She lay unmoving, wondering at what point during the journey she had decided to accept her reality. At no point in her life could anyone have referred to her as a complaisant creature.
Where women of her small stature were appropriately snuffed, she was abnormally incensed. She was not the type to be told what to do, get pushed around a little, and then broken into submission. But the cold was quite nice when she pulled the coverlet to her neck, and oh, what was the point of ever getting up? Of doing anything? Why do people do anything?
Suddenly, the door to her chambers swung open, and she bolted upright.
The Laird in all his glory marched into her room, leading a trail of maids and… clothes?
She watched from over her shoulder at first, smoothing her hands over her dress to make sure she was presentable. The state of her hair was lost on her.
“Draw her a bath,” Darragh ordered, and a bundle of skirts disappeared behind a closed door.
As grateful as Talia was, what kind of man barged into a lady’s room at the crack of dawn? Where was his wife? Where was the lady of the castle?
She was absolutely mortified when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the vanity. Her skin was paler than usual. Her lips were chapped and flaky. Her dress was wrinkled, as if she had wrestled with a bear all night. Her hair… Well, her hair should have been the least of her worries. The ginger locks had come undone from her coiffure, but it looked freshly brushed, as if she had been laid in her deathbed and a mortician pruned the tresses to perfection.
In response to Darragh’s rudeness, she crossed her arms and settled on the edge of the bed. She would not stand to greet him. She would not show him the courtesy his station demanded, but he paid her no mind. He seemed deep in thought, looking around the room.
What does he intend to do?
He fixed his gaze on the fireplace and then stalked to it. He crouched and waved a hand over the unlit coals. Then he withdrew his hand, looking aghast.
So he didn’t intend to kill her. He was only dissatisfied with his staff.
A frown marred his face as he moved towards her.
“Good morning.” He did not sound penitent.
He nodded curtly and stood over her, his arms crossed like an angry seamstress.
Without returning the greeting, she scanned the clothes being hung up. “Yer gesture insults me.” Her voice was hoarse at first, then slowly gained warmth. She decided to discard propriety and went straight to the point. “I daenae need help stockin’ me wardrobe. I’ve always been well provided for.”
She would not complain about the well-needed bath and the steam and the floral scent drifting through the cracks of the shut door. Her back could use the warmth.
“I didnae give ye time to pack.” He shrugged casually, as if he weren’t imposing, standing over her unwashed, unfed, and unrested. Her brush with death did not count.
Her irritation flared.
“Ye fear me garments willnae be proper enough when ye parade me like a prized calf in front of suitors?”
There came the contrite, ill-intended shrug. “Ye are past the age of calfhood.”
She should have remarked on his rudeness, but what was the point? He had not understood anything she had said to him up until now.
“A horrible night’s sleep willnae change me mind.”
He turned away as if that did not matter. He regarded the maids with an authority she would have appreciated before almost freezing to death.
“Neither will yer charming personality sway me into helping ye. I daenae intend to marry. Ever.”
She stood up, and he glanced at her. “Ye will change yer mind.”
“I daenae intend to.”
When she crossed her arms, it seemed as if her assertion had thrown a rock at his resolve. A small stone to be precise, but it was only a pebble that fell Goliath.
Darragh smirked. “Get ready and come down for breakfast.”
Apparently, the promise of a warm meal was what it took to break her into submission.
