Page 6 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

Katherine’s mouth twitched into a sharp smile. “That is fair.”

The carriage ground to a halt, the iron wheels scraping against the gravel courtyard.

Her father was out before the footman had properly lowered the wooden step. He appeared at her open window, his features instantly shifting into attentiveness, pleasantness, almost warmth. It was the most unsettling look he possessed, because it was fake.

“Chin up,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the damp air. It was the closest he had come to encouragement in recent memory. “Smile. Show them yer teeth.” He paused, his grey eyes lingering on her face for a cold beat before adding, “The good ones.”

He turned and walked ahead into the light without waiting for her.

Elspeth stared, her breath catching. She looked at Katherine.

“Show them yer teeth,” Katherine repeated with mocking solemnity.

“I will throw ye in a ditch before midnight,” Elspeth muttered.

“Ye’ll have to find one first. Come.”

The Great Hall was warmer than Elspeth had expected, louder, and thick with the heat of too many bodies. Someone had taken genuine trouble with the display. Hundreds of tallow candles were banked in clusters along the stone walls, their shifting firelight turning the oak beams and high banners a rich amber and gold. Long tables were heavy with dark wine and small plates of roasted meats and sweets, a sign that Bickerson understood women ate in direct proportion to their anxiety.

The pipes had given way to a lone fiddle player near the hearth, the music bright and fast enough to raise the heavy ceiling. Everywhere she looked, women in fine velvet and silk gowns were leaning together, laughing too quickly, their fingers constantly twitching to touch their hair or adjust a collar.

She recognized that high, brittle laugh. She was likely making the same sound.

“Lady MacDougal.”

Their host materialized through the crowd, a broad-shouldered man with a thick red beard going grey at the edges. His face was clearly handsome, but it had settled comfortably into something better, something genuinely warm and weathered. The sort of face that made men straighten and women lean in without quite meaning to. He moved through the room unhurried, as though the gathering had assembled around his schedule rather than the reverse and no one seemed to mind.

Laird Bickerson took Katherine’s gloved hand and sketched a bow that was neither performative nor perfunctory. “Ye’ve returned. I wonder what this says about me gathering.”

“Only wonderful things, me Laird,” Katherine said smoothly, her posture perfect. “Me husband and I are here in support of me dearest friend.” She stepped aside, gently drawing Elspeth forward into the light. “Laird Bickerson, this Lady Elspeth MacRae.”

Laird Bickerson turned his gaze to her, and his piercing eyes caught her completely off guard. There was no calculation in them, no appraisal. “Lady Elspeth. Welcome.” He paused, his voice dropping lower, for her ears only. “I hope the evening treats ye well.”

It was a small, simple courtesy, but it made her chest ache.

She managed a smile that felt almost real. “Thank ye, me Laird.”

He bowed again and moved on to greet the next arrival, and Elspeth let out a long, shuddering breath.

Then the crowd folded her in. Despite the tight blue silk, the heavy pearls, and the wretched knowledge of why she was being paraded, something in her core began to unclench.

To her left, a young woman in amber velvet was arguing cheerfully with another to her right about whether the dark-haired laird standing by the far window was from Argyll or Perthshire. The distinction apparently mattered enormously for reasons Elspeth could not follow.

A servant pressed a cup of spiced wine into her hand, and she drank it without thinking. It was sweet, warm, and sharp with cinnamon. She thought absently that this was very cunning of Bickerson; it was exactly the right vintage to make a terrified woman believe things might turn out fine.

“The one in green,” the woman on her left said suddenly, turning to her as though they had been mid-conversation for hours. “Do ye think he is truly as dour as he looks, or is that just his face?”

Elspeth followed her gaze across the floor. The man in question was standing rigid, his thick arms folded tight over his chest, his mouth set in a hard line that suggested either deep, solemn thought or a mild case of indigestion.

“I think,” Elspeth said carefully, her lips curving, “that it might just be his face.”

The woman burst into a loud, genuine laugh, and just like that, Elspeth was pulled into the circle.

Names were exchanged, dresses admired, and the sharp, nervous energy of the room faded into easy warmth. She laughed at a ridiculous story about a laird who had arrived with his mother to vet the brides. She offered a firm opinion on whether the fiddle player was merely showing off or his fingers could not keep the pace. She ate two small pastries from a passing tray without even registering the taste.

For a few minutes, she forgot about the shadow hanging over her.

Then a heavy hand touched her elbow, and her father appeared.