6
Brodie and Isla barely exchanged another word as they returned to the castle. Once the stable hands had taken their horses, they faced each other stiffly.
“So, you will be dining with us again, no doubt?” Isla asked.
“I have that honor, my lady, yes,” he replied, his demeanor as awkward and devoid of emotion as an actor struggling to remember his lines.
“Then I suppose I had best take my leave of you now,” Isla said, casting her eyes downward, “so that I may change into something more appropriate.”
“I do not imagine that supper shall be for several hours yet?”
“No, indeed not,” she agreed, “but I should freshen myself after such a vigorous ride. And when it comes to my choice of dining attire, I can be most indecisive, so I find it best to reserve ample time for such preparations. Excuse me.”
And with that, she turned and practically fled into the castle without a glance behind her.
Brodie stood in place for a while, feeling dumbfounded. He had spent the morning with her, attempted to find common ground, searched for feelings of passion within himself, and found even fewer than he had the previous day, which he would have thought impossible, as his ardor for Isla had already been nonexistent.
How dare she? I've tried to be good with her, and she talks to me in that manner!
Brodie would not have talked to her again if the stakes were not so high. He was not used to women treating him this way. In fact, it was the very first time he would tolerate such behavior as this was not a personal matter but a matter of duty. And duty was above all.
Finally, he roused himself from his stunned state and decided to wander around the castle. He reasoned that if he were to someday become laird of the MacLeod clan, he should gain some familiarity with its ancestral castle.
Aye, and Iwillbe laird someday,he told himself.I remain bound to go through with this wedding. A deal was struck between my clan and theirs, and I must honor it.
It was a harsh realization—sharp and flinty, like a piece of arrowhead embedded in his heart, irritating it slowly and digging its way in deeper until the muscle surrounding it was raw and bleeding.
He had lived his whole life in anticipation of being a laird. That was his destiny. But he found himself thinking about Margaret more than his life as laird and husband. But he did not wish to be the laird who slept with every maid, nor the laird who thought more about lovemaking than leadership.
Brodie tried to distract himself from thoughts of Margaret by roaming the corridors and trophy rooms of the castle. He studied the weapons, armor, paintings, and tapestries that comprised the unwritten history of the MacLeods. Every dent in a displayed helm, every spot of dried blood on the blade of a mounted ax, every laird and lady’s portrait seemed to tell a story from a different generation.
He hoped that he would learn these chapters in due time so that he could come to feel the same kinship with the members of this clan that he had with his own.
Then he strolled into the library, and the radiant face he had been trying so hard to banish from his thoughts was right in front of him, framed by the golden rays of sunlight that streamed in through the window behind her. She was standing at the top of a step stool, cradling a multitude of books in her arms and trying to slide them back into their proper places one by one.
She turned, saw him, gasped in surprise, and lost her balance. The books tumbled from her grasp, and she teetered, her eyes widening.
Brodie moved without thinking, stepping forward swiftly to catch Margaret as she fell. She felt warm and soft and practically weightless in his arms, and the sunlight danced in her blue eyes like handfuls of thrown sapphires as they shined up at him in gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.
“You are most welcome.” He savored the feeling of her body against his for the barest of moments, then released her, trying to ignore how immediately cold and bereft he felt once she was no longer pressed tightly to him.
“I thought you were Lady Isla’s personal maid,” he commented briskly, hoping the volume of his voice would mask the pounding of his heart. “Why are you returning books to the library? Would that task not fall to a servant of a lower rank?”
“It generally would, aye,” she replied, “except that the servant girl who would normally do so is feeling ill today, and so I offered to lighten her load a bit. Besides, this has always been my favorite room in the entire keep.”
“Has it really?” Brodie asked, intrigued. “Why is that?”
“The great histories of Clan MacLeod are written in many of these books,” Margaret said, gesturing to the shelves. “Lairds, warriors, mothers, healers. So many years of greatness, of triumphs and tribulations, celebrations and hardships, and all shared by every member of this clan.”
“So you count yourself proud to be one of them, then, eh?”
As he asked, Brodie thought how odd it was that he had found more compelling conversation in one minute with Margaret than he had in an hour with Isla.
“In fact, sir, IwishI were one of them,” she told him, casting her eyes down at the floor.
“You need not call me ‘sir,’ Margaret,” he said gently. “And what do you mean, you wish you were a MacLeod? Are you not?”
