Chapter 8

8

A fter a restful night in her new room, Erin awoke to a day full of wedding preparations. She watched as Scarlett deftly twisted the wildflowers into a crown, her fiery hair catching the light of the setting sun that filtered through the high windows of the great hall. There was an ease about her, a focus that betrayed none of the reluctance one would expect from a woman who had so vehemently opposed her own match. But Magnus was frustratingly absent.

"Ye've a good hand with those," Erin commented, her voice tinged with genuine admiration and a hint of bemusement.

Scarlett looked up, her lips curling in a subtle smile. "Well, I might not get a husband of me own, but that doesnae mean I cannae appreciate the merriment of preparing for a celebration."

Erin nodded thoughtfully, the warmth growing inside her as she considered the bond they were forming, sisters in all but blood. It was a comfort amid the whirlwind of arrangements and expectations that came with marrying a man like Magnus Black—the Laird McCormack himself.

"Och, but where is yer brother in all this?" Erin couldn't keep the edge out of her voice. "The very man who has demanded this union seems to be the only one absent from the preparations."

"Ah, Magnus has never been one for gatherings unless duty calls him." Scarlett's tone held a hint of regret. "He's got his reasons, though they may not always be clear to us."

"Reasons or no, he should ken that marrying me for the good of his clan comes with responsibilities beyond the decree itself," Erin muttered, her patience fraying. She plucked a tartan ribbon and began to weave it into her own contribution to the decorations, her fingers moving with less grace as her thoughts tangled like the threads.

"Perhaps he thinks his presence unneeded, given how well ye manage on yer own," Scarlett suggested, watching Erin with observant eyes. "Ye are quite the force, Erin Gibson."

"Flattery will get ye nowhere," Erin quipped, allowing herself a brief smile. But the smile didn't reach her eyes, which remained clouded with frustration. The deep-seated annoyance at Magnus's absence gnawed at her. Here she was, thrust into the heart of his domain, expected to become the lady of a clan whose laird viewed her as nothing more than a chess piece in his game of strategy and survival.

"His absence speaks volumes, Scarlett. It suggests a lack of respect—a presumption that I am naught but a silent participant in this farce of a marriage." Erin's voice was low, laced with defiance.

"Ye are anything but silent." Scarlett chuckled, but the sound lacked its usual cheer.

"Indeed," Erin agreed, the fire in her belly igniting. "And if Magnus believes he can cast me aside until the vows are said, he is sorely mistaken."

The door to the great hall swung open, letting in the cool evening breeze and the distant sound of clinking metal and men's voices raised in training. Erin took a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it head-on, with the same fierce independence that had seen her through darker times.

"Soon we wed," Erin declared, more to herself than to Scarlett. "And Magnus Black will ken that I am his equal, in this and in all things."

Her determination hung in the air, a silent challenge to a man who had built walls around him as formidable as the stone ramparts of his keep. Erin knew that breaking through would require more than sheer will; she would find where this man was hiding, and she would make him endure the wedding preparations with her. Then, when she was ready to flee from his side, he would be glad.

Erin's patience frayed like the hem of her old frock, tugged at by the brambles of neglect. Magnus had become a phantom in his own keep, unseen as a wraith on a summer's eve. The day had trudged on, slow and heavy as a funeral march, each hour stretching longer than the last without so much as a glimpse of the imposing laird.

Dinner arrived, a feast of haggis, neeps, and tatties served amid the boisterous laughter and clinking of tankards that filled the great hall. Yet one seat was glaringly empty, its shadowed vacancy a silent rebuke to Erin's already simmering ire. She turned her gaze from the merry throng to Scarlett, who seemed all too content to discuss bridal wreaths and tartan patterns with Flynn.

"Where is yer brother?" Erin couldn't keep the edge from her voice, the Scottish burr thickening with her growing annoyance. "Does he have no appetite or simply not wish to lay eyes on me?"

"Magnus? Oh, he'll be broodin' in his study, I reckon. Best leave him be; he doesnae take kindly to interruptions." Scarlett cast her fiery locks over her shoulder, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "I assure ye, this is not because of ye."

Scarlett's warning went unheeded stirring Erin's resolve. She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the stone floor with a defiance that echoed in her heart.

"to Well, someone should ensure he eats," she muttered under her breath, feeling the hall's eyes upon her as she made her way to the door with a plate of food gripped in her hand. "Maybe a good meal will improve his manners some."

The corridors were dim, lit only by the flickering flames of wall scones that cast dancing shadows upon the stones. Erin's steps were purposeful, though she knew not where they took her—only that they brought her closer to the source of her vexation.

Erin's determination faltered as the winding passages of the ancient castle seemed to fold in upon themselves, each turn indistinguishable from the last. Her strides slowed, the hem of her dress whispering against the cold stone floor, a soft chorus to her growing frustration. The castle was a labyrinth, and she had no idea where she was.

"Lost, are ye?" The voice cut through her thoughts, as smooth as the whisky that warmed many a night in these Highlands. She turned, finding a man leaning against the wall, a knowing smirk upon his lips.

"Perhaps," Erin conceded, reluctant to admit her predicament to this strange man whose eyes held mischief. "I am searching for the laird's study."

"Ah, then ye have indeed strayed from yer path." He pushed away from the wall, his stride easy as he beckoned her to follow. "Come, I know the way."

She hesitated, following a stranger through the corridors concerned her.

"I am Caelan Ward, me lady, Laird McCormack's man-at-arms, if ye would permit me to guide ye."

"Thank ye." Gratitude mingled with caution as she fell into step beside him. Caelan's charm was effortless, and though he served Magnus, he was respectful and kind towards her.

"Ye seem quite at home in these halls," Erin remarked, watching how the torchlight played across his blond hair.

"Home is where ye make it," he replied, casting her a sidelong glance. "And I've made it me business to know every corner of this place."

She couldn't help but smile. "Then I am in yer debt, Caelan Ward."

"Och, think nothing of it," he said with a dismissive wave. "Though, should ye ever wish to repay me, I wouldnae say no to a dance at the wedding feast."

"Perhaps," Erin teased, feeling an unexpected kinship with this man who navigated the castle with ease.

"If ye would like a tour, I'd be happy to oblige ye. I've picked up a few tricks to help find yer way around."

"Thank ye." The idea appealed to her, for who knew the castle's secrets better than this man.

They arrived at the imposing door of the study, and Caelian bowed slightly, his jesting manner giving way to formality. "Ye'll find the laird within," he said, before turning on his heel and leaving her to face Magnus alone.

With a deep breath, she knocked briskly on the heavy wood, her heart beating a rhythm of war drums in her chest. The door swung open, and there he stood—Magnus Black, the beast of her fate, looking every inch the laird in his brooding magnificence.

"Erin," he intoned, surprise etching his features for a fleeting moment before his mask of stoicism returned. "What brings ye here?"

"Ye have been avoiding me but ye cannae avoid eating," she groaned inwardly, stepping into the room. "We need to talk about yer skipping meals."

"Talk," he echoed, his tone flat, yet beneath it she sensed a current of something unspoken, an intensity that charged the air between them. She was here to challenge him, and like the rugged Highland terrain, he was wild and untamed.

"Yes, talk," she asserted, her gaze not flinching from his. "It seems the last thing ye want to do, yet here we are."

His expression remained unreadable, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed his curiosity. A storm was indeed brewing, and as the door closed behind her, sealing their fates within the confines of the study, Erin knew that neither would leave unchanged.

Erin squared her shoulders as Magnus leaned back against his desk, a fortress of oak and leather-bound tomes. The lamplight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows that somehow accentuated the rugged lines of his jaw and the untamed mane of dark hair that framed it. His eyes, a stormy grey, held the weight of unspoken thoughts.

"Ye ken, if I am to be the lady of this clan," Erin began, her voice steady despite her heart pounding, "I willnae stand for disrespect."

"Disrespect?" Magnus's brow arched, his question hanging in the air like the strike of a claymore. He crossed his arms, the muscles beneath his shirt tensing. "Who dared to disrespect ye?"

"Yer absence," she said pointedly. "The wedding preparations are underway, yet ye seem to have naught but indifference to show for it. Do ye intend to participate, or must I shoulder the burden alone?"

His lips curled into a humorless smile, though there was no mirth in those turbulent eyes. "Ye think me days should be filled with pickin' tartans and tastin' bannocks? There are more serious issues at hand, lass."

"Serious issues that outweigh yer own marriage?" Erin countered, feeling the heat of challenge rise within her. She took a step closer, refusing to be intimidated by the laird's imposing presence.

"Aye." The word sliced through the tension, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo off the stone walls. "This clan, its people, our lands—we are constantly under threat. 'Tis me duty to protect them. That is what consumes me, not the color of ribbons or the fluff of a feast."

Erin bit her tongue to keep from snapping back, her mind racing. The intensity in his gaze hinted at the depth of his commitment, the scars of past battles etched not only on his skin but in the furrow of his brow. For a moment, the image of a warrior-poet emerged, one who bore the mantle of leadership with reluctant grace.

"Then let us compromise," she proposed, her voice softer now. "I'll see to the traditions and the ceremony, but ye must be present when it matters. Show yer people—and me—that this union means something to ye."

Magnus's silence was a gauntlet thrown, his internal struggle almost palpable. Erin waited, the air between them charged with a tension that stretched taut as a bowstring. Would he yield or retreat behind the walls he'd built around himself?

"Compromise," he finally echoed, his tone a grudging concession. "Aye, we'll discuss it further."

"We'll discuss it now," Erin insisted. "I'll not be leaving here until ye agree to do something with me tomorrow."

"Ye ken this is folly," Magnus growled from behind his massive desk, littered with maps and missives that bore the weight of clan matters. His focus remained steadfast on the parchments as if she were no more than another problem to be solved.

"Ye speak of convenience," Erin shot back, the flicker of torchlight casting shadows across the stone walls, mirroring the flicker of defiance in her eyes. "But convenience does not excuse ye from honoring traditions. I willnae stand for a husband who cares so little for what our union represents."

Magnus's hand stilled, his quill hovering above ink as dark as the depths of his eyes. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet hers, the intensity within them enough to silence the clans' mightiest warriors. "Our union represents an agreement between McCormack clan and that of O'Kane. Daenae expect love or affection. Our marriage is naught but a means to an end, a pact sealed for the protection and prosperity of our people."

"Is that all I am to ye? A means to an end?" Erin's voice trembled with a blend of ire and hurt, though she stood firm, unyielding as the ancient pines outside. "Ye willnae even eat meals in the same room?"

"Ye ken well what I mean," he replied, his deep timbre sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. It was a voice used to command, to lead, and yet here in the quiet confines of his study, it reached inside her, stirring something unexpected.

"Perhaps ye shouldnae marry me then," she retorted with a hint of jest, attempting to shield her hurt with humor. It was better to laugh than let him see the turmoil he caused within her. "If I disgust ye too much to eat yer dinner-"

"That isnae yer doin'."

"Then I beg of ye to make me undoin'," she insisted. "I mean to say ye should change now. For me. Please."

Magnus rose, the chair scraping against the stone floor. He towered over her, a formidable figure that could strike fear into the stoutest of hearts. "I hate that ye always have an answer," he said, a grudging respect coloring his words.

"Then stop giving me reason to find them," Erin replied, her chin tilting defiantly.

Their gazes locked, a silent battle raging between them, each unwilling to yield. As the tension thickened, neither noticed the wind howling outside, nor the storm clouds gathering overhead, presaging the tempest that was to come.

Magnus' eyes narrowed to slits, the storm within them rivalling the one brewing outside the thick walls of his study. "Maybe I should shut ye up," he growled lowly, the sound rumbling like distant thunder.

"Och, I'd like to see ye try," Erin mocked with a defiant tilt of her head, her heart pounding against her ribs like a drum in the gathering storm.

In an instant, the space between them vanished as Magnus closed the gap, his hands capturing her face with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes. And then, his lips crashed onto hers, igniting a fire that swept through Erin's veins with the ferocity of a Highland gale.

All thoughts of bickering, weddings, and clan duties dissipated like mist over the moors. Erin lost herself in the passion of his kiss, a wild thing unleashed. His taste was intoxicating, a blend of whisky and resolve, and when his tongue sought hers, it was as if they were dancing a reel, perfectly in sync despite their clashing wills.

Time ceased to exist; there was only the warmth of his mouth on hers and the strength of his arms as they wrapped around her, pulling her closer. She matched his fervor, her fingers threading through the long dark tresses she had often imagined were as soft as they appeared.

But as suddenly as the kiss began, Magnus pulled away, leaving her breathless and startled by the void of his absence. Her eyes flew open to meet his gaze, which held a new storm—one of confusion and desire.

"Ye daenae need to beg for anything," he said, his voice gruff with an emotion he dared not name. "Just ask me to help with yer preparations if that is what yer wish."

Erin, still reeling from the intensity of the moment, could only nod, her lips tingling with the memory of his. The wind howled its approval through the cracks of the stone walls, and as she looked up into the eyes of the man who was to be her husband—her beast—it was clear that the battle lines had shifted.

As Magnus turned back to his desk, his back a rigid line of tension and unspoken words, Erin wondered if perhaps the beast before her was just as afraid of the passion between them as she was eager to explore it. The thought left her with a sense of anticipation that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

As the door closed behind her with a soft click, sealing her alone in the corridor, Erin touched her lips, the heat of Magnus' kiss still lingering there like the afterglow of a sunset. She might not have had to beg, but the price of that kiss—a glimpse into the depths of Magnus Black, Laird McCormack—was one she wasn't sure she was ready to afford.