Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Agnes choked on a scream, and her mind went blank with fear.

" Please ," was all she managed to get out, soft and pitiful.

Behind her, the man made a rough, shocked sound, whipping the blade away, and then she was spun around.

"Oh. You ."

It was not a bandit who'd caught her but her husband. Relief shot through Agnes, and she tried to smile at Leo. But she could still feel the cool press of the blade against her throat and trembled from head to toe.

She let out a small, rueful sound as she touched her throat, and then murmured, "You did warn me."

"Aye, I bloody did, Agnes," Leo said in a sharp, tired voice that she'd not heard from him before, and she flinched.

But still… Had not part of Agnes sought him out? More than that, she'd found her husband without truly knowing her way around. Wasn't she meant to be here and for them to get started on the business of producing an heir?

Although Agnes still wasn't completely certain what that even entailed, beyond that mindless, bone-shaking heat and pleasure that Leo had given her on their wedding night.

"Tired of yer life here already, wife?" Leo bit out.

Without thinking, Agnes stepped back, as though to protect herself from that question. Her back collided with the wall, and she bit back a cry of pain. Some of those bruises inflicted by the Craeghil nuns were still healing—slow and stubborn things.

"I…" Her eyes welled with tears and then she focused on the blade in his hand, gulping as she realized what he meant. "I'm sorry, I could not sleep." Words began to tumble out of her, a confession that she couldn't stop. "Even though we did not discuss it outside, I still thought you… you would be expecting me. For I haven't forgotten my duties as a wife, Leo—My Laird."

His title seemed to wake him up, and he went to speak, then stopped as Agnes continued.

"Despite being so close to the sea, no one came to Craeghil, so we had no needs for blades or any other weapons, and I know you warned me earlier?—"

Leo made a sound in the back of his throat, then glanced at his blade as though surprised it was in his hand, and quickly tucked it away. "Lass…"

"I didn't know…" Her head dropped and throbbed, exhaustion rolling through her. "I don't know what I am supposed to do."

Leo hooked a gentle hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up. "Rest. ‘Twas a long journey. All of our, er, duties can wait."

Our?

A small thrill of warmth went through Agnes. "But?—"

"I ken ye must think me cruel," Leo said in a sudden harsh tone, and he let her go, stepping back. He seemed to become part of the shadows as he looked away. "Nae better than a beast, nae a worthy husband for a lady, ne'er mind one near sanctified. But for all me rules, for all that I am, I expect ye to obey me." He paused and glanced back at her, the gray of his eyes bright in the darkness. Then, he said in a voice that made Agnes's knees tremble, "I willnae force ye, lass. Ne'er. Ye have me word."

The moon chose that moment to slide out from behind a cloud, illuminating the hall in fitful silver. The soft light seemed to wrap around Agnes as she pondered his words. It was a relief, and she felt something deep down, a sense that made her stand up straighter, a sort of heat in her belly that she liked, that made her feel seen and heard.

Yet, at the same time, there was such a fervor to his vow, one that Agnes could not understand. And all this talk of him as a beast? Why did he think so? And worse, how did Agnes convince her husband that she did not tolerate such talk—even though he apparently had already decided that she did?

Leo's eyebrows quirked up, and for a moment, her heart leaped, thinking he saw that on her face. Until she saw him look her over, taking in Kristie's oversized nightgown, and she flushed. Then she pulled in a breath, realizing that Leo was not wearing his mask.

In the dark, with the moonlight at his back, she could not see much. She could tell there was scarring there, but it did not seem to warrant that hard leather. More than once, Agnes had noticed Leo adjusting it or scratching it. Also, she knew from Sister Theresa's teachings that scars could sometimes be sensitive.

At that moment, he turned away. She went to reach for him, but then she faltered. Some deeper instinct stayed her hand, and she instead watched him stare out the window, his hands at his back.

"Tomorrow, I meet with me council, the steward and MacLarsen folk who run Briorn, including the yeomen of Mosage. This includes the housekeeper, the head maid, and other servants. I expect ye to join us." He glanced over at her. "As the Lady of this clan, ye will need to ken them and have them on yer side. Think of it as yer first lesson."

Agnes swallowed hard and nodded, wondering if she should curtsey. Instead, a hundred questions rose, and she could not pick one to speak out loud. They all seemed so foolish, and her brief burst of confidence waned.

Why does it come and go so?

Pressure throbbed in her head, and she wished she'd just stayed in her room.

"Good night," he said, his tone curt and filled with clear dismissal. " Again ."

She nodded her head, walked past him, and then paused when she sensed his eyes on her. When she turned back, Leo had retreated to the door to his tower, swallowed in the night's maw, and she saw him pressing his fingers to the scarred side of his face. He dropped his hand immediately, and a sharp ache went through Agnes.

"The mask hurts you," she said softly, making it clear it was not a question.

She did not expect Leo to answer, but he replied in a bitter tone that worsened the ache inside of her, "It hurts me family and me people far more when I dinnae wear it."

I don't agree with that, she thought to herself but refrained from saying it out loud.

Still, she could not see those merry, raucous, kind-hearted folk caring about a scar. They spoke so highly of him—how could Leo not know that? Had he not seen how they flocked to him tonight? Or how they'd flocked to her, trying to ensure that she felt welcome?

"Try applying honey on it, or under it," Agnes said, thinking rapidly. "It will soothe the skin."

Leo let out a bark of laughter. "What is it with ye and honey?"

Agnes gave him a small smile. "It works wonders."

"And what of the flies, Me Lady? Am I nae frightenin' enough without insects and vermin attracted to me?"

"Oh, that's a fair point," Agnes murmured. "I shall have to think on it."

Leo shook his head and placed his hands on his hips.

"And…" she said, a sudden, mad brilliant idea coming to her mind as she remembered his vow, "I have thought of another condition, since you have given me your word."

"Usin' a Scotsman's word against him," Leo said in a mocking, light voice, and Agnes's smile widened. "Ye are English nobility under it all. Well, let's hear it, though I'm sure I willnae like it one bit."

"When we lie together again, as man and wife," Agnes said, and Leo stirred, one dark eyebrow arching up his finely sculpted face. "You will not wear your mask." He went still. "And I will not perform my wifely duties until you kiss me without wearing your mask."

The silence that followed her words was filled with an incredulity that chased away some of the ache in her heart, and she almost laughed, feeling lighter for saying it. With that, she bobbed a deep curtsey, and Leo made a rough sound, as though he was biting back a laugh.

"Good night, My Laird."

She turned to leave, but Leo took a step forward. "Agnes, how many times must I tell ye—warn ye, that ye are nae the one to decide such things. Ye dinnae get to have conditions."

"But you gave me your word, Leo," she said pertly.

"Nae about—ach, but ye are testin' me. And I dinnae think ye understand fully what that means. Or who I am."

"I think I do," she retorted and lifted her chin. "And I am Lady MacLarsen." The words sounded absurd on her tongue, but she hastily continued, failing to notice how Leo had pressed a hand to his heart. "I do decide such things. Nor do I think you a beast, Leo," she snorted. "What nonsense. You do not scare me one bit."

"Och?"

"Mhm," Agnes said. "At least, not in the way you wish you did."

With those parting words, Agnes turned and left, not glancing back once. So, she did not see how Leo stared after her, a hand still on his heart and the other gripping his hair, a look of yearning and frustration on his handsome, scarred face.

MacLarsen Council meetings always took too long for Leo's liking, but today was becoming more arduous than a climb up Terregen's peak. ‘Twas a mountain with more switchbacks and strange drops than was usual in the Highlands, one that made even the threat of death tedious.

Leo's back and head ached as he tried to sit upright and focus on the droning words of Tasgall the Elder.

These elders did not live at Briorn, but in fine houses around the town of Mosage, once a village like Orsal, which had blossomed after Leo moved his household across the loch.

All these men had been against it, but they had been powerless to stop the young Laird, who told them they could damn well stay among the ruins and ghosts if they'd so like.

He fought a smirk, knowing they'd never forgiven him for taking up the mantle of Laird at twenty-three and making decisions that overrode those of men twice his age.

However, that did sometimes mean that they took their revenge on Leo and his kin in petty ways, like now, when Tasgall made a comment about English wenches. Several heads swiveled to look Agnes over with the same kind of cold, calculating glance that they might give cattle.

Agnes, her chin on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the window, started when Marta, the head stewardess, touched her shoulder. Leo felt his temper rise as Agnes looked around with a smile, a smile that shrank under the withering gazes of old, foolish men. Part of Leo wanted to turn over the table or pull out his blade, but instead, he pulled in a steadying breath.

He was about to speak when his petite wife spoke up, her voice shaking, yet her gaze steady as she looked around the room, braving the gauntlet of MacLarsen elders. A warmth swept through Leo, and he wished that she'd look at him, see his admiration for her, but instead, she looked at Tasgall.

"I grew up in Scotland, in the Glenlands," she told them. And the lilt in her words was evident, a not-quite English accent. "Though my blood is English, I am happy to be here. I love this land."

Tasgall snorted loudly but seemed not to have words.

Leo glanced back at Fergus to see him fighting a smile, and they exchanged an amused look. Very few people could get Tasgall to stop talking.

It seemed to be Agnes's victory, until one of the younger men, a nephew of Tasgall, muttered, "So, a little less than an Outlander, a near heathen from the Glenlands."

"I…" Agnes went to speak but then stopped, clearly at a loss to explain her history to men who were already forming opinions and judgments about her. She shrank back as her hands twisted.

Tasgall's face split into a malicious grin, sensing his moment to pounce. "A proper Scotswoman would ne'er let another disparage her faith, dearie." Agnes flinched, and his smile became as cruel as a rusted blade. "Ye seem sensible enough. I'm sure ye have doubts that ye can be a proper lady of an ancient Scottish house."

Leo felt a surge of anger and would've lunged across the table if not for Fergus's hand clamping down on his shoulder. Behind him, he could sense his men stirring, and several of his loyal elders were glaring at Tasgall. But others were exchanging looks that made his stomach twist.

It reminded him of those endless days after his parents had died and they'd lost MacLarsen Castle, when he had to take up the mantle of Laird, untried and untested, with these men snapping at his heels. They'd bolstered him up, aye, but not without drawing a fair amount of blood.

And at that moment, Leo knew that he'd never forgiven them. They had not held him back from becoming the Beast.

His cold, dangerous words cut through the room—before Tasgall could even think to attack his wife again. "I think ye all forget she is now a MacLarsen. What need does she have to prove her blood?"

With great effort, he sat back, and Fergus patted his shoulder.

Leo steepled his fingers, knowing the sight of him was enough to cause these men to falter. Not only did he look the part of the Beast of Briorn, but with Fergus behind him, they made a forbidding pairing. In truth, though, his man-at-arms hovered close to stop him from committing murder.

He glanced at his wife, whose head was down, and his heart twisted at the way her shoulders slumped—a clear look of defeat.

"Tell me, do ye mean to insult yer Laird or yerselves?" Leo asked before he could stop himself.

He let his eyes meet every man's, before glaring at Tasgall, though he knew that in the past, he would've moved on and smoothed things over. That's what he'd always done—ensured peace in this room over his own peace of mind. But he could not seem to do it at the cost of Agnes's heart.

"Well?" Leo bit out again, growing impatient.

"We only fear for the lineage of the clan," Tasgall blustered. "Of course, we ken ye had to wed an English lady following the Queen's Edict, but how would the English ken if perhaps ye took a Scotswoman, perhaps the daughter of Grierson, to bed instead."

Leo's vision seemed to blacken as though heat was rising in the room, and he trembled from head to toe with rage. Yet, the old man continued.

"We need to secure our right to this land, Me Laird." Tasgall shook his head mournfully. "Ye must see this is the only way ."