She lifted her chin. “Ye can take me there. I dinna fear ye.”
“Good enough, then.” He directed her back to the hallway with a wave of his hand. “My chambers are on the third floor.” As he closed the library door behind him, he turned to the right. “Of course, yers are there as well. I planned that floor for the family I might find myself having someday. A nursery connects to those rooms also.”
“Sounds as if ye planned for everything.”
They came to the narrow stairwell. He stepped back for her to take the lead. “Planning is critical in everything.”
“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…” Her voice trailed off. She climbed faster, running her hands along the walls.
“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…?” he repeated, encouraging her to finish.
She cast a nervous smile back at him. “Nothing. Just a silly saying I read somewhere. I can’t remember it word for word.”
“Tell me the gist of it, then.” It behooved him to keep her talking. He might discover more about her.
“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley,” she said so fast he almost didn’t catch it. “Even the best of plans sometimes go verra wrong.”
“Why mice?” The verse had a pleasing tempo, but why pair vermin with men? “Why not a woman—or an animal other than a wee mousie?”
“I have no idea. Ye would have to ask the poet.” She increased her speed, almost running up the steps.
“Take care now. The way is steep and narrow.” He took two at a time to keep close behind her in case she should stumble.
She came to a halt and stared upward with a frustrated scowl. “I have lost count of the landings.”
“I dinna doubt it. Ye were running like someone set fire to yer skirts. What came over ye?” Only her profile was visible, then she turned away so he couldn’t even see that. “Mistress Mila?”
“Just Mila—please? I am not yer elder to be respected.” Her tone softened but still held a tenseness. “Did I miss the landing? How many floors are there? The keep looks quite tall from outside.”
“Four.” So she refused to answer his question and scolded him for addressing her properly. Such a complicated lass. That enticed him even more. He always loved solving an intricate mystery. “Ye havena missed our floor. ’Tis this one. Just a few more steps. Around that turn is the door.”
Without a word, she resumed climbing but at a normal pace rather than the breakneck run of before. When she reached the landing, she waited with her head bowed, staring at the floor.
“Are ye all right, lass?” With his hand resting on the latch, he waited for her answer.
“Aye.” Her soft curtness revealed it for the lie that it was.
“Mila.” He fixed her with what he hoped was a stern but kind glare. “What ails ye? Ye lost yer fear and relaxed a bit back in the library. And now—”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I am overwhelmed by all that has come to pass.” She shifted with a disheartened shrug. “A turn of phrase, a memory, or a feeling brings back my worries all over again. Makes them rush in and try to drown me. ’Tis hard to explain.” She tried to smile, but failed. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears that her rapid blinking held at bay.
He pulled in a deep breath, then released it while offering a curt nod. “I will say it again for ye: ye are safe here. As is yer young one. Both of ye are welcome to stay as long as ye need.” He left it at that, pushed open the door, and stepped aside so she could enter first.
Chapter Five
Why on earthwould she be foolish enough to quote Robert Burns? The poet wasn’t even born until 1759. She had to be more careful. The open journal on Teague’s desk showed the year to be 1722. That was, if it was opened to the latest entry. Considering the amount of work left on the castle, that made sense. Historians reported the fortress was completed in 1723. But if this was 1722, that was also the year Chieftain Drummond Maclain of Éirich Castle died.
The English caught him in late November and executed him on December 12, 1722. If Teague was chieftain, where was Drummond? Or had Teague been left in charge while Drummond tended to business elsewhere? Perhaps Teague was the chieftain’s trusted friend. After all, he looked to be about the same age as the historians reported the chieftain to be when he died.
Mila mulled the dates over and over as she followed him through his large solar. Maybe she had the years wrong. After all that had happened, she had a right to be confused.
She trailed her fingertips across the top of a chair upholstered in sumptuous leather. Definitely a masculine room. Dark furnishings. Swords, daggers, and axes hung beside the hearth. Piles of books cluttered the tables beside the chairs. The faint scent of tobacco and whisky lingered in the air.
“And here we are,” he said as he opened a door and stepped back. He pointed inside the room. “The window over there beside the bed overlooks the ramps. Ye should be able to spy yer Robbie from that one.”
His gallantry touched her heart, but she didn’t dare reveal it. Such a handsome man. And everyone they had encountered so far appeared to think highly of him. His men respected him, and Mrs. Cain doted on him like a loving grandmother with all her grumpy fussing. A weary sigh escaped her. More’s the pity that she and Robbie would move on soon and would probably never see him again.
A subtle shifting of his stance made her realize he had caught her staring. As she stepped across the threshold, she managed a polite smile. “Thank ye. I appreciate it.”
