Chapter Four
She looked like she’d lived in the castle forever. Andrew couldn’t believe his eyes when he unlocked the tower to find her standing there like a true highland lass, fire in her eyes and standing like she was ready for a fight.
From what Derek had told him of her refusing to change, he expected an argument but nothing had prepared him for the sight of her in that dress that clung to her body so perfectly. He walked in to find her not only changed into the attire that had been provided but looking utterly ravishing.
Her hair was hidden under the filet but that meant her face had nothing to hide its beauty.
The dress fitted her as if it had been made just for her, the girdle gathering it in tightly at the waist. Through the carefully cut holes he could see hints of her kirtle. It was the latest fashion and he approved, at least on her.
It made him desperate to see more, exactly as the seamstress intended. Imagine seeing her in just the kirtle, he thought, then he imagined peeling even that layer from her, leaving her wearing not a single stitch of clothing.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It would never do to have such sinful desires for a MacLeish. People would talk. “I have sent word to your father.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time for a reply.”
“Oh, and why’s that? Think he’ll disown your actions?”
“My father’s dead.”
“Duff MacLeish is dead?”
“No, Jonathan Dagless is dead.”
He scratched his forehead. “Who’s Jonathan Dagless?”
“My father. He died when I was ten.”
“Are you saying your father is not Duff MacLeish?”
“That’s what I just tried to tell you. Now just stop acting for a minute and talk to me about this game.”
“This is no game lass.”
“I know, I know. You’re not supposed to break character. But I can if my mom’s paying for this. I want to speak to her then I promise I’ll be as medieval as you want. All bad teeth and swordplay. Whatever you need.”
“I have no ken what you’re blathering about but if you think I’m going to believe you’re not a MacLeish when you were with those who wore their tartan, you’re a fool.”
“I’m not a MacLeish. I’m Beth Dagless. I’m twenty-three, I live in Surrey and I’ve been studying architecture for the last year with the Open University. I’m not a MacLeish, a MacDonald’s burger or a Cameron MacIntosh musical. I’m here with my mom and I’m worried about her. She’s really sick, okay? So you can stop all this yay verily and hey nonny nonny and talk to me like a normal person or I’ll be leaving a scorcher of a one star review on Tripadvisor about this castle and this game.”
He sighed, examining her closely. “You use a lot of strange words, lassie, whoever you are. Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If you’re not a MacLeish, how do you explain coming out of my hall with one of their burning torches in your hand?”
“I was visiting with my mom.”
“Does she work for me? I’ve not seen you before.”
“No, listen. We’d come to see the birthplace of Andrew MacIntyre. Then I don’t know, there was this fire all of a sudden. It was like a magic fire and then this tornado blew me outside and I’d grabbed mom’s hand but it wasn’t her hand, it was that torch you saw.”
“Why did you come to see where I was born?”
“Sorry, what? That’s what you choose to focus on? You are so self centred.”
“Why did you come to see where I was born?”
“Look, I know you’re acting. You’re playing Andrew MacIntyre. I get it. You’re the laird and all gruff but I’m not playing until I get to see my mom.”
