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“That is exactly the word I was thinking,” Isla said more boldly. “He is honorable, of course, and dutiful, but…”

“He can be cold, rude, and downright maddening.”

Isla laughed too, something warm and unfamiliar loosening in her chest.

Lady Moira patted her hand. “He wasnae always this way.”

Isla saw grief cross the lady’s face, and her heart sank. She had been so consumed by her own troubles that she had forgotten everyone else carried their own.

“He used to be such a good lad.” Lady Moira looked down. “His laughter filled the castle. He trusted people. He talked. He lived. And then…”

Isla took her hand and squeezed it. “What happened?”

“He lost it all. In one night. His parents. His wife.” Lady Moira looked up with tears in her eyes. “The child inside her womb.”

Isla gasped. “I… didnae ken.”

Lady Moira sighed. “I am tellin’ ye nae to feel sorry for him, but to understand him. Maybe he will become that lad once more.”

Isla shook her head. “He is marryin’ me out of convenience, revenge, politics.”

Lady Moira smiled softly. “But he is marryin’. He had vowed never to marry again. And here we are, choosin’ this bonnie tartan for yer wedding dress.”

Isla could not help but smile back.

“Alisdair would never admit it,” Lady Moira continued, leaning in as if sharing a secret, “but before, he used to like good wool. Oh, ye should have seen how carefully he pinned it in place. He was a dashin’ lad and kent how to dress.”

“Really?” Isla frowned, having difficulty believing it.

Lady Moira nodded. “Aye. Oh, I have stories. So many stories.”

“I think we need whisky for those,” Isla suggested.

A small ray of hope broke through, however briefly. She was not, after all, completely alone in the world.

CHAPTER SIX

HIDDEN WEAPONS

The morning sun streamed through the great windows of MacLeod Castle. Isla had risen early to meet Lady Moira—she was done hiding away in her room. She was to be the lady of the castle, and she meant to learn how, which she couldn’t do cowering behind a closed door, afraid of whispers.

“Come, child.” Lady Moira linked their arms. “The castle is big and old, and I am nae getting any younger.”

Isla walked beside her, taking in the tapestries, the shields and crests lining the walls. Her uncle had chosen a formidable enemy. This castle spoke of power, of old history, of honor.

“We have many traditions, and ye will be the one to uphold them.”

“I will do me best,” Isla said.

“I cannae ask for more.”

She nodded, her heart racing. It still hadn’t quite sunk in that she was to be Lady MacLeod. After years of living quietly in her uncle’s shadow, her life had become a whirlwind almost overnight. From being treated as little better than a servant at Sinclair Castle to walking the halls of MacLeod Castle as its future lady.

Lady Moira led her through the castle. The kitchens, thick with the smell of fresh bread, bustled with activity. One cook turned and shot her a sharp look, then quickly looked away when Lady Moira caught her at it.

“Let me show ye the kirk. Ye will wed there.”

They stepped into the quiet, empty chapel. It was not grand or intimidating the way she had expected. It felt smaller, warmer, more human.