She rolled her eyes, feeling used. "It will benefit everyone except me. But who cares, right?"
Crocker dropped still, his gaze sober. "We all care, especially his lairdship. He is smitten with you. You ken it by the way he looks at you."
"I know of no such thing." Probably simple lust. She almost said the words but remembered a priest was present.
"He will be a good husband to you," Crocker went on.
"How do you know?"
"He is a good man, a fair chief who treats us well. He has never beaten any of the servants."
"Thank God," she said dryly. "I certainly wouldn't want to marry a man who beats his servants."
"Nor his wife, aye?"
"If he does beat me, I'll make sure he gets jinxed again."
"Och. You are nay a shrew, lass. Nor a witch. Come." Crocker motioned toward the door. "I'll show you where the pale blue dress is."
She stiffened. "I saw it in the trunk already." And she would not have a servant ordering her around.
"Ah. Good."
"But Gavin will not want to get married tonight." At least she hoped he wouldn't. Did she have the proverbial cold feet?
"Have you asked him?" Crocker inquired, his brows lifted.
Father John sat in silence, awaiting her answer.
"No. But it would be too sudden. I see no reason to rush." She liked the idea of a long engagement.
"We shall see. But if I were you, I would prepare." With his one good eye, Crocker glanced at her hair. "'Tis a shame the maids are nay here to arrange your hair into braids."
Annoyance flared within her. "I haven't worn braids since I was eight, and I don't intend to wear them now."
Crocker smiled. "Well, then, curls. His lairdship likes curls."
She tried her best to send the irritating man the evil eye. "I have straight hair. He can like it or lump it." She turned and stomped away, her boot heels clunking on the wooden floor. The two men's chuckles echoed behind her.
"Grr." She clenched her teeth.
Would tonight be her wedding night? A spike of panic chased away her annoyance.
Chapter 10
"This is the harlot who thinks she can overturn the curse? Humph," Wilona grunted.
Within her chamber at Raeglen Castle, she glared into her beloved obsidian keek-stane. The scene before her turned her stomach—the despicable lass, with the mannerisms of a common serving wench, talking to Gavin's coarse servant and the priest about wedding Gavin and destroying the curse.
"Nay," Wilona ground out between clenched teeth.
That daft Alpin had failed in killing the priest. But she still needed to prevent the impending wedding.
If she had her way, Gavin would never marry, never experience love, and never sire an heir. She intended for him to suffer his whole life, just as she did. Her spell had set her wishes in stone, and no silly wench would shatter it.
The trollop barely spoke English, and she conducted herself in a strange way. Where on earth had she come from?
She was no lady, 'twas a certainty. Gavin would not fall in love with her. He might use her for his pleasure, but he would tire of her soon.
