"Your ladyship," he greeted. "I thank you for this reception and beg forgiveness for the intrusion. Your husband's letter encouraged such haste that I feared to wait until morning."
When the woman's dark stare fell upon her, Belle grabbed at her skirts and made an awkward bob of her knees. She had seen people curtsy before but had never done it herself. One side of her shawl fell to the ground and trailed over the stones. She was hasty and awkward taking it back up into her arms, and pieces of gravel were flicked in all directions.
The lady made no comment. She simply turned her stare back to Munro and spoke with politeness so sharp that it was hostile. Icy and unwelcome.
"Perhaps it would have been more appropriate, Sir Munro, to have failed to arrive at all, regardless of the time."
"I fear that such a choice would have gone directly against your husband's wishes, my lady."
"My husband is ill and cannot be expected to instill logic into every decision made in these last few weeks. I would speak on his behalf if his advisors had any sense, and I can assure you Sir Munro that no letters upon this matter would have been issued under such conditions."
"You would punish your husband's lands with a lack of leadership, my lady?"
"Better a lack of authority than one of..." The lady's eyes came to land upon Belle. She felt a tremor run down the back of her neck. "...inferior stock."
Belle wasn't sure that she understood the entirety of the conversation. Munro and the laird's wife were speaking quickly with a dignified tone of voice that twisted the words into something unfamiliar. Some of the language they shared was entirely lost to her, and she was rapidly sensing that feeling of anchorless displacement once more. But, as the woman turned to look her way and almost sneered her final words, Belle knew well enough that she was being insulted.
Discarded as something unworthy.
Her face heated, and her irritation rose. The hairs on the back of her arms stood to attention, and Belle was reminded of the way a cat's fur stood on end when threatened.
She was no cat, but she could certainly understand the desire to hiss.
Before she could speak (or hiss), however, the man beside her had taken a step forward. The gesture placed him between Belle and the lady, physically barring her from verbal assault.
"I understand that this situation is one of discomfort, my lady." Munro's words were sympathetic but the voice that formed them was hard. Unyielding. "I can assure you that, if there was an easier way to carry out your husband's wishes, I would see it done. I can also vow to offer you the respect you deserve in obedience to your wishes whilst I am here. But only to the extent that they do not contradict his lairdship's. I know that you would not wish me to disrespect your husband in his, if you'll permit me, final days. Nor would I ever wish to place you in a situation where you must also do so."
Belle watched as the lady swallowed heavily, and her chin rose higher. Like a hare rearing back when caught in a hunter's trap. Whatever Henry Munro had just said, it was a victorious declaration. The laird's wife could do nothing but step aside and sweep an elegant hand in chilly welcome.
Munro had said nothing that sounded rude or aggressive. Just how he had won the argument, Belle had no idea. But she was impressed all the same.
"Laird Alasdair is in his ailment chambers." The woman spoke only to Henry as if deciding to pretend that Belle did not exist. "I would advise speaking with him now, else the chance may be missed."
Belle was surprised by the warmth of Munro's touch as he took her by the arm.
"We thank you, my lady. I shall see that this transition is as painless as possible," he said before propelling Belle forward.
Belle could do nothing but stumble behind Munro, attempting to give a wide berth to the lady in red as they approached the door.
Belle had little time to wonder what "transition" Munro might mean before she was pulled through the open doors of the castle.
Only then did she realize the true impact of just what her sireage might mean...
5
Arabelle gasped as she entered.
The open chamber was larger than her own home thrice over and yet it appeared to have no purpose. No furniture, no hearth. There was nothing but a grand carved staircase directly before her. It was a room designed entirely for the purpose of impressing itself.
Unlike the quaint little cottage that she and her mother called home, the Henderson castle was built from stone. Massive pieces of masonry were stacked upon one another to form thick walls and an impossibly high ceiling. Belle could see only as far the dozens of tapers would allow. Each candle was nestled in a bracket, forged from pewter, and hammered into the walls with such craft that not a stone was cracked or damaged. Instead, the wash of grey was turned cream in the flickering light, and the fir wood of the stairs was turned from ebony black to a warm chestnut.
Belle's head spun in every direction so that she might see it all. She leaped to one side when she realized she was standing upon color. The Henderson family coat of arms was splashed across the floor, taking center stage upon the entryway. The polished stones made it glitter in the near darkness like pebbles at the bottom of a pond.
Henry's hold on her arm tightened and pulled Belle toward the staircase.
"Come," he told her. "You will have a better chance to admire the estate come daylight."
Too flummoxed to object, Belle followed without question. Her shoes, simple leather and bound hazardously around the sole, suddenly felt like dirty little creatures that should not grace such a floor so she was quick of foot as she stumbled toward the upper floor.
