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Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Once again, Grant sat at his desk, sorting through paperwork that should’ve been handled months ago. Some of it appeared to be his brother’s business matters and correspondence, which he dumped into an untidy pile on the side.

Grierson leaped out at him as he made to discard another letter, and he paused. Perfume wafted up from the paper, and he frowned. Willy Grierson had certainly not done such a thing.

Grant flipped the letter over, noting the flower in the wax seal.

Flora.

Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not like to be uncharitable toward the fairer sex, but ever since Flora Grierson had jilted Laird MacLarsen, she had been hunting for a new husband. And she’d flirted with Reuben enough times to make Grant worry. It was not even the difference in their age— though McWirthe had jested with Reuben about it. It was that Grant did not trust that family.

Not after his years with MacCabe, who’d always warned him to be careful with his words around anyone from that clan. They were terrible gossips and meddlers, and both sycophantic and mocking toward the Crown in the most foolish of ways.

That way lies trouble, lads, MacCabe would often mutter whenever they rode close to Grierson lands, causing Grant and his best friend to exchange amused glances. It had even become something of a joke between Damien and Grant, something they might include in their letters.

Weighing the perfumed letter in his hand, Grant wondered if he should open it. Whatever Flora was writing to his brother could not be good.

As though summoned, Reuben barged into the study at that moment and shot his brother a wide grin. He was filthy from the road and did not seem to care that he was leaving dirt in his wake, nor that he smelled like a pigpen and a tavern rolled into one.

“I found him,” he gasped, and Grant stood up. “Well, easy, I found his name. Tolmach. Matched the description, and the last time he was seen, he was heading to England.”

Tolmach.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, and Grant frowned.

Reuben’s whistle jolted him out of his musing, and he noted his brother shaking his head at him.

“What?” he rasped.

“Ye ken how to pick yer enemies, Braither,” Reuben said. “This Tolmach is kenned to work with his cousin, Oster. And Oster is associated with the Fosson brothers. Out of that wretched bit of border they clawed back, the damned Shillmoors. Ye ken, those bloody bandits who gleefully butcher our folk in the name of England.”

“Fosson,” Grant murmured and heaved a sigh, remembering the bastards who’d pursued Emma and tried to kill him. The prick who spat that shite about keeping rotten blood out of England. “Of course. Dammit.”

“We’re lookin’ for Oster, but we’ve had nay luck, so far. But he apparently likes a party, and there are rumors of him skulkin’ about. Me lads think he could waltz right into our hands.” Reuben shook back his hair, and pine needles fell out. “I should take a bath. Anythin’ else? How’s the English captive?”

Grant did not answer, simply twirled the letter in his hands and stared at his brother.

“If the killer comes to the festival, will ye?”

“Nay, I shall let ye bring him to me.” Grant sighed and held out the letter. “When have I ever gone, Reuben?”

Reuben took the letter and jumped, then turned around. “When we were lads, of course.”

His belly cold, Grant balled his fists on the desk and sucked in a breath, and only let it out when Reuben slammed the door shut behind him.

Perhaps he needed to send the lad north to be with their family in Lochinver for a spell—learn a bit more about the world on that hardbitten coast. Or perhaps he’d send him to MacCabe. Let Damien turn him into a man with an ounce of sense.

Before he could reach for a quill, determined not to let Reuben idle another summer away, the door flew open.

This time, Grant did not reach for his blade. He slowly looked up to find Emma marching in. She glanced askance at the floor, then pursed her lips as she reached his desk.

He blinked, noting the color on her cheeks, the lock of hair peeking from beneath her hat, and the scent of herbs clinging to her skin.

Ye have been in the gardens. Weepin’.

There were tear tracks on her face, but her eyes were clear and calm as she looked at him. “I need some paper—if it pleases you, My Laird.”

“It doesnae,” Grant said and leaned over the desk. His heart raced as he remembered the taste of her lips, the way she’d arched into him, the way she obediently opened her legs. “And ye cannae keep bargin’ in here like a bull put to stud, lass. I willnae have it.”

Her eyes flashed. “I know of no other way to get your attention, Sir. You must give me some paper. I have to write to my aunt—she must make preparations for me at Cambarelle.”

He waved a dismissive hand and stood up straight, folding his arms across his chest. “Yorkshire is at least a week’s ride from here, if nae longer. Ye will have time.” He forced himself to stay behind his desk. “What is this truly about?”

“My sister,” she said.

Grant’s heart ached at the pain in her voice.

She jutted her chin. “I need to write to my mother. I sent her a letter before, on the road, to keep her calm. I knew she wouldn’t tell my father that I went to my aunt’s. Only, I was going to Helena’s after…” She paused. “Now, I need to know the truth. I think part of me had hoped that my father came up with some tale—freed some lass from the convent to live a good life in my stead.”

“That could still be true,” Grant suggested.

Emma shook her head and walked to the window. “No, I don’t think it is. Somehow, my twin ended up there. It would not surprise me… My father is a stubborn, willful man. If he thought that she should live separately from us, I’m sure he would have seen it through.” She paused and placed her hands on the frame, hanging her head. “No matter the cost.”

Now, Grant could not stay still and stepped out from behind his desk.

“It isnae yer fault that yer sister married Leo.” But even as he said it, the words felt unwieldy. Not a lie, yet not the truth.

“It is,” Emma said, “and it isn’t. I know that, in my heart. Some instinct…” She straightened and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Some instinct tells me that she chose to do this—but not for herself. Rather, for a family she’d never known and a sister she’d never met.” Then, she lifted her trembling hands to her lips. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“Emma…” Grant placed a hand on her shoulder. “Be at ease. Leo—Laird MacLarsen is kenned as a Beast to protect his kin. He kept his family safe and rebuilt everything from the ashes of a fire. I think he will care for her, be good to her.”

For a moment, Emma slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder, but then she moved away. Gone. Slipping through his fingers. But he held himself back.

“Will you let me write my letters or not?” she asked in a quiet, hard voice, with her back to him.

Grant clenched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling, struggling with the instinct not to let her do such a mad thing. Yet, he heard himself ground out a soft, “Aye.”

Emma whirled around, her eyes bright, her hat falling off, caught by a ribbon around her throat. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Grant muttered and strode back to his desk. “Here.”

“Oh, this is wonderful! I shall write to my parents and Agnes. Oh! I also need to get word to Helena, let her know I’m all right—what are you doing?”

Grant had caught her wrist, and his heart was throbbing.

Nay. It cannae be.

It was too much of a coincidence. That was not an uncommon name.

“Helena?” he echoed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Helena Lovell?”

Emma’s eyes went wide, and she tried to pull away, her fingers curled around a quill and his hand on her wrist. “Yes—how… how do you know her name?” Fear flickered in her eyes. “Has something happened to her?”

Unable to answer, Grant stared at her, and she tried to pull away again. This time, he let her, and his hand dropped to his side.

I cannae be so familiar with her. Nae when…

“Oh, do you know her name because she ran away as well?”

Now, Grant thought he needed a drink and rubbed his forehead. “Helena Lovell is the other runaway bride? Christ, that Queen of yers kens how to treat her subjects.”

Emma’s pretty face creased with confusion, and she hugged the quill and papers to her chest. “Please tell me what you mean, Sir.”

“Helena Lovell is my intended,” Grant sighed.

Silence fell over the room, stretching between them.

Grant was about to speak when Emma gasped. She dropped all the papers and quill, stepping back and shaking her head.

“N-no, no. It cannot be.”

Grant reached for a thick sheaf of paper, now folded and unfolded so many times that the crease was threatening to tear. Silently, he held it out to her.

Emma recoiled, then squared her shoulders and took it. She turned away and opened it, letting out a soft cry.

“Oh God.” She turned back, her face a study but her eyes wide. “You are… to marry my best friend. But she…” She looked around. “No. How can this be? Of all the noblewomen in England.”

They stared at each other, neither speaking nor moving. Time passed, a door slammed shut somewhere, and laughter rang out in the courtyard below. But it was all distant, removed.

Before, Helena Lovell had been a figment. A name scrawled on paper in a fine hand. Now, she had some shape and color, a presence.

Worse, Grant realized, he’d never be free of the woman standing in front of him.

If he had known how they’d be tied together, he would have never brought here her.

Emma went to bend down, but he caught her. She pulled away, and he did not stop her.

“I will get you fresh paper and another quill,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip as he handed her another stack and his favorite quill, along with an ink bottle. “I’m not sure I’ll finish by three.”

“Return when you are done,” he said.

Emma nodded, then went to the door.

“Emma.” There was a warning in his voice, but Grant did not know if it was for himself or her. “Take care of what ye write. Nay matter what, for the next six nights, ye remain mine .”

Emma half-turned, her eyes cold. “And then you will belong to my best friend, Sir.” She shook her head. “If you were a gentleman, you would let me go now. Perhaps I should leave now—what are you doing?”

Grant had crossed the room and grabbed her upper arms. “Dinnae make me repeat meself, lass. Take. Care.”

“My aunt will repay you for your hospitality, Laird Ronson.”

“Ye dinnae understand,” Grant growled. “When I say somethin’, it happens. Me will isnae to be challenged. And ye shall obey me. We have a deal.”

“I do not recall striking a deal with you, Sir,” Emma scoffed. “I recall you calling in a favor in return for saving my life.” She let out a bitter sigh. “To teach you how to woo Helena. It does not hold.”

“Ye will do it, Emma.”

“Fine,” she spat and pulled free. “But I never asked you to save me.”

“And yet, ye stand in front of me, owin’ me yer damned life,” Grant almost roared. He barely kept his temper in check as he wrenched open the door. “Go, write yer letters, but heed me warning. And when ye are done, return immediately.”

Emma scoffed as he gave her a mocking bow, and he caught the back of her skirt easily. Her mouth dropped open in outrage as she twisted to glare at him, and then her breath hitched as she realized how close he was. His lips all but grazed her ear, his breath stirring her hair as he spoke.

“I will ken if ye delay.”

With that, he pushed her out and closed the door.

Of all the noblewomen, indeed.

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