Chapter 3

One Month Later

Ailis glancedover the beginning of her latest letter to Laird Imaginary Muir. After four weeks of writing letters to him, she was beginning to enjoy the task. It was fun to put all the things she'd imagined and dreamed about to paper, knowing no one would ever read them.

Unfortunately, she suspected her father was beginning to tire of waiting to meet her imaginary suitor. Laird MacMicking had wasted no time relaying the tale she'd told him, and since then, she'd been bombarded with increasingly less subtle hints and commands to cease her farcical attempts at avoiding her responsibilities.

That was why—although she regretted it—her current letter began with a jokingly sorrowful note.

My Dear Laird Imaginary Muir,

I've enjoyed our correspondence, my dear phantom, or Fae Prince, whichever you may be, but alas, I think it is time for you to meet your end… or at the very least, to cease these games we play with one another…

She was about to continue the letter with a series of suggestions of how his "demise" might be accomplished when a hurried knock sounded at the door and her sisters burst into the room, their identical brown eyes wide and their clothing disheveled from what seemed to have been a race through the castle.

Ailis took in their appearances and frowned. Freya's neatly braided red hair was coming undone, and Grace looked like she'd been playing in a wind storm—or making her escape after pulling pranks on the scullery maids again.

"Here now, straighten yerselves up, and catch yer breath, then ye can tell me what's got ye all flustered."

Freya looked worried and was practically wringing her hands. Grace, on the other hand, was almost jumping in excitement, her expression gleeful in a way it hadn't been since she'd managed to sneak a whole basket of fruit tarts and sweetened cream into her room the week before.

"He's here!"

The words didn't tell Ailis much of anything. She wasn't aware of any guests they were expecting, at least none that would require her presence, or cause her sisters such excitement.

"Who is here?"

"It's nae time for questions! We cannae keep him waitin'!"

Together, Freya and Grace pulled her out of her seat. Grace practically pushed her toward the door of her rooms, while Freya fluttered around in a vain attempt to straighten her hair and clothes, as well as clean the ink stains off her fingers.

Ailis gave up after a moment and let them guide her toward a drawing room off the Great Hall. The door was open, and she spotted her father inside, deep in conversation with someone. His round face bore an expression of pleased surprise, and his shoulders were loose and relaxed, his hands clasped comfortably at his ample waist. Whoever he was speaking to, they couldn't be bringing bad news.

It was only when she stepped inside that she saw the guest waiting with her father.

Her breath caught in her throat. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, like a hero from a tale. But while her books talked of pale, smooth-skinned perfection, the man in front of her was deeply tanned and marked with thin scars on his hands and the corner of his jaw. There was also one above his eyebrow.

His mouth was stern, his hair a deep night-black color that seemed to be threaded with subtle hues that she couldn't quite make out. It framed a strong, chiseled face, and eyes blue as a summer sky.

He was a creature of daydreams, and yet all too real, in a way that somehow made him more eye-catching. Just looking at him made her heart thump and her stomach clench in a way she'd never experienced with any other man.

He caught her eye, and she thought she saw a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth, before he resumed his stern expression. "Good afternoon to ye, Ailis."

She stumbled a bit in surprise.

How does he ken me name? I'd certainly remember if I'd ever met a man like him!

Her father turned, then hurried toward her, his expression turning into one of chagrin that somehow didn't manage to dampen his apparent happiness as he took her hands in his and squeezed them warmly. "Och, Ailis, me beloved child. Forgive me for nae believin' ye, and for trying to force ye into a union with another laird, when ye were being courted already. I thought ye were jokin' with the letters, but I see now ye were telling the truth."

He wrapped her in a tight hug, and she took the opportunity to hide her flabbergasted bemusement.

What? What is he… what's happenin' here?

She blinked as her father pulled away, still too stunned and confused to be able to form a proper answer. "I… I dinnae understand…"

"Dinnae fret, me love." The man spoke for the first time, and his voice was like the deep rumble of a thunderstorm and rain over the lochs. "Ye need nae continue the pretense, for I've already told yer faither everythin'." Another fleeting, barely visible smile. "He kens I've come to take ye away, back to me castle, as I've longed to do for so long."

"I… ye've…"

He cocked his head. "Ye're so bold with yer writin'. Had I kenned ye'd be so shy in person, mayhap I'd have sent ye another letter to warn ye afore I arrived. But then, I only wanted to surprise ye, love, and I was eager to see ye."

Letters… och, nae… it cannae be…

Ailis gulped in surprise. "Laird Muir…"

* * *

Duncan almost smiled at the stunned look on the young woman's face. He'd not known what to make of it when one of his scouts had discovered letters addressed to Laird Muir at the ruins of his old home.

The letters had been clearly addressed, left in a location that would be moderately safe from the elements, and wrapped in a beeswax cloth used to weather-proof things for long journeys. A lot of care had been taken with them. And yet the salutation was addressed to "Laird Imaginary," as if they were a child's writing exercise.

The first one had amused him, and the audacity of her tone had piqued his curiosity, to say nothing of the fact that he'd received few missives of any kind, and none so personal, since the night he'd become the Laird of his clan. He'd kept it for that reason.

The second one had proved more audacious, and just as entertaining. By the third, he'd come to look forward to the odd letters, even going so far as to send his men out to check for them every few days.

Jack had thought he was going a little bit mad, but he'd agreed to the new patrol schedule when Duncan had suggested it.

Duncan had begun to sense an air of resigned desperation about the last letter, however, and guessed that the game might be coming to an end. It was then that he'd come to the startling realization that he wasn't quite ready for that. Even more to the point, he'd found within himself a desire to meet the writer, at least once.

It was the first time he'd felt interested in anyone or anything outside his duties. Protecting his clan and caring for his kinfolk since his previous home had perished in the fire, along with his parents and Daisy, had been his priority.

Finding the girl proved easy enough, given how she'd signed her letters—Ailis Anderson, eldest daughter of Laird Clyde. It was a bit of a journey to reach her, too far to expect to make it there and back in a single day. That had given him some pause, but he'd decided to take the chance if only to satisfy his curiosity about the lass who'd dared to "claim" him.

He was glad he had. The lass was pretty, and he hadn't been so entertained by anything other than Lily in months. He took his time to look at her, returning her frank appraisal.

She was small, barely coming up to his shoulders, but gifted with generous curves. Her hair was the rich gold of afternoon sunlight on ripe wheat, and her eyes were a vibrant emerald green. Her skin was pale but sunkissed, with just the lightest dusting of freckles across her nose.

She caught his eye and blushed a fetching rosy hue, before turning to Laird Clyde. "Faither… would it be possible for me to have a moment alone with Laird Muir?"

"Of course." Laird Clyde began to shepherd his two younger daughters out of the room. "I've plans to make for yer betrothal feast, and I'm sure Grace and Freya can help…"

He finally managed to get his two youngest daughters out of the room, though Duncan noted that the blond lass was clearly reluctant to leave.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Ailis whipped around, her green eyes blazing. "What are ye doin' here? Ye're supposed to be dead!"