ever been.
Connor exhaled once, the sound sharp with irritation, though not at her. His jaw flexed as he looked away. She watched thetension settle in his shoulders. For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.
“We’ll go to me study,” he said. “There we’ll discuss the transaction of marriage.”
Eva planted her feet, her heart pounding in quick defiance.
“I’ll do nay such thing,” she said, her voice trembling but strong enough to carry. “Ye cannae drag me along like cargo.”
Connor’s jaw tightened, and a low sound rolled from him, something between a growl and a warning. The torchlight flickered across his stern features, making the sharp lines of his face seem even more severe.
“If ye are part of me clan,” he said, “then ye’ll obey when ye’re told. I am yer Laird.” His words struck like a blow, though he did not raise a hand to her.
Before Eva could form a reply, the older woman approached at a brisk pace, her skirts swishing with purpose. Eva had assumed this to be his grandmother. Her silver hair glimmered in the dim corridor light as she reached toward them.
“Connor, ye’ll nae drag the lass off with nay explanation,” she snapped. Her tone held both authority and sharp disapproval.
Connor stiffened but did not turn fully toward her. He kept his hand near Eva’s arm without touching her again, as if reminding the older woman where his decision lay.
“Grandmaither, this matter concerns the woman I chose and me.” His voice dropped into a clipped, cold register. “Ye’ll stay where ye are.”
His grandmother’s eyes widened, outraged that he dared command her in such a manner.
“Daenae speak to me like I’m a servant in me own bloodline,” she retorted. “I’ve guided ye since ye were wee, and I’ll nae let ye choose a bride like ye’re pickin’ a horse at market.”
Her gaze slid to Eva, softening slightly. “Especially nae a frightened lass who kens naught of what ye intend.”
Connor’s steps resumed, and, despite Eva’s reluctance, she felt herself drawn along beside him as he moved forward. His grandmother kept pace stubbornly, refusing to fall behind.
“Ye’re rash, Connor,” she continued, annoyance sharpening her words. “This isnae how ye secure a future for the clan.”
He exhaled hard as they turned down another corridor. “The clan will have its future,” he said. “And I’ll choose it without bein’ hounded every hour of the day.”
His hand brushed Eva’s back, steadying her as she stumbled over uneven stone. She hated the heat that rose in her cheeks at the small gesture of care.
His grandmother clucked her tongue loudly, her frustration echoing down the corridor. “Ye cannae simply decide on a bride in a fit of temper,” she fired back. “It’s madness, and ye’ll regret it.” She nearly stepped ahead of them, blocking their path. “Now stop this foolishness and speak plainly with me.”
Connor halted then, turning to face her fully for the first time since the argument began. The air thickened between them, Eva caught in the tension like a trapped hare.
“Grandmaither, I respect ye,” he said, though the steel in his tone said otherwise. “But ye’ll step aside.”
She opened her mouth, clearly ready to unleash another tirade, but Connor lifted a hand, firm, final, unyielding. For a long heartbeat, the hall held nothing but silence and the faint crackle of torches. Finally, his grandmother’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she gave a stiff, furious nod. She stepped back, though her glare promised retribution later.
Connor turned sharply and led Eva the last few steps to his study door. Her pulse raced as she looked between them, knowing she could not outrun either McLaren’s temper or his will. The laird opened the heavy wooden door and gestured her inside. With one last look at his grandmother, he shut the door firmly, the sound echoing like a verdict.
