But Avery was too deep in thought to comment. She seemed to grasp the solemnity of the situation better than her sister.
“The Laird doesnae seem the kind to be rattled by a clatter. In fact, he’s the most brutish man I’ve ever met.” Sorcha kept her dismissals polite, so Rhea didn’t get irked at how constant they were or her lack of ideas. Then she added as an afterthought, “He must’ve spent his youth camping in caves with the bears.”
Rhea laughed, and Avery smiled.
Once her laughter died, Rhea suggested, “We could ruin his clothes…”
Sorcha imagined sneaking into her former chambers, with Rhea and Avery in tow. She imagined Caelan keeping watch while they ransacked the Laird’s wardrobe. She could feel the fabric beneath her fingers, soft and smooth, so she ripped it with unrestrained anger, and it fell around her.
Inwardly, she delighted at the idea. Outwardly, its impracticality evoked a bashing.
“We’d need to get into his room first, and that could get the maids in trouble.”
“How about we rack up credit in his name? We could make him destitute.”
“His money is yer money. Ye would only be hurtin’ yerselves.”
The slip upset her. She was as much a MacLean as every other person bearing the name. Whether or not William had set up camp, she was still the lady of the castle, by name and by law.
In short, his money was still very much her money. In fact, it was her fortune before his. Her marriage was short-lived, but it happened.
She did not correct the blunder, but held it in her heart and soul, never to repeat it.
“I heard the tale of a lass,” Rhea began, pacing about the room. The servants had cleared the table, and they had moved to the drawing room. “When she wanted to turn down a wedding, she threw herself into a pond. When they pulled her out, she kept on throwing herself into any body of water. Sometimes the maids would find her in the morning, soaked from head to toe, lying in her bed.
“Nay one kent where the water came from, so they’d locked her chambers every night. Eventually, they called a priest, and he said she was haunted by a maritime spirit. Her betrothed calledoff the engagement instantly, and after he did, she became as sound as a pound.”
Avery frowned. “She pretended to be haunted, just to give the lad a fright?”
“Aye,” Rhea declared proudly. “One of us could feign a haunting, and the Laird will flee the castle.”
“But the Laird has nay intention of marrying either one of us; why would he run?”
“He could be religious?” Rhea suggested.
“He’d send the possessed to the church for an exorcism. I daenae fancy any of us endin’ up locked in the chapel’s basements.” Avery shuddered, horror-stricken.
Rhea sobered, and she settled in the chaise beneath the window.
“The girl from the story,” Sorcha started, “what happened to her after?”
She could not help but draw similarities between this girl and herself. She had always hardened her heart, pretended the rumors were nothing but tales told by the crowd. In the secrecy of her chambers, where her mind was free to wander, she wondered—no, the right word wasfeared. She feared she was a jinx.
“Her reputation was ruined.” Rhea seemed to realize the flaw in her plan as her gaze dimmed, but then she perked up. “But ye could do it. Ye have a reputation—” She clapped a hand over her mouth when Sorcha winced. “I didnae mean it like that…”
But the damage had already been done. The box of insecurities was shaken open.
Sorcha felt anxiety seep into her bones. Her fingers trembled, so she curled them. Her smile faltered as she struggled to keep her composure. She had to look away, for her eyes stung.
“Rhea!” Avery hissed.
Caelan gave Sorcha’s hand a comforting squeeze, but it only managed to increase the tension.
She refused to become a victim. So she smiled. “I could marry him instead and let me curse get him.”
But it was the worst thing she could have said.
She imagined the girls’ father lying in his bed, covered in his own blood.
