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Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

The only way?

For a moment, all Leo could see was Agnes, the stricken look on her face, the heartbreak in her eyes, and something else, something that frightened him—despair crossing her bright face and pulling her into shadow.

I will kill that old man.

Leo's face twisted into a snarl, and the Beast of Briorn broke free as he surged to his feet and splayed his hands across the table. If he had become a great beast, wielding a sword, Tasgall and the others could not have looked more frightened, as they let out squawks and curses.

For a moment, Leo felt compunction, not wanting to scare Agnes. But he would not let this stand. And these men needed to learn now that this was not a line they'd ever dare to cross again with their Laird.

"Ye forget yerself, Tasgall." His chest heaved as he fought to keep his temper. "Me faither always said ye were a great fool, but I thought ye at least had the sense to save yer neck."

Leo wanted to kick his chair, to break things, or call for a duel—but instead, he sat heavily and glared around the room.

However, when he spoke again, he was unable to keep the sardonic note out of his voice. "Who did ye hope to insult more with such a heinous plot? Yer Laird or yer Lady?"

D'ye think me so lowly, then? Leo thought with some bitterness, and he slowly shook his head.

"I will ne'er dishonor me vows as a husband." He pulled out his dirk and laid it on the table, then lifted his gaze. "Even as I find I am tempted to break me vows as Laird MacLarsen."

The dirk seemed to glint with bloody promise, and Leo thought he sensed every man in the room pull back, struggling not to clutch at their throats.

He lifted his gaze and looked steadily at Tasgall, who gaped at him. "Get out of me sight."

"What?" Tasgall gasped.

" Get out of me bloody sight, Tasgall," Leo repeated slower, but with a note of fury that none could mistake. "Dinnae return until I see fit to call for ye."

Tasgall rose, shaking and furious. He'd once been a strong man, but age, fine meals, and a love for drink had softened him.

The Laird of Clan MacLarsen gave a cold smile as he added, "Ken too that I let ye live at me wife's mercy. If me English bride wasnae here, I would have divested ye of yer treacherous, worthless head with nary a thought—nae to respect this household or save yer skin."

Tasgall, white to the lips, gave a curt bow and hurried out of the room.

Leo turned back to the rest of the fools in the room. He'd kept many of them, needing their advice and help to keep the clan from falling apart in the wake of losing his mother and father.

But Fergus and others had been urging him to dismiss them, to recruit new council members with new ideas. And he wished he'd heeded their advice sooner, rather than delaying it till after he had an heir.

"Anyone else have anything they'd like to say?" Leo asked as he picked up his dirk and twirled it, before securing it back on his belt.

Several graybeards shook their heads and hurried out, while two of the younger men, sons of those older council members, slunk out, but not before giving Agnes a cold look and Leo a sneering nod.

That contempt niggled at Leo. How had he not noticed it before? Or had he and he did not care? Not until Agnes was attacked, revealing a vulnerable spot in his household? Did his little English wife make him vulnerable?

Dammit, nay. I shall nae be so uncharitable to her. But this willnae do.

At the same time, though, he felt a peculiar lightness in his veins, almost a kind of mirth. It was as though a dark veil had been lifted from his eyes, while a heavy weight dropped from his bones. Leo felt a surety in his actions that felt different. Perhaps he'd acted hastily, but…

Perhaps that needed to happen.

He felt shaken awake, more clearheaded than he'd been in years. It seemed to Leo that he'd been doing things by rote for years, without noticing until this moment. How else would someone like Tasgall, a yeoman with a bit of land to his name, have no qualms about disparaging his Laird's honor? Or sneering at his Lady?

Never again.

"My Laird," he heard a soft voice say, and he turned to see Agnes kneeling— kneeling at the side of his chair, her head down, and her hands clutching its long, carved wooden arm so hard that her knuckles had turned white. "I apologize, I did not mean…" Her voice hitched, and Leo's heart throbbed as he realized she was trying not to weep. "Perhaps…"

In one movement, Leo caught her hands and gently peeled them from the chair's arm, before standing up and pulling her to her feet. She looked up, her spring-green eyes near opalescent with tears, and he again felt that rightness, that lightness, even as something in him ached for her.

"Ye dinnae kneel, Lady MacLarsen," Leo said in a stern, gentle voice.

"But I…" Her gaze dropped to their hands, and she tried to pull hers free, but Leo tightened his grip. "I…"

Leo knew she had been about to say, I failed you , when, if anyone had, it was him. With no other recourse, he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. Agnes gazed at him with such wonder and hope that it nearly brought him to his knees.

"If ye arenae afraid of me, as ye claim," he said, "then I confess I am surprised that ye would be put out by a bunch of dodderin' old fools."

Agnes stared at him for a moment, then let out a surprised, hiccupping laugh, her face brightening with a smile. Leo thought he'd never seen anything lovelier. He wanted to tell her how proud he was of her, how he admired her, and how she'd shaken him out of a stupor that he had not realized he'd been in.

Only, to do so would be to court more madness, to swim further out into a torrent that beckoned with a siren's song.

So, all Leo could say was a soft, "Thank ye."

Agnes gave him a puzzled look as he let her go and glanced at his men. Fergus stood there with foolish hope in his eyes and a hand on his heart. Too sentimental, especially with a bairn on the way.

"I want ye to see how deep this treachery goes," Leo said, glancing around at the loyal folk still in the room. "And report to me any disparaging comments about Lady MacLarsen." Several nods and grim smiles met his own. "That is treachery, and our house willnae have it."

His men nodded, bowing to their Laird and Lady, before trickling out of the room. But Fergus came forward, smiling at them, and gripped Leo's shoulder.

"It was well done, Me Laird," Fergus said. "And long overdue." His gaze softened as he looked at Agnes. "They arenae worth even a quarter of ye, Me Lady. And nay one else thinks such foolishness, trust me."

"Thank you, Fergus," Agnes murmured as she wiped at her face. "Shall I go?"

"Nay," Leo said and offered her his arm. "Fergus, please look after things." Agnes had not taken his arm, and he offered it again with a touch of impatience. "Go on, lass."

She tilted her head. "What are you doing?"

Fergus choked on a laugh, and Leo tried not to roll his eyes as he took his wife's arm and looped it through his.

"Oh," she said. "How lovely." They began to walk, and she seemed confused again. "Where are we going?"

Leo only smiled.

The town of Mosage, north of Briorn Castle, rose and fell with the hills. It spread from the shores of Loch Briorn to the narrow loop of fields that ranged below the woods and mountains of what folk called the Notch. It was a shelf of rock that started beyond the woods and rose into the mountains, with thin waterfalls tumbling down its face to the water below.

Agnes had thought Mosage had been the village to the south, but that was Orsal, filled with the folk who tended the fields, the farms, and horses. Meanwhile, Mosage brimmed with folk that she felt familiar with—sailors, fishermen, and tradesfolk who set their lives to the rhythms of the loch, its rivers, and the sea beyond.

There was a constant exchange of goods for those who did not mind the long sail toward the more populous regions to the south. Then, there were lucrative opportunities for those who risked the passage to the Hebrides and the Minch.

With such trade came shops the like of which Agnes had never seen. Mosage was already the biggest town she'd ever been in, more feeling like what folk called a city, and Leo admitted it might get there within a decade or so.

The scent of water, the faint whiff of brine, and woodsmoke all mingled as they walked up the main street. She took in the white-washed stone buildings, the stone street, and the bustle around her. The noise was a bit overwhelming, but it quickened her blood all the same.

It reminded Agnes of something Sister Theresa had told her once, of life's patterns, and sometimes in life, there might be starker highs and lows, like the contrast of black and white. Other times, it might fade into grays, with pops of color. Agnes felt that she had been through a dizzying array of colors and hues, one moment feeling grateful and humbled, another moment feeling like maybe she'd been born to be Lady MacLarsen, and other moments, when it all tumbled away, feeling like fleeing back to Craeghil.

Regardless of all those shifts in color and confusion, Agnes admitted one truth to herself—everything made sense and was better with Leo at her side. She couldn't be sure, but she'd thought that perhaps he was pleased with her speaking up at the council meeting. It buoyed her heart and made her stand up straighter, though she still was not sure what to call this feeling.

She only knew it grew when Leo led her into a fine, large shop brimming over with bolts of bright fabric, along with tables laden with gloves, hats, and more. The ladies of the shop hurried over, smiling and bobbing curtseys, inspecting Agnes with bright, hopeful eyes. A few gave Leo nervous looks, but they were still polite.

However, when an older woman with dark hair streaked with bright strands of white, in a green gown, came forward, Agnes felt herself shrinking back. She'd never seen someone so elegant and lovely who seemed to take her measure in one glance. The older woman also looked at her expectantly, not Leo, waiting for her to speak.

Agnes felt that flutter of panic, the dip of nerves in her stomach, and glanced at Leo, who gave her a quick, reassuring smile. "Yer lady needs gowns."

"Oh, but I have gowns," Agnes rushed to say, lest they think her grasping. "At least a few, I mean. I think they were brought to the wrong room."

"Aye, and a few might've gotten ruined when James and Niall tried to chase their lady down and a small trunk tumbled off the carriage in their haste."

Agnes flushed. "Oh."

"Dinnae fash," Leo said. "Ye needed more, and Madame Senga is here to put ye to rights."

Agnes turned back, nodding her head in greeting, and saying, "Oh, apologies. I am so pleased to meet you, please don't think otherwise. I just…"

"I ken, Me Lady," Madame Senga said and extended a hand. "When I first came into this shop under the tutelage of Old Maig, it was as though I'd forgotten how to cut thread, never mind stitch a straight line. Let's take a look." She cast Leo a sardonic look. "Me Laird, will ye join us, or d'ye want to kip on the sofa with a bit of tea?"

"Kip on the sofa, o'course," Leo said quickly. "I ken she's in good hands. Go on, Nes."

Agnes felt a bit like a prize sheep being led to shearing as Madame Senga marched her to the back, had her step up on a platform, and started taking her measurements. Madame Senga then conferred with several of her assistants in a different language, all of them smiling but brimming with curiosity.

"I know it must seem strange that I know nothing of these things," Agnes said softly. "I hope that won't cause you trouble."

"Nay, Me Lady," Madame Senga said. "We have heard yer story. Me girls are fascinated by ye—it's like a Bard's tale to them. A daughter left at a convent, brought home when her twin fled, to marry our Laird." She helped Agnes step down. "But more so, they are excited to meet Lady MacLarsen—and dress her."

With that, Agnes was whisked around the store. Madame Senga displayed different colors and fabrics. At first, Agnes thought she should defer to what was serviceable, only for Leo to suddenly make a sound in the back of his throat that carried across the room. She glanced over to see her husband raising an eyebrow at her, and she couldn't help but stick out her tongue.

Madame Senga stifled a laugh as Agnes turned back, picking up a bolt of fabric and marching to the mirror. It was a fine blue, but she thought it made her look too pale. Immediately, Madame Senga held out a hand for it and gestured to other bolts of fabric. One was a pale green, like a whisper of spring, and when Agnes held it up to her face, she pulled in a deep breath.

She glowed. Her tan skin, with its smattering of golden freckles growing darker by the day as summer progressed, glowed. And her eyes looked like the sea at morn. In the mirror, she saw Leo stir and sit forward, his arms resting on his knees and his eyes locked on her.

"This one," Agnes declared. "And let me see other green fabrics, please."

Agnes found a variety of greens, then a few golds, along with purples, and even a warm crimson that she loved. Then, Madame Senga brought out white, diaphanous lace, like mist over water, and Agnes shook her head in confusion.

"This is lovely, but I fear it would get dirty."

"Och, ‘tis nae for daytime, Me Lady," Madame Senga said in a soft voice. "This is for bedtime. At the Laird's behest, we are to make ye several nightgowns."

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