Page 26 of Fire in his Highland Heart

“Ye only say that because ye like so many women in one place,” Blake retorted.

“Aye, an’ so should ye. Yer nae gettin’ any younger.”

“Ye sound like the old village women,” Blake said, as he sat down in his armchair and bent down to tie his boots.

“Aye, because I’m concerned. I dinnae think ye’ve even had any fun since she left, eh?” James prodded, eyebrows wriggling with mischief.

“’Tis none o’ yer concern,” Blake said flatly.

“Och, ye great grump. At least try tae look amused taenight. Ye did a lackluster job last time.”

“Because I was busy makin’ sure ye didnae make a fool of yersel’ with that redheaded woman.”

“She didnae seem tae mind,” James defended himself.

“I’ll reserve comment,” Blake said.

“Then I’ll add one more ‘afore I ago. This is a good color on ye,” James remarked. Blake couldn’t tell if he was being serious or mocking him, so he grunted a thank you. “Blue velvet brings out yer eyes,” James added.

Blake frowned. “My eyes are brown.”

With that, James was off, and Blake heaved a sigh as the heavy wood door closed behind him. He was not in the mood to attend yet another party, even though he was technically hosting it. Why he continued to do this, he wasn’t sure. To curry favor, possibly. They were more like public balls rather than private parties—everyone in town was invited, and it was not excluded to nobility or the wealthy. It did make for some raucous times, but nothing ever got out of hand. Tonight was even more auspicious, however, as he had to treat that woman—Arguen Larimore—as an honored guest. She was, of course; but in order to send a positive letter to his friend Douglas, he needed to show it.

What an odd looking young woman, with an odd sounding story to accompany her surprise arrival. She was to sit next to him at the table in the great hall this evening. She was at least pretty—that much he could acknowledge. He thought her hair striking, and her eyes brilliant. And from what he could tell, under that shift and quilt, her figure was light and pleasing. Still, he was in no mood for this celebration. He hoped to God she wasn’t talkative.

He hated talking to strangers.

* * *

Mrs. Kinney had been kind enough to accompany Arguen back to the castle. The servant who had taken them to the little cottage drove them back in the horse and cart. She knew she looked rather silly sitting in the back of a wooden cart in such finery, but no one seemed to care. In fact, many attendees seemed to be doing the same. People of all kinds gathered around the castle, clad in varying degrees of finery. Some were dressed in fancy gowns and doublets, while others looked like they might be more at home in a small tavern. What kind of a gathering was this? Now Arguen worried she might be overdressed.

Mrs. Kinney seemed to sense her fear, and placed a comforting hand on her forearm. “Dinnae ye worry, lass. Laird Blake welcomes all at the castle. Not a soul is out of place here.”

Arguen wished those words were comforting, but it was like bandaging a gaping stab wound. Telling her not to worry when bad thoughts were already bubbling in her head like stew over a fire did little. She couldn’t even make sense of them now—they were bubbling too much, too fast. All she could do was let her senses guide her.

Unlike the other mass of people outside the castle, Mrs. Kinney worked there, and thus knew other ways to get in so as not to be trapped in the crowd, which already was becoming overwhelming for Arguen. The older woman led her through a side entrance, which Arguen quickly recognized as the corridor that connected the servants’ rooms to the kitchen, which then connected to the great hall.

It was already lively with people, music, and food, and Arguen looked in wonder—firstly, at how so many people were to fit in the room, and secondly, at the grandeur. She had not realized that Ernmore Castle was that much grander than Bruckstone. The ceilings were higher, with dark, arched beams to hold up the roof. There was a balcony around the room that looked much wider than the one at Bruckstone, able to fit three people across as opposed to only one and a half. Then the furnishings themselves were simply grander. There were four long tables to the sides, each with uniquely carved benches to accompany them. All combined, they must have sat more than one hundred. There were even large hearths on either side, tall enough that Arguen could stand underneath the tallest point and not have to duck. At the very back of the room, directly opposite to the heavy wooden and iron doors, was another long table, perpendicular to the others, with a grand looking green upholstered chair in the center. Arguen surmised that this was where Laird Blake was supposed to be, but she did not see him there. His tall, imposing figure was difficult to miss. In the one time she had met him, and the other few times she had seen him, he was nearly a head and shoulders above most men.

And he was particularly handsome, an intrusive thought reminded her. She wrinkled her nose as if to smudge out the thought. She would not give in to base instinct. She had already formed her impression of him, and it was that he was cold and untouchable. Indeed, as she lifted her eyes to the balcony, she found it was true. Blake stood at the center in a throng of people, obviously ignoring them. For the briefest of moments, they locked eyes. He looked down at her and sternly held her gaze a few moments, before breaking contact and turning away. At least she’d won that one, she thought as she meandered around the room, taking in the general splendor, not really paying attention to anyone.

Or so she thought.

“Miss Arguen,” she heard his deep voice behind her.

A chill shot up her spine, not altogether unpleasant, but a foreign feeling nonetheless. She turned around slowly, unsure if she was to curtsy or not. She’d grown rather used to it at Bruckstone, since that was Marianne’s preference. Before Marianne, her family had been so close to Laird Morgan that such formalities had dissolved. Still unsure, she decided a quick head bob might be appropriate.

“Laird.”

“I am pleased ye were able tae attend. Mrs. Kinney was afeared yer leg might not allow it,” he said stiffly. Arguen could not figure out if he was attempting small talk to seem polite or whether he genuinely cared; his countenance was so unreadable. Perhaps a full curtsy would have been better.

“Aye, but she is a good healer. Both of ye have been generous tae me,” she replied. And she meant it. She knew it must have been difficult to let a troubled stranger into his fold like this.

“The cottage is tae yer likin’, then?”

Arguen nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis braw tae have a space of me own, where I’m out of yer sight,” she answered.

“Ye would prefer tae be out of my sight?” Laird Blake asked with an eyebrow raised.