Page 8 of When the Laird Conquers

Agnes stared at the busy back of the woman, too shocked to speak.

Did everyone here speak of private matters so freely? Was there no such thing as decency north of the border? Or was the problem actually south of the border, among a stuffy society that would raise hell if a young lady happened to glance at a gentleman for a moment too long, much less one who dared to take a lover?

Oh, Christine…

Her throat tightened at the thought of her poor sister.

The Laird’s return snapped her out of her melancholy, as he brought two more buckets. Another man was with him, presumably Iona’s husband, easily carrying two buckets of his own, though he must have been in his fifties too.

Back and forth the men came and went until, at last, only the Laird returned to fill up the last bit of the tub.

“Ye can bathe and sleep here,” he said tersely. “Nay use wastin’ another room when I’ll be gone ‘til mornin’.”

He moved as if to walk out, but Agnes called to him, “Gone? Where? I interrupted your slumber earlier. Surely, you are eager to get back to sleep?”

And why had he been sleeping down there in that odd little room if he had this grand bedchamber for himself? She could not imagine choosing the former over the latter.

He turned, his wolf-like eyes seeming to pierce right through her. “Monsters daenae sleep, lass.”

“The book didn’t say you were one,” she remarked. “It just said that you were⁠—”

“Well then,” he interrupted sharply, his expression darkening, “maybe ye should complain to whoever wrote it.”

The chilling comment made the fine hairs on the back of her forearms rise into gooseflesh.

He left her with her unease, striding out.

Iona, who had been watching with a glint in her eyes, followed him out of the room, calling back, “I’ll bring ye the food I promised. A fine feast for a fine guest.”

“There’s really no need,” Agnes insisted. “Thank you, but I am so weary from the journey that I think I will just go straight to sleep.”

She had no idea if the old woman had heard her or not, as the door closed and she was left alone, staring at a wonderful four-poster bed perfectly made with fresh linens and thick woolen blankets, and pillows so plump that they looked too tempting to resist.

“What do you say, Lizzy?” She smiled at her niece. “Shall we sleep?”

The baby was already one step ahead, her eyes closed, breathing softly.

Tomorrow will be better, Agnes promised silently. If the Laird thinks I will just go elsewhere after everything I have done to get here, he is sorely mistaken.

Leaning against an oak tree, at the edge of the forest that surrounded the castle, Gordon’s gaze fixed on the one room where firelight glowed. In its flickering illumination, a silhouette appeared—feminine curves to tease the eye, the shape of her becoming clearer as he watched the outline of her cloak fall and then her arms stretch up as she pulled off her dress.

A perfect hourglass…

He clenched his fists and turned around, marching toward the loch before he could see anything more.

On the way through the shadowed woods, he muttered to the night creatures, “The lass is bloody trouble.”

Surprisingly refreshed after a night in an unfamiliar bed, with no certainty of where she would end up today, Agnes found her way—with the help of Iona, the housekeeper—to a small hall.

“Shall we have something delicious to eat?” Agnes said in a funny, high-pitched voice to Lizzy, who sat on her hip. “I’m afraid it will have to be milk again for you.”

Lizzy gurgled cheerily, also surprisingly unperturbed by her new surroundings.

Opening the door, Agnes frowned into the gloom beyond. The curtains were drawn, refusing to let any light in, while a few candles flickered across a dining table. Rather pointless, really, when there was free sunlight to be had.

“It’s rather dark in here,” she noted, spotting the large shape of the Laird about halfway down the table, brooding over his breakfast. He ignored her, pushing a piece of meat around his plate.

“Well, anyway, good morning to you,” she greeted him, smiling.