Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and Emma hurried over, glad for the respite from such questions.

She’d slept late, so she did not know if someone had already stopped by, and her stomach now growled with hunger. Quickly, she unlocked the door and tried not to think how she’d never had a door she could lock before.

Briefly, she wondered if Laird Ronson knew and wanted to put her at ease by giving her such power.

Not that the door would hold him back.

Emma remembered the hard lines of his muscles and his height, and the way he’d prowled toward her, that intense glimmer in his green eyes?—

Hastily, she yanked open the door, admitting two maids bearing trays and, surprisingly, Kyla.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as the healer came in, her gait as smooth as any noblewoman’s. “Good morning.”

“Good mornin’,” Kyla said as she watched the maids set down the trays, then glanced around the room. “Lovely. I’m glad he put ye here.”

Her fair hair was arranged in an immaculate braid around her head, looking like a halo.

“Me too,” Emma said warmly, and Kyla gave her a soft smile.

“We shall be back, Me Lady,” announced one of the maids as they finished. “Ye let us ken if ye need anythin’ else.”

“Oh, thank you, but this seems more than enough,” Emma said as she gazed at the array of eggs, beans, sausages, bacon, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, and a full basket of bread. A pot of water stood at the ready, too, with an array of tea blends. “I-I think I shall be fed till next month.”

The maids giggled before Kyla shooed them out. She motioned for Emma to sit at the table while she remained standing.

“Before ye eat, I’d like to check ye over,” she said.

“Of course.”

After Emma sat down, Kyla took her pulse and looked into her eyes. Then, she pulled her up and gave her a shove.

Emma squawked as she stumbled forward, and she fixed the woman with a glare. “Well, that was quite rude.”

“Ye didnae fall, did ye?” Kyla asked dryly. “Yer balance is fine. So, it seems the dizziness went away. And one good meal seems to have done ye well, but ye should eat more. Ye arenae a simperin’ English rose, Emma Wells. And these days on the road have been too much for ye.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open, but she could think of no response, so she nodded and sat back down again.

“Would you like to join me?” she asked as Kyla remained standing, seemingly lost in thought.

Kyla blinked and gave her a bright smile. “Ye ken, I think I would.”

The two women were silent as they ate, even though Emma was bursting with questions. Kyla seemed a bit curious as well. Finally, as they sipped on their tea, Emma began to ask about her work.

Kyla spoke about the Healing Houses and how folks from all over the Highlands went there to treat their ailments. It was becoming known as a hospital, and people praised Laird Ronson for establishing it.

“Even if…” Kyla shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, what were you going to say?” Emma pressed.

Kyla sighed. “Och, ‘tis frustratin’ how folk still fear him and call him the Devil of Banrose—despite everything he’d done to improve their lives. He helped me and all me healers find steady work, ye ken. It used to be more sporadic, dependin’ on a laird’s whim—hired when he was home and dismissed the moment he left.”

Emma frowned. “But what about the people left behind?”

Kyla started at that, and then a genuine, wide smile blossomed on her pretty face. She murmured something in Gaelic and then said, “Aye. Would ye believe that is exactly what the Laird said to me when I told him as much? I was confused when he decided to keep us on whether he was there or nae.”

Flushing, Emma toyed with her teacup, unsure what to say.

“Thank ye for the meal, Me Lady,” Kyla said, and Emma jumped up, realizing the healer had risen.

“Oh, you can call me Emma.”

“Hm,” Kyla murmured. “On the right occasion, mayhap.”

With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Emma perplexed. Though not for long, as four or five maids returned to the room, chattering away as they laid out gown after gown.

A tall woman swept in after them and bobbed a curtsey, before lifting her head. “I am Mistress McKibbon,” she announced. “Mistress of Wardrobe.”

Emma gazed around, perplexed by the array of fabric and gowns, unsure what to say.

“Ye see that we have brought ye many sizes and patterns to choose from, Me Lady. And we are all quite clever with a needle. We can alter them to fit ye to perfection.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Emma stammered. “What does this mean?”

Mistress McKibbon blinked. “Why, the Laird has ordered us to ensure that ye have a proper wardrobe. Dress ye accordingly, as his guest of honor.”

“Guest of honor?” Emma repeated. “Orders?” She picked up a gown, awed by its splendor, and unsure why her father’s temper had overtaken her. “No, he means to dress me like a doll to do his bidding.”

Nervous titters rang around the room.

“Nae at all, Me Lady. Only that yer possessions were lost,” Mistress McKibbon said smoothly above the noise.

Emma rounded on the poor woman, who stepped back and lowered her gaze. Guilt twisted in her gut, but she blurted out. “Stolen, you mean. And I’m sorry, I know this is not your fault and you are following the Laird’s orders.” She jutted her chin. “But I am not part of his household, and I won’t be bossed around by anyone, much less the Devil of Banrose.”

With that, she swept out of the room and went to seek the man who thought he could buy her favor.

Grant tugged at his hair as he hunched over his desk, rereading the terrible script over and over again. What was the old fool trying to say?

At that moment, the door to his study flew open, and Emma burst in. He stared at her, realizing that he was halfway out of his seat, with his hand on his blade, before plopping back down.

God, she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.

Her cheeks were blazing red, her blue eyes glittering like the loch at sunset, her dark hair framing her face. In the light of day, the bloodred dressing gown lent a honey tint to her pale complexion while leaving nothing to his imagination when it came to her generous curves.

Shadow and night had hidden enough last night that Grant had been able to control himself, but right now, he wanted to slam the study door shut and shove her against it.

Until he realized she was shouting at him.

“You absolute barbarian, you brute—how dare you?! I ought to have you dragged before Her Majesty for such an insult.”

Again, Grant was torn between laughter and confusion, frustration and anger. “What are ye on about, lass?”

“Excuse me?” Emma drew herself up to her full height and clenched her fists. “The gowns, of course.”

Now, Grant truly had no ken or kingdom what the lass was spitting fire about. “Am I dreamin’?”

Emma’s eyes flashed, and she stepped around his desk, slamming a fist on it and leaning down to look into his eyes.

Grant couldn’t help it—he grinned and leaned into the rising heat in his blood. Oh, but he liked the challenge, no doubt about it. There was something about her fire and insouciance that stirred his desire.

“Do not insult me by feigning ignorance, Sir. You know that giving me those dresses is naught but an attempt at manipulation. A clumsy one, at that.”

“Christ in Heaven, woman,” Grant breathed as he realized what she meant.

He wished she’d lean down more, for he liked the way she hovered over him, her hair almost tickling his arms.

“Are ye truly so bloodthirsty that ye think a kindly gesture has some subterfuge behind it, some bloody political pivot? Ye need clothes, Emma. ‘Tis naught else, I promise ye that.”

“Oh, but it is,” Emma insisted. She threw her hands up and backed away. “I already must stay for seven nights to do your bidding, to show my gratitude?—”

“For savin’ yer life,” Grant cut in as he stood up and stretched his limbs.

Emma rounded on him. “I am no man’s puppet, Laird Ronson,” she hissed, like a cat. “I will not have you dressing me in Scottish gowns and colors.” She lifted her chin. “No, thank you, but I shall wear my own gowns.”

“How?”

Emma faltered then. “I…”

“Exactly, lass,” Grant said in a soft voice and prowled forward. “There is nay modiste hereabouts that isnae Scottish, and the English border is a bit too far to go in yer nightclothes.”

She flushed and wrapped her arms around herself. “There must?—”

“There isnae,” Grant cut her off, resisting the urge to grip her chin. It was a bad habit of his with this woman, a gesture that bordered on impropriety but could be written off as the barbaric nature of a laird. “And even if there was, Emma, I wouldnae allow it. D’ye ken why?”

The fire in her eyes and the set of her lips said that she did know, but she did not speak.

“Because nowhere in our deal did we agree that ye’d defy me,” he said as he leaned down. “Dinnae cross me again, ye cheeky minx, for I shall enjoy meetin’ yer fire with me own a mite too much.”

“Fine,” Emma huffed. “I suppose I may have been a tad hasty.”

“Only a tad,” Grant said as he stepped back and pinched his fingers in the air. “Besides, even though summer is almost here, we are in the mountains and on a loch carved by the sea. ‘Tis nae the weather of the English countryside. Ye need different clothes.”

With that, he walked to the door and executed an exaggerated half-bow. He leaned against the wall as she stalked over to him, her color still high—perhaps because she realized her mistake.

As Emma walked out, Grant could not help himself—he leaned down, causing her to stop in her tracks.

Slowly, carefully, he brushed an errant curl from her neck, making her shiver. Then, he lowered his lips to her ear and murmured, “I’ll see ye at seven o’clock. And I look forward to seein’ what ye will wear.”

Emma shot him a scathing glare, tossed her hair, and marched out.

But Grant did not miss the fact that she looked back, nor the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.

As he closed the door, he noted the bright sunshine beating down on the colorful rugs in his study, and groaned.

Never has a day passed so slowly.