Page 9 of When the Laird Conquers

He made a noise that might have been a grunt of acknowledgement or a rejection of her greeting.

Deciding that the spot opposite him would make her impossible to ignore, she sat down and squinted at the array of food. There appeared to be some cut apples and a bowl of blackberries, with a pot of cream beside it, savory cold meats alongside fresh bread that smelled heavenly, and a slab of butter waiting to be tasted.

Agnes’s stomach grumbled.

I wonder if he drank too much last night.

Her father had done that for weeks after her mother died, forever sitting in dark rooms, day and night, reeking of liquor.

She tried to subtly sniff the air but could not smell anything strong.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asked outright, plucking up some apple slices and tipping some blackberries onto her plate.

“Nay,” the Laird muttered, his head lowered.

“Why not?” she pressed, pouring the cream onto the fruit.

Her mouth watered, her stomach rumbling again to show its appreciation for the meal she was about to eat. Especially after all the long days of traveling, where she had been eating some variety of the same brown stew or murky broth at all the places she had stopped at. Not that she was ungrateful for the food, but it was nice to have fresh fruit again.

The Laird raised his grey eyes. “Because I have two trespassers under me roof.”

“Now, my Laird, I must protest,” she replied, skewering a blackberry on a fork. “Lizzy cannot possibly count as a trespasser. She doesn’t walk yet, so she cannot truly trespass. And she is so little that when I had her hidden in my cloak, not a soul noticed.”

He made a sound like a disapproving hum, but she could have sworn he almost smiled. If it were not for his wild beard, she might have been able to tell with more certainty.

As she chewed, she took him in for the first time. There was a withdrawn air about him that hadn’t been there last night, although perhaps she was merely confusing him being withdrawn with him being clothed.

Her gaze skimmed over his silver scars, small ones, cutting across his face and the triangle of skin that showed between the sides of his open collar.

He must have been in many fights. Won many fights, or he would likely have much worse scars than this.

She assumed that was how fighting worked.

But was he as cruel as the almanac said he was? Had she been mistaken about that almost smile? Did he have the ability to smile? As far as she knew from her books and whatnot, cruel men didn’t smile.

Is there something more hiding beneath that beard?

She imagined scarred lips or part of his chin missing, and might have let her imagination run wild if he had not muttered a sharp “stop that” at that very moment.

His deep, rumbling voice pulled her out of her thoughts, and she cast him a defiant look. “Stop what?”

“Staring,” he grumbled. “I’m tryin’ to eat me breakfast in peace. I’m nae a spectacle for while ye eat yers.”

She dropped her gaze to her plate and stabbed a slice of apple drenched in cream. “Right, of course. Apologies. I did not mean to⁠—”

The creak of hinges silenced her, her attention snapping to the hall door, where another man had just entered.

He was tall, though not as monumental as Gordon, and built in the same sturdy fashion, though where Gordon’s hair was dark, this man’s hair was a brownish-red, his face freckled and shaven.

Staring at the man, Agnes wondered if there was some kind of magic in the food. If she fed Lizzy a berry, would Lizzy sprout up, eventually towering over her poor, stunted Aunt Agnes?

The man looked back at Agnes with curiosity, before turning to the Laird. “Me Laird, I didnae mean to interrupt yer breakfast, but there’s an incident in the far west villages.” He returned his attention to Agnes. “I’m Keith MacIddon, his Man-at-Arms.”

She dipped her head. “Agnes. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Gordon’s grip tightened on his fork, his knuckles whitening. “Do I need to kill someone this early in the morning?” He spoke without humor, quite serious.

Agnes drew in a sharp breath and covered the baby’s ears. “The nice gentleman meant kiss, darling. It is just his strange accent.”