Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

As Grant rode toward the castle, a mass of solid stone and the legacy of his clan sunk into the land, he felt a stir in his bones. One that he could never tamp down, as though the call of earth, stone, and sea went beyond the fury of his heart and memory.

Seven years ago, when the rightful Laird Ronson returned, he had not sought vengeance against his people—as some had rightly feared.

But he had sought to both right the wrongs done by his father—and if some of it was done from spite and fury, no one said a word. Not when it benefitted yeomen, nobles, and farmers alike. Not when the Banrose lands had never been so prosperous and thriving in decades.

Perhaps, though, the canny among his people knew that he poured so much energy into undoing the old Laird’s corruption because he had no other choice. If he did not have something to occupy him, he might seek vengeance—or war. For every day, Grant awoke and reached for his blade, only to remember that his father would never die by it.

No, the old bastard had died selfishly in the sea, rather than by Grant’s blade. Grant swore that the cunning old fox somehow had known when he had sought his head.

And the last time Grant had attempted to kill his father, he’d been lying in wait up the coast, only for his father to drown.

The story from the port, where his father had last set out, was that the old Laird Ronson had refused to stay, even as a storm began to rage on the horizon. And the whole ship had gone down, all souls on board lost to the depths. That had almost included Grant’s younger brother, Reuben, were it not for a freak accident a day before, where he’d been thrown off a horse and had been too unwell to travel.

Now, there were stories up and down the coast that the cruel Laird still sailed the stormy coast, forever seeking harbor, and all the poor souls with him were trapped until he found grace in his purgatory. For Ronson’s soul was too corrupt for heaven or hell.

Others whispered that the devil was to be found in Banrose and that the eldest son would never let his father rest—not when old Ronson attempted to hang the boy for feeding his people. Yet, whatever good had been in the boy was lost in the man—another sin by old Ronson.

Although Grant hoped that the former Laird was a cursed ghost, he feared that was too optimistic a fate for his father. Too kind for the man who’d somehow plumbed the depths of his clan’s riches and nearly impoverished both his people and his clan. It had taken Grant half a decade to scrape together a semblance of what his people had before the Wednesday Uprising.

And most of that was due to turning his father’s pride and joy, the garish and newly built Ronson manor house, into a hospital. Now folk came from the Highlands and Lowlands for remedies and to find cures for their ailments, to find a healer who could help when all hope was lost. The wealthier were charged a nominal fee.

But plenty of good folks donated money to keep the hospital running, so much that Grant could’ve stopped funding it, but he refused. Instead, he increased the healers’ wages and was planning on establishing a school of medicine and healing sciences.

The only place that Grant had razed to the ground was the old Healer’s Sanctuary, for he was unable to bear the memories of where Mac had once resided. With his family’s help, he’d turned it into a medicinal garden.

A laugh almost escaped Grant, then. If there was any surer sign that the former Laird Ronson had perished at sea, it was that he had not immediately appeared to stop his eldest son from ruining the home that he’d funneled so much money into.

Hence why Grant wasn’t sure he believed in his ghost—surely, his father would choose to haunt the hospital or the castle, not the coast.

His father had been proud of Banrose Castle. Yet, he’d never wanted to live there. His ego had demanded its own space, its own legacy, so he’d built the manor.

Again, Grant wondered if he should have torched it and rebuilt upon its ashes. But his mother had known best in the end. She’d convinced him to find a better purpose. And since he owed her his life, his rightful claim to Lairdship, and his legacy, he could not disagree.

Indeed, he let Brenda have her way and be the deciding voice on all matters. All except for one—his marrying. That was until the Queen sent out her Edict.

Grant could’ve almost sworn that Queen Marianna and his mother had been plotting together.

Speakin’ of the English.

He glanced back at his unusually silent riding partner. As they turned into the long stone drive, a wall rising on either side of them, with the massive rush of a river churning beneath, Emma’s silence began to unnerve him. He glanced back as they passed under a bright torch on the wall and almost laughed.

Her blue eyes were enormous, gazing around as though she’d never seen such a place, and Grant felt a stir of pride. Probably she had not—Banrose Castle was one of the biggest estates in all of Scotland. It was rumored that some former English king had gone green with envy upon laying eyes on it and had immediately ordered his men to start the construction of new wings when he’d returned to London.

Emma seemed to sense his gaze and met his eyes. Her own widened, and a beautiful pink bloomed on her cheeks. Still, the minx did not look away, and again, Grant felt that tug of admiration.

So many feared him, even his kin. Yet, she regarded him with open curiosity, warmth, and a healthy bit of trepidation. He did not think it was naivete, not entirely. No, he knew courage, and he sensed that she had depths of it that might even surprise her. Even her joy could not be quashed for long despite her state. No, her joy seemed to have an audacity to it, flaunting itself in the face of a grim and unfair world, holding out a hand to dance with the devil.

Grant balked at those thoughts.

Nae this foolishness again.

Still, even as his neck protested, he could not look away and instead offered her a half-smile. He felt a flash of triumph when she blushed more and shook back her dark head.

“Do you live here?” Emma demanded, her voice reverberating through his chest.

He nodded, barely stopping himself from speaking out loud.

As they approached the gate, men came forward, nodding their heads and avoiding his eyes. Grant felt a pang in his chest, and he thought he saw the Sassenach frown, so he faced ahead, plastering on a grim smile.

“Hail, Laird Ronson,” called McWirthe, his strapping man-at-arms. Scars criss-crossed his face, and he shot Grant a wicked grin. “Welcome home.”

McWirthe had been exiled from Banrose by old Ronson. He had taught Grant more about survival than Grant could remember—and he had forgotten more about fighting than all his warriors put together. He was one of the few who found people’s fear of Grant amusing, but he was also part of the reason they were so terrified. He’d disembowel anyone who looked at his Laird the wrong way after Grant saved his life thirteen years ago.

“A Lady?” McWirthe asked in a low voice as Grant dismounted, stroking a hand down Balfire’s nose. “And an Outlander? Yer promised?”

Grant shook his head and shot his old friend a look. McWirthe nodded, knowing his Laird would explain later.

“Reuben and old Lady Ronson are lookin’ for ye. Shall I have the cook send up a tray?”

Grant nodded and turned around, lifting Emma off the horse. She gazed around, her curiosity outpacing her fear, but he saw the tremors in her arms and neck. He knew his men saw it, too—they were probably wondering if their Laird had kidnapped her.

Aye, I have. But nae to keep her. Only so she would help me find a way forward, as only an English lady kens.

Tucking Emma’s hand in the crook of his arm, he led her inside and headed for the Southern Hall. They were cozy apartments where his family liked to retire after a meal in the Laird’s Hall and entertained their guests when they first arrived. But Grant slowed down as he approached and turned into another hallway, walking toward a small chamber in the Western Corridors.

As he ushered Emma inside, he turned and smiled at the demure young woman who’d appeared behind him. She tilted her head to the side and made a gesture with her hands, asking if he needed something.

Gesturing back, Grant responded, Aye. Could ye fetch Kyla? I have a patient for her to see.

The young woman, who had long struggled with hearing and speaking, perked up and smiled, gesturing back, Of course. I heard she’s a lovely Englishwoman. But nae yer bride, hm?

Off with ye, cheeky thing .

Grant shook his head and suppressed a laugh as Aileas took off, giggling in her own quiet way.

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, then sighed and went in. He stopped abruptly, his hand still on the doorknob as he found Emma fast asleep on the sofa, her arms wrapped around her middle. His heart flipped, and he fetched a fur, tossing it over her.

Stoking the fire, he watched her sleep for a moment and then stood up. Kyla would be along soon and could see if anything was amiss with the lass. He still felt uneasy when he thought of her fainting spell. He feared that the crossing and hard ride might have made her ill. Even if she had seemed better, Grant knew better than to ignore such things.

He also felt restless. Now that they were back on his lands, he thought he’d feel more confident in his idea to have Lady Emma Wells help him.

Instead, he felt as though a clock had started ticking, and all he could think of was her stepping into a carriage, glancing back once at the Laird in his castle and then vanishing.

This time forever.

His fists clenched, and he stepped forward, as though to stop the carriage that took her away.

Christ. He shook himself. I’ve gone mad on the road. I chased her down because it was prudent. She can help me.

After all, what better way for the Devil of Banrose to prove himself worthy of a pardon—and perhaps an English bride—than rescuing the errant runaway?

Except, Grant feared, he’d gotten caught up in the chase without realizing how much he’d wanted to catch the lass.

And I’m promised to another.