Jeane slowly made her way through the halls of the McCloud castle, smelling the intoxicating scent of bacon as she went. She was trying to find the great hall where Fergus told her breakfast would be served.
Her stomach growled, and she huffed out a frustrated breath as she took yet another wrong turn. Usually, there were staff all over the castle, but today, it seemed everyone was busy. There was no one to ask for directions.
She felt silly. She had grown up in a castle after all, but the McKay castle had nothing on the McCloud castle in terms of size.
She looked at the portraits on the walls as she walked by. There was one constant—a woman with dark, curly hair and bright green eyes. She was beautiful—far more beautiful than Jeane could ever be, even if she had all the finest things.
And this woman was dressed in finery—rubies at her earlobes, pearls on her throat. She was clearly revered in the castle as there were multiple portraits of her on the walls.
Mary hummed as she walked up next to Jeane. Jeane turned to her, smiling.
“Good mornin’, Mary. How are you?”
“Fine,” Mary responded, smiling back. “A bit tired.”
Jeane frowned. “Have ye been usin‘ the sleepin’ draught I gave ye?”
“Aye, it’s just that me little one hasnae been sleepin’.”
Jeane nodded, understanding. “Aye, she’ll grow out of it.”
She had become close friends with Mary, and she reminded her of her best friend from back home, Beatrice.
The one luxury that Bennet afforded Jeane with was friends. He had wanted her to be social, to understand the ins and outs of the world, so he’d encouraged her friendships.
But after Beatrice was married, she didn’t see her all the time. She felt they were drifting apart. There was Agnes, of course, her other friend, but it felt like something was missing. They were a trio, after all.
Jeane turned back to the portraits, intrigued.
“Who is that?” she murmured, and when a booming voice answered her, she jumped and squeaked.
“Me mother,” Fergus answered, and when Jeane turned, she was shocked to see him without a tunic, only wearing a kilt, sweat beading on his brow and across his firm chest.
His torso was scarred from fighting. She had seen him without a tunic before, but it was only by candlelight. He looked as if he had been through a war. Or several.
But the muscle beneath those scars was ropey and looked as if she touched them, they’d be firm, and Lord, she wanted to. Her fingertips itched to trail across that broad chest, down his hard stomach.
She cleared her throat, hoping it would also clear her mind. The Lord would strike her down for thinking such unholy things about her captor.
About her future husband.
She flushed just thinking about it. Had Fergus been serious the night before? He had kissed her so passionately—her first kiss—and she had not stopped thinking about it. Had not stopped thinking about him.
The way his tongue had traced her lips before delving between them, how wet and hot his mouth felt against hers. And maybe, worst of all, the ache in her lower stomach that spread to her womanhood, such a deep, bittersweet kind of hurt.
Was that how all women felt toward their husbands? It seemed to be a type of madness.
Mary curtsied and made her exit, smiling ear to ear. Jeane knew she would tease her about this later.
“She’s beautiful,” she responded.
Fergus smirked at her. “Were ye scared, little mouse?”
She fought back a pout.
“I’m nae afraid of ye.”
“Nay? Ye could have fooled me.”
