Page 31

He had kissed her in a moment of weakness, and now, he could not look at her. That was all it was. She should have known better.

The iron latch of the door clicked loudly.

Mabel dropped her hands, schooling her features into a mask of calm composure just as Isla bustled into the room.

The red-haired maid carried a wicker basket piled high with fresh, lavender-scented linens, but her face was flushed with exertion and poorly contained amusement.

“I swear, Ma’am, if Sorley daenae watch where he places his feet, Morag will turn him into a meat pie,” Isla announced, dumping the wicker basket onto the edge of the four-poster bed.

Mabel offered a small, polite smile. “What has the guard done now?”

“Slipped in the mud straight down the kitchen stairs,” Isla laughed, beginning to sort the folded sheets. “Sent a tray of fresh oatcakes flying directly into the slop buckets. Morag chased him out into the rain with a roasting fork! The man is a terror with a broadsword, but he runs from our housekeeper like a frightened sheep.”

Mabel’s smile faded before it truly reached her eyes. She moved back to the padded window seat, sinking down onto the cushions and staring out at the gray sky.

Isla paused, a crisp linen sheet suspended in her hands. The maid’s sharp brown eyes swept over Mabel’s pale, exhausted face. The teasing humor vanished from Isla’s expression, replaced immediately by quiet concern.

“Ye have worn a path into the rugs, Ma’am,” Isla observed softly, setting the sheet down and walking over to the window. “And ye have barely touched yer breakfast for three days.”

“I am fine, Isla,” Mabel replied, her voice flat. “Just restless. The weather is poor, and being confined to this room leaves me with too much time to think.”

“Aye, well, if ye need a distraction from yer thoughts, ye should have seen Sorley trying to sneak an extra slice of roasted mutton from the kitchens this morning,” Isla noted, taking a seat on the very edge of the bench to fold a linen chemise. “Morag chased him out into the rain with a wooden spoon. The man was practically weeping by the time he reached the courtyard.”

Mabel offered a faint, polite smile though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Isla chuckled, smoothing out the fabric on her lap. “The whole keep has been walking on eggshells around her today. Though, come to think of it, it has been remarkably peaceful in this corridor. I havenae seen the Laird’s scowling face since Tuesday.”

Mabel stiffened. She forced a casual shrug, quickly turning her head to look back out the freezing window. “He is a busy man,” she murmured, her tone deliberately light. “He is managing the patrols and holding council meetings. His schedule doesnae revolve around me.”

It was a perfectly reasonable excuse, but Mabel could not stop the hot, stinging flush that crept up her neck and burned her cheeks. She clamped her mouth shut. She had not told Isla about the kiss. She had not told anyone.

Isla stopped folding. The maid tilted her head, studying her mistress thoughtfully. Her brown eyes narrowed.

“Is that a blush, Ma’am?” Isla asked, her voice dropping into a teasing, conspiratorial lilt.

Mabel’s blue eyes snapped toward the maid. “I daenae ken what ye mean. It is just warm by the fire.”

Isla leaned forward, clearly unconvinced. “I may only be a maid, Ma’am, but I ken how men behave. And no man avoids a woman so thoroughly unless he is either terrified of her… or hopelessly in love with her.”

“He is nae terrified,” Mabel argued, frustration rising hot and tight in her throat. “And he is certainly nae in love. He simply wishes to fulfill his promise to me father before sending me away to another husband.”

Isla let out a short, loud bark of laughter. “Sending ye away? The Black Laird would sooner set fire to his own boots. He nearly drew steel when Gregor MacNab merely looked at ye during the council.”

“Ye daenae understand,” Mabel insisted, shaking her head. He kissed me and looked at me like I was a curse, she thought, the rejection still stinging fresh. “He sees me as a duty. If he is keeping his distance, it is only because he wishes to remain focused on that political goal without any distractions. I am a complication to him.”

Isla watched her for a long moment, the teasing humor fading into something more earnest.

“Men are stubborn, foolish creatures, Miss Mabel,” Isla said quietly. “They convince themselves that duty requires them to be miserable. If he is staying away, it isnae because he finds ye a burden.”

Mabel scoffed, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The words stung because they were exactly what she wanted to believe and exactly what she knew could not be true.

“He is a man who thrives on discipline,” Mabel said, her blunt honesty leaving no room for false hope. “He is simply reminding me of me place. I am a guest. A ward. Nothing more.”

“If ye truly believe that, then ye are only lying to yerself,” Isla retorted, refusing to yield the point. She stood up, smoothing her apron with a sharp, definitive snap of fabric. “But if ye are tired of sitting in this room waiting for him to remember his manners, then ye need to stop hiding as well.”

Mabel opened her eyes, frowning. “What?”

“If ye are tired of sitting in this room, then go out there and start living again,” Isla said, gesturing toward the door.