There was nothing that the castle could not provide for the girl, but a few mementos from home might ease the girl's fears. Henry was well aware that a fearful individual was one more likely to run. He could not afford to see Laird Anderson's lands weaken for the sake of Henderson's frightened little girl.
Surprised by the sweet blush that rose to Arabelle's cheeks, Henry cleared his throat and broke eye contact. He looked down at his boots as the young woman rushed to piece together a little baggage for their journey. As she hastened about the room, Henry looked back up to find Elise Fisher's eyes boring into his.
"Ye will look after her?" the woman entreated.
Henry felt his chest warm and his heart swell. It had been some time since he had witnessed true maternal concern.
"I will, ma'am," he vowed.
Even if he was left with no other reason than his own laird's benefits, Henry would look after the girl. Yet, he was not without feeling. The child's world had been turned upside down, and there was a natural, male instinct awakening within him, an urge to protect the fairer sex. Whether she accepted her status of nobility or not, the girl would be looked after.
Thathe felt sure he could promise.
When it took only a few seconds for the girl to collect a larger shawl, a fresh dress, and a small wooden box from beneath the bed, Henry tried not to comment on the sparsity of her belongings. It was clear that the gown was the only other one she possessed, and the box was small and battered. That sense of protectiveness grew, forming a lump in Henry's throat.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sparking of burnt stew and the acrid smell of twisted meat. None of them seemed to care for the ruined meal, nor did any of them hurry for the door. Only when the tension seemed to shift into impatience did Henry turn and encourage Arabelle out of the cottage.
When the girl threw her things unceremoniously into the carriage, Henry held out a hand to aid in her ascent. She didn't notice it in the dark and instead just clambered in like a cat clawing up a tree. Licking his lips, Henry added it to the list of behaviors to be addressed.
He also said nothing once they were inside, and the girl leaned her upper body through the window so that she might bid farewell to her mother. The older woman hovered in the doorway of the cottage, a dark silhouette against the hearth light.
"Mama! Ah'll give yer greeting to Laird Henderson! Dinnae wash the clothes 'til ah get back. Ah'ma do it for you! Sleep good!"
Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in worry, Henry simply thumped the roof of the carriage, and the driver spurred the horses into motion.
One thing was for certain: If Arabelle Fisher claimed her title as Arabelle Henderson, he, Henry, had his work cut out for him.
4
Belle’s mind could not seem to recognize what was happening around her, much as she tried.
The seat of the carriage beneath her thighs felt like air, and her feet could not solidly rest upon its base. The breeze that passed into the carriage was raw and held the scent of eventual morning dew, but the cold barely touched her. The air in her lungs felt false, and the sensation of her own skin untrue.
The only thing that seemed truly real to her was the shawl around her arms. She held it so tight that it was cutting into her shoulders. The smell of her mother permeated its woven strands, and she refused to loosen it until her arms were aching with the pressure.
The man who sat across from her was the most unreal of all.
After her mother had revealed the truth of her heritage, Arabelle had been left floating and lost. No anchor to hold her down. Then there had been a knock upon the door, and the man on the other side had entered like a gust of wind. He had sent her anchorless life into further turmoil, twisting and twirling in a storm of activity.
Only her mother's voice had pierced through, convincing her to journey with the man to Henderson Castle.
Her thoughts of him startled Arabelle into realizing that she had forgotten his name. Her constant loss of certainty had turned the finer details of the evening into a haze.
"Ah dinnae ken yer name," she told the man before wincing in apology. "Ah forgot it."
For a moment, Belle wondered if the man was angry for her lapse in memory. He stared at her without expression from the darker side of the carriage and made her squirm in her seat. She held tighter to her shawl.
"Munro," he finally answered. "I am Henry Munro."
His voice was as deep as the shadows that clung to his shape, but it was not wholly unfriendly.
"It is nice to meet you, Henry," Belle said, remembering her mother's lessons in manners so long ago. She had only to look at the man's clothes to know he was not of her world, but she would not have him think that she was entirely uneducated. Her mother had raised her children right.
"Munro," the man said again.
"Huh?"
"You should call me Munro. Or, sir. Not Henry." There was no anger or punishment in the man's voice. Just simple fact, as if he were informing her which way the sun rose and how to look at it would burn her eyes.
