Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Stepping back inside from the chill of the evening, Grant paused in an empty hall. Elsewhere, he could hear soft chatter, and even more distant, the strains of music. His family and staff were enjoying the end of the day.

He took a moment to smile to himself, enjoying the merriment of Banrose from a distance, as he often did. Their peace had been so hard-won, and they enjoyed every moment of it.

However, he had to keep looking forward to their future, to ensure it was secure. And that meant his English bride needed to feel safe here—safe enough to protect and raise their children to be as strong, just, and wise as Brenda.

And as joyous, I hope.

He adjusted his shirt and kilt, then reached up to check his hair tie. However, when he made to step forward, he glanced behind him again, wishing he could’ve taken a longer walk.

He had stolen down to the shore of the loch, walking among the trees and breathing in the fresh air, before stopping to check on Balfire and speaking with the stablehands. All was quiet and well, the hour nearly seven o’clock.

Tugging at his collar, he forced himself to start walking, telling himself that such resistance was fine. He could not anticipate Emma’s mood or whether she’d be of any help, and this would be the first time they’d ever dine together. It could be tense.

Stepping into the Tarry Hall, he wondered if perhaps he should have instructed the servants to go elsewhere. Once, as a small boy, this had been his favorite room. It had arched windows overlooking the loch, a wide fireplace on the opposite wall, and wooden beams arching into the high stone ceiling. It seemed that the same fanciful ancestor who’d created the gardens and the gallery of the old Healing Sanctuary had also built this room. It was lovely and grand for a smaller room, but it was also inviting.

It was even more so with the sun setting in the west and casting light over the loch like a horse might dash and jump across a field. All fire and quick bursts of color across a serene backdrop. The mountains faded into green shadows, and there was a sense of peace that even the Devil of Banrose could almost grasp.

A table had been set, and Grant strode toward it, intent on pouring himself a drink, when the door opened behind him. He turned around, noting that the light outside had grown rosier, and then put a hand to his heart.

“ Sin thu fhèin ,” he breathed.

He knew he should step forward and greet the beauty coming toward him, but all he could do was watch.

Emma’s dark hair had been swept up and pinned to her head, with a few small white flowers here and there. She wore a crimson gown and a sash made of Ronson tartan. The blue crisscrossed with red against the warm brown seemed to accentuate the color of her eyes. Eyes brighter and bluer than any jewel. Even the sun itself seemed to reach for her as she stepped up to Grant.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “But I won’t.”

Ye dinnae have to. The sight of yer beauty in me clan colors is thanks enough.

“My Laird?”

Grant executed a deep bow and then straightened, offering her his arm, “Lady Emma. Good evenin’.” He cleared his throat, wishing his voice did not sound so hoarse, but it had been a long day of speaking. “How bonny ye look in Ronson tartan, too.”

“Bonny?” Emma asked as she took his proffered arm.

Grant smirked and leaned in. “Beautiful beyond words,” he whispered.

A flush rose in her face, and she dropped her eyes, looking away. “Oh, thank you.”

He led her to the table and then released her. To his surprise, she curtseyed before she took her seat with a smile.

Grant poured her a cup of ale, then one of wine, and raised an eyebrow when he noticed her watching him avidly. “Aye?”

“I—nothing,” she said and reached for the ale, taking a sip.

“Ye are surprised I poured ye a glass and nae a servant,” Grant guessed as he sat down. “I am capable of it, Laird or nae.”

Emma laughed—a bright sound that burrowed into Grant’s heart and made it swell. He clenched his hands beneath the table, wondering if he’d gone mad by proposing that they dine together. Again, he recalled their first meeting and how he’d longed to taste her full lips.

Now, he watched her laugh and smile at him in the Tarry Hall, on Banrose lands, and knew he’d never forget such a sight.

They tucked into the first course, and then, when the servants came in, Grant bid them in Gaelic to have Kyla send the medicine for his throat now, rather than later.

He noted Emma’s curious look, but she did not ask. Nor did she speak much—at first.

“I must admit,” she said as they finished the second course, “you keep a fine table. Your cook is wonderful.”

“Aye,” Grant said and tried not to clear his throat, but he sounded hoarser than usual. “Nae bad for barbarians, eh?”

Emma gave him a look, even though she reddened a bit, and he let out a hoarse chuckle.

“I willnae hold yer words against ye, so long as ye can admit when ye’re wrong—and perhaps change yer mind about the north.”

Something flashed in her eyes then, and she looked out the window, her chest rising and falling.

Grant leaned forward, wanting to ask what she was thinking, feeling as though they were on the precipice of something. But she only nodded and went back to her meal.

“Ye can admit that ye like it, Emma,” Grant whispered.

She looked up. “The food? I already said?—”

“Scotland.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No—I mean…” She looked out the window again, and this time Grant saw the longing in her expression, the sense that she realized there was a freedom here that she’d never find in England. “It is breathtaking.”

“Perhaps ye’d like to explore—see more of it. And the village.”

“Oh,” Emma murmured. “Well, I suppose it would give me more color to add to my letters.”

Grant felt a weight sink in his gut and set down his cutlery. “Letters?”

“Oh, yes, I must write home and let them know I am alive,” Emma said. Then, she clapped a hand on her cheek. “How foolish. No, I will not let them know I’m in Scotland. I shall say I’m with my aunt. After all, that’s where I hope to be soon.”

“Is that to whom ye hope to run?” Grant asked.

Emma nodded and took a sip of wine. “Yes, she has quite a bit of sway in Court. And, she is a widow, so she likes to have companions. It is always a merry time with her in town or at her estate. Cambarelle, in Yorkshire. Not as large as my father’s properties—or he would have tried to take it from her—but magnificently modern. A dream .”

Grant took a draught of wine and pretended that her words did not land like a blow. But he’d never felt so far removed from the world she knew and expected to move in.

Me bride must feel the same. Is that why ? —

“Why did ye run?”

Sitting back in her chair, Emma regarded him and then shrugged one shoulder. “Is it not obvious? I cannot…” She gestured around the room, then outside. “This is not the world I know or the life I am meant to have.”

“In what way?” Grant pressed as a strange pressure grew between his ribs and threatened to crack them. “What do ye expect from an English nobleman that a Scottish Laird cannae offer ye?”

His tone was harsher than he had intended, but Emma did not seem deterred, only thoughtful.

She leaned forward and tugged at a curl, then said slowly, “I suppose I expect gentleness. They are gentlemen and are good to their wives, despite their impulses.”

Are those impulses so abhorrent to ye? Or have ye never had a mix of the two?

But Grant didn’t voice that thought.

“Ye must give me an example, at least.”

“Why?” Emma asked, her eyes narrowing. “What does it matter to you what I think?”

Her question took him aback, but then a lazy smirk tugged at his lips.

“I’m afraid we arenae speakin’ about ye, lass, but me future bride,” he drawled. “What should I offer her to be more like the English lover—lord she expected ?”

Huffing out a breath, Emma toyed with her knife for a moment. “Enjoying music and dancing comes to mind.”

“Dancin’?” Grant echoed.

“Yes, My Laird,” Emma said and took a sip of her water. “Dancing.”

Grant shoved back his chair and stood up, not sure what he was doing until he held out a hand to her. She looked at it, then up at him, and shook her head.

“You want to dance? Now?” she exclaimed. “In the middle of supper?”

“Aye,” Grant replied, his heart rate quickening. “Seems prudent. We dinnae have much time. Show me an English dance.”

“Oh, alright,” Emma said. She threw down her napkin and rose from her chair. “Hold out your arm and let me—no, like this.” She arranged Grant’s arm at a bizarre angle that would never be of any use in a fight or ride. “And let me put my hand on your shoulder while I hold my skirt with the other. Then, we twirl around the dance floor. Keep your other hand tucked behind your back—good.”

She seemed to like ordering him around.

She told him to face her next, her eyes sweeping over him as she corrected his posture, then stepped around him, explaining the complicated steps. He let her, even though he’d learned a bit about English dances at MacCabe Castle.

Unbidden, an old memory of Laird MacCabe staring into the fire and mopping his face flashed through his mind. The blood of his enemies was splattered everywhere, while Grant panted on the floor, unsure how they’d survived. Then the old, cunning warrior had smiled and winked at him. “Even an assassin should ken how to dance, Grant,” he’d intoned.

But it had been years, and Grant admitted that as he tried to remember Emma’s instructions, he’d forgotten a few steps. Perhaps buried with all the memories of being sharpened into a dagger for MacCabe to wield against his foes—in the name of keeping him alive.

Grant was grateful to the old bastard, he was, and he and the man’s son were best friends. But he also knew that his peculiar savior was interested in gaining power.

“Focus, my Laird,” Emma chided. “And you must lead—not me. Are you paying attention?”

Grant recalled another dance he had learned, and his arm snaked around her waist as she made to step by him, pulling her close. Her hands rose to his chest, and her nails lightly dug in.

“What—what are you doing?” Emma asked.

“Ye have shown me enough puritanical English dances. ‘Tis only fair that I show ye a Scottish one.”

“No, no.” Emma tried to push him back. “No English dance allows this sort of touch, Sir.”

“They should,” Grant said as he turned them in a circle. Her warm and soft curves fit so nicely against him. Could she not see that? “Give me yer hand.”

He took one of her hands off his chest while he tightened his arm around her waist, curling his hand against her lower ribs, his thumb brushing the ribbons of her gown. Her breath hitched, and she allowed him to twirl them once more before she shook her head.

“My Laird, you might say such things, but no.” Emma tried to pull away, but he pulled her closer, so she flattened her palm against his chest. “I would hope that my husband respects?—”

Stopping them in the middle of the floor, Grant tightened his grip on her and leaned down, glaring at her. “I willnae have ye talkin’ about another man while we’re dancin’, lass.” His heartbeat thundered in his ears. “Or for the rest of the time ye’re here with me. I dinnae care for hearin’ such things.”

He noted then that they were both breathing hard, and Emma’s eyes were filling with fire. But she had stopped trying to get away. Grant turned his hand, interlocking their fingers, and her eyes went wide. He gave her a lazy smirk, and her lips curled into that lovely snarl.

“Unhand me,” she hissed. “Now. We both know a gentleman would never say such things to a lady.”

“Emma,” Grant said in a low voice, “I am becomin’ more and more convinced that the last thing ye want is a gentleman , much less an English one.”

Her full lips parted in outrage. “How dare you? What do you think I want, then?”

In answer, Grant kissed her.