“All the best folks are mad. Take it from me. Heavens, is this where me grandson has put ye? Straw for a bed, damp walls…” she trailed off, tutting.
A spark of hope flared in Melody’s chest. She took a careful step forward, twisting her fingers together.
“You are the Laird’s grandmother, then? He thought you’d… you’d sent me.”
The old woman tilted her head. Her eyes, filmed with age, had a sharpness to them that wasn’t often seen. Melody had met countless women and men, the same as this woman, perhaps even decades younger, who had long since lost that sharp spark of intelligence, thatzest.
“Well, I certainly didnaesend ye,” the woman observed. “I am Lady Sophie, although ye can call me Sophie. He didnae tell me yer name, though.”
Melody’s nostrils flared. “No, he did not, because he did not ask it! He merely shoved me in here, like ananimal, and refused to listen to any explanation at all.”
Sophie gave a hoot of laughter, flinging back her head. “What fire! It’s been a while since I encountered such a vivid spirit. Folks tend to act strangely around ye when ye are from a family like mine. So, then, Miss Fiery English Lass, whatisyer name?”
Melody swallowed, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s amusement. The jailor was glaring at her, and she was pretty sure that she’d spoken too freely.
Remember that you’re the one still locked in a cell, she thought nervously.Nobody knows that you’re here, except maybe the Marzipan Twins, and they are not likely to be of much help.
“My name is Melody Bolton,” she said at last. It seemed better to leave off theladypart of her title.
“What a pretty name,” Sophie said, nodding thoughtfully. Her gaze, sharp as a knife, slid all over Melody, missing no detail. She had the strangest feeling that if she eventhoughtsomething, the old woman would know it. Ridiculous, of course, but she certainly gave the impression of somebody who held all the cards.
“It’s me fault ye are here,” Sophie said briskly. “I want me grandson to marry, as befits a laird. Heirs must be got, after all, but he’s stubborn. I thought if I nudged a few pretty lassies toward him, he’d remember his duty and his interest in women at the same time. He’s stubborn, as I said, and he got that from me. Neither of us gives up. He rejects the women as quickly as I send them, and we’ve had many an argument about it. It’s my reckonin’ that ye bein’ here is just bad luck. Ye were the lass who broke the camel’s back, and he throws ye in here to punish me.”
Melody swallowed, smoothing down the grubby front of her apron. “I… I have a family. They’ll worry about me.”
Sophie tilted her head. “A pretty wee English lass with fine, soft hands and a cultured accent? It’s fair to say ye have had a comfortable life, which generally implies that ye are bein’ cared for. But then, if ye are so cared for, how did ye come here? Oh, aye, lassie, there are a great many questions on me mind when I look at ye. One way or another, I’ll get me answers.”
Was that a threat? Melody didn’t dare ask.
At least they don’t think I’m a spy. Surely, the Laird cannot still believe I’m here to seduce him.
“Well, I… I shall endeavor to give satisfaction,” she stammered. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The old woman eyed her for a long, thoughtful moment, her gnarled old hands resting on top of each other on her cane.
“I think ye will do very nicely, Melody Bolton,” she murmured, so quietly that Melody had to lean forward to hear. “Aye, ye’ll do very nicely indeed.”
“Do? Do for what?” Melody managed, baffled. “I don’t understand.”
Sophie blinked and gave herself a little shake, as if unaware she’d been speaking at all.
“Forgive me, lass. As I said, speakin’ to meself is sometimes the only way I can hear a wee bit of sense.”
Before Melody could respond to this, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallways. The jailor jumped, paling, and swung around to face somebody.
“What’s the door open for, Jacob?” came a familiar male growl.
“Ah, here he is,” Sophie remarked comfortably. “Come on in, Callum. We’ve been waitin’ for ye.”
The Laird himself appeared in the doorway, ducking his head and turning his broad shoulders to the side to fit through the narrow door. His sharp gaze fell on Melody first. An odd shiver rolled across her skin when he looked at her, his eyes dropping from her sensibly booted feet and all the way up to her grimy cap. The shiver dissipated when he dragged his gaze from her and glowered at his grandmother.
“Are ye meddlin’ again, Grandmother?” he demanded, his voice an angry snap.
“Meddlin’? Me? I would never,” she responded amiably. “And that isnaehow a man speaks to an aged relative even if heisa laird. Who’s the tray for?”
Melody blinked, and it suddenly occurred to her that he was carrying a wide, battered tray in his hands. There was a bowl of something savory-smelling, a curl of steam rolling up into the air. A chunk of black bread sat beside the bowl, and there was a cup of what was probably water, or perhaps beer. Melody’s traitorous stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t had much to eat during the interminable stagecoach ride to Scotland.
She looked up to find Callum staring at her, his brow knitted. Heat washed over her face, and she flushed, glancing away.
