To her knowledge, the Scots lived in squalor. They were lucky that the English took any time at all to civilize them, ungrateful as they tended to be.
The doors opened with a loud crack as they stepped out of the carriage. A tall, sturdily built woman with steel-grey hair tied in a tight braid came hurrying outside towards them, clutching her apron. Her motherly bearing immediately put Lilliana at ease.
“Welcome. Welcome. We have been waiting for ye. Come with me. Nay, nay. Leave yer bags. The men will fetch them. Come with me, dears.”
She hurried them along a dark corridor that led to a grand hall. Lilliana hardly had time to take in anything or understand the woman’s thick brogue. She just knew that the woman wanted them to follow her, and so she did just that.
She stopped short as she entered the hall and laid eyes on what she could only assume was Laird McGill. She took in his tall and broad-shouldered frame, chin-length dark brown hair, and piercing dove-grey eyes that stared coldly at her. He had a strong jaw shadowed by a beard, several scars that peeked out of the collar of his shirt, and a jagged scar that disappeared into his rolled-up sleeve.
Lilliana shivered as she took him in. She was used to London fops with their delicate hands, weak chins, and a propensity to sigh dramatically at any inconvenience. Looking up at this man, she knew he was nothing like that. She had never seen such a hardened man in her life. It was no wonder she felt a bit weak in the knees and her heart sped up. He was very attractive.
She barely managed to bob a quick, respectful curtsy, so flustered was she. Taking a deep breath, she offered him a tentative smile.
“Might you be the Laird?” she asked.
His mouth twisted, and his eyes seemed to grow even colder. “Who else would I be, lass?” he asked, rather rudely in her opinion.
“Oh, er, well… It is a pleasure to meet you.” Sirens went off in her head, her heart pounding in her ears.
Perhaps it is fear,she told herself, in a feeble attempt to ease the knot in her stomach.
Fear, of course, would explain her clammy hands and trembling knees. If she had remembered to carry a fan, she would be waving it frantically. For a moment, she felt regret for her lack of ladylike mannerisms. Her mind flashed to her sister.
Cici never would have forgotten to carry a fan.
She cast about for something to say to mask how flustered she was. “Well, we should not waste any time. I know the villagers must be waiting for me. Perhaps your men can show me where I can set up a base in order to treat them? It would be better if I lived amongst them.”
A loud, stunned silence ensued. Everyone was staring at her as if she had grown a second nose. She risked a glance at her reflection in the window next to her just to check that she had not.
Bramble gave a loud meow, startling her, but it also eased the tension in the hall.
The Laird stepped forward so that he was towering over her, and her brow furrowed as his blue-grey eyes seemed to stare into her soul. “What are ye on about? Treat who?”
She gave him a bewildered look. “The illness affecting the villagers. My father sent me here to treat them. Surely you know this.”
She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye and remind herself to breathe normally.
His frown deepened, and he tilted his head to the side as if trying to decipher a strange language. “The only thing I ken is that yer dear faither sent me a bride. If I wanted a healer, I would have talked to Moira about that.”
He nodded towards the woman who had led them into the hall.
Lilliana cast a quick glance at the housekeeper, frowning as well, before turning back to the Laird.
“I am sorry, but did you say ‘bride’?” she squeaked, then looked around the hall frantically, hoping to see another lady he might be referring to. “Surely, you do not mean me.”
The Laird frowned. “Of course, I meanye. Do ye see any othersassenachsaround here?” His hand swept from left to right, indicating all the Scotsmen around him.
Lilliana blinked a few times. There had to be a mistake. Her father would not do this to her.
Would he?
She cast another glance at the Laird. He was a terribly good-looking man, even with a face like thunder. He loomed over her like a malevolent shadow, his shoulders completely filling the breadth of the corridor.
He could break me in half if he wanted,she thought with a shiver. Whether of pleasure or fear, she was not sure. Perhaps both.
“I came here to heal your people,” she blurted, “not to marry an English-loathing Highlander.”
The Laird went utterly still.
