“I heard the whole thing,” she explained. “Fergus just wants ye to be safe.”
“Safe. Safe and locked away forever,” Jeane muttered. “And ye should be in bed.”
Lottie sighed. “I’m always in bed. It’s nearly time for dinner; willnae ye eat with us, Liliana?”
There was an edge of hope in Lottie’s voice, but Jeane was too upset with Fergus to sup with him.
“Nae tonight. I’m tired.”
Lottie looked as if she were going to protest, but then Jeane just walked past her up the stairs. Lottie did not call after her.
Jeane went into her chambers and shut the door, wanting to slam it, but the wooden doors were too heavy.
She plopped down on her bed, looking up at the arched ceiling.
Was she a prisoner or was she not?
Would Fergus make up his mind?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jeane woke up still angry with Fergus, but she knew she had to update him on Lottie. It was past time, and even if she was upset with him, he deserved to know.
She dressed and began to search for him.
He was not in Lottie’s quarters or his own. He was not in the great hall. Mary was rushing around getting things ready for breakfast, and Jeane walked up behind her.
“Mary?”
Mary startled but turned, smiling. “Aye, miss?”
“Have ye seen the Laird anywhere? I need to give him a report on Lottie’s condition.”
It was good news, and Jeane was glad. She did not know how Fergus would react if Lottie took a turn for the worse, but she did not think it would be good.
“I daenae ken,” Mary said, “but I saw him over near the forge earlier today.”
The forge? Her father had a forge, but he never made his own swords; that was for sure. He hired people for that.
He hired people for nearly everything.
“Which way is the forge?” she asked, and Mary pointed down the south hall. Jeane’s head spun as Mary rattled off directions, but she thought she had picked up enough of it.
“Thank ye,” she said to Mary, and Mary curtsied and hurried off to her work.
Jeane made her way down the south wing and out the back where the forge was located.
She could smell the iron as she got closer, feel the heat in the air. She heard ating, ting, tingnoise as she approached the opening of the forge.
Fergus stood forging a sword, slamming a stone into the metal with his back to her.
His shoulders, broad and strong, rippled with the effort, and Jeane stared at him for a long moment, watching his muscles contract.
Sweat beaded on his skin, honeyed by the sun.
Lord, he was handsome. There was a smattering of scars on his back, but it was not nearly as scarred as his front and his face. She supposed that meant that he faced his enemies head-on, and that made him even more attractive to her.
“Did I nae warn ye nae to put pressure on that wound of yers?”
