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Arabella made a sound of frustration in her throat. Older sisters could be so vexing. Even ones that had been disgraced. Nevertheless, her sister’s point was not lost on her. She might marry Davy and have some measure of respectability in the eyes of the clan and in the eyes of God. Or she might live as Malcolm’s mistress, in sin and dishonor. And yet that was not the thing that would decide her. She couldn’t choose precisely because she could not look at either man and say she would rather be his than any other man’s.
~~~
The laird knows, Arabella thought, her heart thumping madly in her chest.
She was sure the laird knew precisely what it was that she and Davy had gotten up to on his writing table. Brenna must have run to him and tattled. She could think of no other reason why Laird John Macrae should summon her to him. Why he should wish to speak to Arabella alone.
And now that she stood before him, in a simple gown, her hair tucked behind her ears and her hands winding in her skirts, she felt like running away. Especially when he looked up from his work, scratched behind his ear, and said, “I’m not sure what I’m to do with you, lass.”
Arabella gulped. “What you’re to do with me, laird?”
“You have a way of causing gossip,” he said. “First, I hear that you’re a witch. Next, I hear that you’re entertaining my men for a price—”
“That isn’t true,” Arabella said, daring to interrupt. She didn’t care how much her sister liked the maidservant; Brenna was obviously a mean-spirited gossip-monger and Arabella would be sure to box her ears the next time she saw her.
“Which part isn’t true?” asked the laird.
“I’m not a witch, as I’ve said countless times before, and I’m not…I’m not…”
“Entertaining my men?” the laird asked. “Not that I mind. A castle needs a whore to keep the men happy, especially during times like these. And your older sister…well, she will not be serving as such. But what troubles me is…”
Too offended to speak, Arabella still hung on his every word.
The laird scratched the back of his neck again, as if this were the most irritating conversation he’d had in years. “Malcolm is my best swordsmen. And Davy is the sneakiest, most resourceful warrior in the clan. I need them both, now more than ever. I need them both in fine form. Instead, they both appear to be distracted and lovesick, both of them over the likes of you.”
“Oh,” Arabella said, softly, pierced by an arrow of guilt.
“I can’t have it,” the laird continued. “Men who are distracted at war end up dead. And while it may tickle your fancy to dangle yourself before both of them upon a string, do you really want to put either of them in their graves?”
Arabella’s temper flared. Were it any man but the laird who spoke to her this way, she’d have blistered his ears. But it was the laird, so she only swallowed and said, “Of course I don’t.”
“I would put you out of the castle if I could,” he said. “But that would destroy your sister. So you must take a husband.”
“A husband?” Arabella asked. Was he about to command her to accept Davy’s proposal?
But the laird said, “Conall, I think his name is. You were betrothed to him, were you not?”
Arabella’s mouth soured. “Yes, but—”
“He’ll marry you if it’s my command, no matter what scandal surrounds you.”
In a blind panic, her soul in torment, Arabella dropped to her knees before the laird. “Please, my laird. Please do not make me marry Conall. I beg of you!”
John Macrae seldom looked startled. But he allowed himself to look startled now. His eyes flew wide, and he asked, “For the love of God, lass. Is he a bad man? Do you fear him so much?”
Arabella wished she could lie. “He is not bad, but he is…” Not Malcolm. Not Davy. Not any man she could ever love. Not any man she could ever consent to wed. “In a very short time, I have been abducted from my home, stripped naked by strangers who meant to rape me, trapped in a cottage with your warriors and abandoned by my betrothed, and now—”
“Oh,” the laird said, his voice filling with sympathy. “Yes, I can see you might not be very keen on marrying any man at the moment. I feel as if perhaps I have been given some kind of misimpression…” Arabella pressed her lips together, and nodded, praying for the laird’s mercy. And it came, in a fashion. “Well, then, I will not force you to marry. But you cannot continue to torment my men by giving or withholding your favor. No. I am putting you to work in the physicker’s laboratory.”
Arabella blinked. “Pardon me?”
“The physicker says you are a help to him. That you know your herbs. It’s a thing your sister has confirmed to me. And we will need all the healers we can get until the end of this siege. So I am offering you a position. A way to support yourself without a husband.”
A way to support herself without becoming a prostitute…
That was the unspoken end to his sentence, and she ought to have resented it bitterly. She ought to have told him that she gave herself to his men freely, but she was not sure that was the sort of splitting of hairs he would appreciate. Besides, it was the most generous offer she was likely to get her whole life long. A place to work in the castle in the laird’s employ? A way to be her own woman?
“What do you say, Arabella?”
