Deliberately he smiled. “And then we’ll see.”
***
The door closed and locked behind him again, and Marjorie took a deep, steadying breath. Oh, he aggravated her. If she still felt frightened, well, she wouldn’t admit that even to herself. It did her no good, and quite possibly only aided him.
She stalked over to the nearest window again, shifting the heavy curtains a little with her fingers to peer outside. A vast countryside spread out before her, broken by stands of trees and rocky hills and soft-edged patches of snow. She’d ridden in the back of that wagon for well over an hour, and in God-only-knew what direction. She could be three hours from Lattimer Castle, or nine.
That still wouldn’t have stopped her from attempting an escape, though. Eventually she would stumble across someone who would help her, or at least point her in the correct direction. Grimacing, she settled her gaze on the man who stood beside an overgrown birch tree, a floppy-edged hat pulled low over his eyes and his attention squarely on her. She’d already looked out the window facing a wild-looking river, and seen the other man waiting there.
Both wore heavy kilts of red and black and green plaid—the clan Maxwell tartan, she assumed, since Graeme Maxton had informed her that she was in the middle of Maxwell territory. He wore trousers and muddy work boots, but she had to presume he was also part of the same clan.
Letting the curtain fall closed again, she made another circuit of the small room. A blue couch, two overstuffed chairs of the same blue material, the hard-backed chair to which they’d initially tied her, four small tables scattered about, and a writing desk between the river-facing windows. She’d already searched it for weapons, but the boys had evidently removed everything sharper than an inkwell.
Clobbering Maxton with that might feel satisfying, but it wouldn’t gain her an exit from the house. And when she made an attempt, she meant for it to be successful.
Above the writing desk a small glass-doored cabinet had been affixed to the wall, the seashells and driftwood and small, polished river rocks it held pretty, but completely ineffective as weapons. Closing the doors again, she eyed herself in the slightly warped reflection. A smudge of dirt crossed her left cheek, just as Maxton had pointed out, and her hair could likely frighten a scarecrow.
Scowling, she pulled out the few remaining pins and used her decorative green hair ribbon to tie it all back in a tail. It was horribly informal, but leaving it loose would be scandalous even in these circumstances.
Marjorie began to rub at her cheek, then stopped. What was she cleaning up for? Because he’d noted that she was dirty? Well, she certainly hadn’t done that to herself. And if she looked disheveled and out of sorts, she had a right to do so.
After another few minutes spent studying the half-dozen paintings on three of the walls, she sat on one of the blue chairs. Two of the paintings, a man and a woman, weren’t of any particular quality, but looked to be the parents—or perhaps even the grandparents—of Connell and Graeme, the two Maxtons she’d seen. The woman shared their gray eyes and open, direct gaze, while Graeme, at least, had as much in common with the hard jaw and straight slash of eyebrows that marked the man. He’d seemingly picked up a combination of their hair colors, for the lady boasted a curling mass of deep red hair, a stark contrast to the short, straight brown of the other portrait.
Why in the world his hair color mattered except so she could adequately describe him to her brother and the local authorities she had no idea, but she had nothing else to do but contemplate it. Him, rather. Now that she knew the foxes were tame, she almost wished she hadn’t complained about them. They would have helped keep her thoughts distracted, at least.
With no clock in the room she could only guess the time, but the lone candle they’d left her had burned quite low. Perhaps Maxton meant for her to go mad or expire from boredom. Grimacing, Marjorie stood and stalked up to the door again.
“Hello?” she called, knocking.
Silence.
“Hello? I know someone’s out there. If I’m to remain trapped in here, I require another candle. And a book, for heaven’s sake. I’ve never seen a sitting room before that didn’t contain even a single, solitary book on a shelf somewhere.”
Listening carefully, she heard muttering and then fast-retreating footsteps. Quite possibly she shouldn’t have insulted the lack of literature; she had no idea, after all, if any of these heathens could read. But for once her instinct to be kind and proper and polite could go hang itself. If she’d been less polite she might have ordered Mrs. Giswell to leave the table at the inn so she could dine in peace, and she would be within sight right now of Lattimer Castle and Gabriel. But because she’d bit her tongue against her frustration and left to clear her head, she was here. And she didn’t want to be here.
Heavier, booted footsteps approached, and she backed away from the door. She’d nearly fallen over the last time he’d stomped into the room, and she had no wish to be grabbed again. Far too many people had grabbed at her today.
The door opened, but this time he didn’t enter. He didn’t really need to, though; big and broad-shouldered as he was, he filled the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb to gaze at her, a long strand of his unruly hair falling forward halfway down his cheek. “A book and a candle?” he finally drawled.
“Unless I’m to sit here in the dark, yes,” she returned.
“Ye can if ye like. Or ye can come with me, yer highness.”
Marjorie folded her hands in front of her, wondering why in the world she could look at a man who’d kidnapped her and kept her trapped in a room and still be able to notice that he had fine gray eyes, a lean waist, and an indescribable… something that made her want to keep looking at him. “You’re leading me to my prison cell, I suppose?”
“Aye.” He narrowed one eye. “It does have a fireplace and a warm bed. I reckon ye’re chilled.”
“I’ve been sitting in a cold room and in a damp gown for hours. Am I supposed to be grateful that you’ve finally realized I might be uncomfortable?”
“Nae. Ye could stop yammering aboot it and follow me to where it’s warmer, though.” With that he turned his back on her and walked out of the doorway.
The man was a barbarian. That was the only conclusion that made sense. An uneducated, unfeeling, arrogant barbarian. “Heathen,” she muttered, stalking after him.
“I didnae quite hear ye,” he returned, slowing his march up a long hallway.
“I called you a heathen,” Marjorie said distinctly.
“Ah. That’s what I thought ye said.”
