Page 67 of When the Laird Conquers

“Iona, is that ye?” Gordon’s voice sounded behind her, jolting her out of her thoughts.

She didn’t pause to look back, but took off at a sprint, vanishing around the first corner she came to.

After everything that had been said and all the confusion in her mind, she couldn’t bear to see him.

Not yet. Definitely not without Lizzy as armor between them.

26

It was no coincidence that Gordon had not seen anything but a glimpse of Agnes for the remainder of the week. He was no fool; he knew she was actively avoiding him and making no secret of that fact.

What he didn’t know was whether she was staying away to punish him, to spare herself, or because he had carved a chasm so deep between them that she had no further desire to be anywhere near him… or if it was perhaps a combination of all three.

“Lookin’ forward to the cèilidh, me Laird?” Keith asked with a knowing smirk as they dried off in the bathhouse beside the training yard.

The two men had sparred so fiercely and so relentlessly that time had slipped away from them, the pair still fighting as afternoon had faded into early evening. It was only the lack of light that had stopped them, although Gordon might have argued that it was his final blow to Keith’s neck with the blunted practice sword that had actually ended the fight.

“What do ye think?” Gordon muttered, pulling on his rough-spun shirt.

“I think a man spars another man until both have sweated away half their weight and are covered head to toe in bruises because he’s overjoyed by the notion,” Keith quipped.

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Ye’re an idiot.”

“Aye, perhaps, but I’m nae wrong.” Keith belted his kilt. “I, on the other hand, am very much lookin’ forward to a reel or two. It’d be nice to remember that lasses exist out there in the wide world. The lads havenae talked about anythin’ else since ye announced it.”

“Och, because they daenae sneak out to the villages when they’re supposed to be asleep in the barracks?” Gordon tutted under his breath. “Daenae forget, nothin’ happens in this castle without me kennin’ about it.”

Keith chuckled. “Aye, but at the cèilidh, they willnae have to sneak. They can just dance with a lass. I cannae wait.” He paused. “Do ye think people will come?”

“I couldnae tell ye,” Gordon replied as he belted his own kilt into place. “Some lairds will be there, but as for an array of lasses for ye all to gawp at? Yer guess is as good as mine.”

Tired of the cèilidh conversations, for he had heard enough of it from Iona and Marcus, he wished his man-at-arms a good night and headed back across the now-empty training yard.

Some yawning men were retiring to the barracks for the night, while others rubbed bleary eyes and made their way to the battlements. The castle was always protected by someone, no matter the time of day or night, though he had taken pains to remind them all of the consequences if anyone else managed to slip through the guard unnoticed. The one who had allowed Agnes in was still cleaning latrines as punishment.

What would I be doin’ now if he hadnae let her in?

Not much, he wagered. He would have his peace and his solitude, which he had thought that he wanted for such a long time.

He walked in the direction of the castle proper, his muscles sore, his bones protesting, so fatigued that his mind couldn’t possibly fixate on Agnes tonight. Not in a way that would deny him another night of good rest, at least.

The hallways were as quiet as ever as he made his way through, headed in the direction of his study to look over a few of the RSVPs before he retired for the night.

But as he wandered past the door to the library, he noticed a crack of amber light spilling out, and a soft, sweet voice faintly reached his ears.

“Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening. Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown put on, nd smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew on every flower that shuts its sweet eyes in timely sleep…”

It wasn’t a poem he recognized, but Agnes spoke it so well, so ardently, that it somehow felt familiar.

“Let thy west wind sleep on the lake,” she continued. “Speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, and was the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, and then the lion glares through the dun forest: the fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.”

Gordon waited to see if she was done. When she didn’t speak again, he pushed the door wider and stepped inside.

There in the apricot light of the fireplace, Agnes sat in the comfortable reading chair with Lizzy in her arms and that fox cub at her feet, both baby and animal staring at her adoringly.

Gordon could understand the impulse, enchanted by what he had just heard.

Agnes glanced up, her eyes flying wide.