William did not move at once. He took a deep breath, then another.
Ye are back. Get a hold of yerself.
Finally, he stepped out into the open air.
The courtyard was far too quiet for his liking. Perhaps too tense. The maids who had crossed the expanse moments ago froze, their backs straightening with trepidation. One maid droppedher gaze immediately, while another hurried away after bobbing a stiff, awkward curtsy that barely hid her nerves.
William noticed everything.
Is it fear or guilt?
His eyes narrowed slightly as he moved forward. Poppy came into view near the archway. The moment she saw him, she started. She gave a quick bow, then scurried off without a word.
That sealed it. Something had happened.
His stride lengthened as he entered the castle, his boots echoing against the stone floor. And that was when he noticed it. Not the bizarre silence, but something else.
The space before him had been transformed. Where there had once been austere stone and banners, there was now color. Too much of it, in fact. He spotted imported silks draped over the walls, layered over damask hangings that did not belong in a Highland stronghold. Plush seats had replaced the heavy benches. More refined, unmistakably expensive paintings lined the walls.
It looked as though London had invaded his castle.
His lips curled into a humorless smile.
Of course.
He moved deeper into the castle, taking it all in with a critical gaze. He could tell that every choice was deliberate. This sudden change was meant to provoke him.
One name came to him instantly.
Sorcha.
In truth, he had expected such an act from her, since she had been hell-bent on playing games with him. But there was something he hadn’t expected. He should have been furious. Should have felt the sting of the insult.
This was his home. His land. His domain. And she had altered it without his permission, reshaping it to suit her own vision.
She had done it to challenge him, obviously. Yet as he ran his eyes over the walls, he felt a different emotion: indifference. Not quite apathy, but close.
The silk was fine. The paintings were tasteful. The effort was obvious. Too obvious.
If this was meant to wound him, it had sorely missed its mark.
A waste of time, lassie. Ye should ken me better than that.
He turned slightly, preparing to leave the entrance hall to head to his study when he heard her voice. “Dae ye like the paintings?”
Soft. Feminine. It carried just enough confidence to suggest she already knew the answer.
William’s spine straightened. Her voice had no right to affect him the way it did. And yet the heat it stirred almost seared his skin.
“I hoped ye would,” she added lightly.
He did not turn at once.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to picture her standing there.
Chin lifted? Definitely. With her eyes bright with challenge, her mouth curved in that infuriating way that suggested she was already winning a game he had not agreed to play.
Then he turned around.
