“D’ye ken this woman?” the Lady asked pointedly, gesturing to Laila with the letter. The Laird straightened himself up in the chair and gazed at her. Laila felt uncomfortable—like his gaze was probing her very being.
“I dinnae,” the Laird said finally. “There is somethin’ aboot her that is familiar.”
“She came wae this,” the Lady said, tossing the sealed letter onto the table for her husband.
“The seal o’ Willby,” the Laird muttered, gently picking up the letter. He gave her another look and then broke the seal and read the letter in silence. Laila felt her heart racing as she listened to the sounds of the yard outside and waited for him to finish with the letter.
“So,” the Laird said, letting the letter drop onto the table, “yer an orphan, eh?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Laila said, remembering the story now as she was snapped out of her paralysis. “I seek a place to stay and work, to live. After my parents died, well, I couldn’t live in a city as cruel as London. I spent time at Castle Willby, hence the letter.”
“I ken Jacob Willby,” the Laird continued, clenching his jaw in contemplation. “He is a rare Englishman tae treat us fair at the wool market.”
“How does an orphan afford a horse of her own?” the Lady suddenly asked, and Laila felt fear once more.
“He was a gift,” Laila stammered, “from Lord Willby.”
“Was he?” the Laird mused, stroking his chin. “And ye cain read?”
“Yes, Laird,” Laila pressed on. “I learned when I was young.”
“A most unusual orphan,” the lady said, and Laila feared the room was turning against her.
“I beg of you,” she said, “please, I have traveled far and long, and I require shelter and food. If you are to turn me away, so be it, but may I refresh myself at the least?”
The room was quiet for a time, and the Laird and Lady of the castle exchanged some charged looks, the meaning of which Laila couldn’t decipher.
It was as if they were having some deep conversation with their eyes alone, then finally the Laird burst out, “Nay, I’m nay fuckin’ the lass!” and he slammed his fist against the table.
“Ye best nay be!” the Lady shouted back. Then she stomped up around the head table and planted a kiss on her husband’s lips. Then she said, “Let’s keep the lass. I like her.”
“She’s English,” the Laird protested.
“I like her,” the Lady said again. “Yer brither needs a new servant.”
“Aye,” the Laid said, blushing and rubbing his mustache. “An’ one that cain read at that.”
“Oh, thank you, Laird, Lady,” Laila blushed, uncomfortable with the entire exchange that had transpired but relieved to be safe at last. She had never seen a noblewoman speak in that manner, least of all to a man, least of all to a man she was married to, yet there was a charm about them, and it was clear to anyone who looked upon the Laird and Lady McGowan that they were deeply in love.
“Go an’ clean yerself up,” the Laird said, gesturing to the door. “Me brither is hunting. Ye cain attend tae him startin’ on tae morrow.”
“Thank you, Laird,” Laila said, ducking into a curtsey, and Lady McGowan raised her eyebrows. “And thank you, Milady.”
“Dinnae thank us yet.” The Laird chuckled. “Me brither is a miserable brute. Go on, now.”
Laila bowed her head again and left the hall. Her new life had begun.
