For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut against the humiliating scene she imagined. Nay, she would bear whatever came to her. Nothing they could do to her would make up for what she had done in the Highlands. Chin lifted, she followed the path back to the gates. It was time to face her past.
****
After the windy cliffside, the solar’s warmth seemed oddly welcoming to Coira. Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth. She inhaled the scents of leather, books, and peat smoke, familiar and heady after the astringent salt air.
She was alone in the chamber, which surprised her. She’d grown up in this keep and knew where to find the laird’s solar. Since no one had been sent to escort her, perhaps she had arrived more quickly than expected. But nay, the angle of the sun’s rays told her she’d arrived on time.
Instead of taking a seat at the large table dominating the room, she moved to the window. The view was little different than the one she’d regarded along the cliff and did not hold her attention now. She turned her back on it and studied the nearby bookcases.
She could read, but rarely had when she lived at home before her fostering, preferring to spend her time gossiping with the other lasses over their needlework. She pulled an especially worn volume from the nearest shelf and opened it, moving to the window to better see the lettering within. Poetry. French. But even familiar words made no sense to her. Suddenly irritated, she realized she was in no state to concentrate enough to tease out their meaning.
“Ah, Francois Villon. Do ye read his poetry, then?”
Coira’s heart skipped a beat as the deep voice broke the silence. She snapped the book shut and whirled to face the intruder. Her eyes widened as she regarded the man before her. Tall, a few years older than she, with the gold-streaked brown hair common among the clan, his external demeanor was calm, his expression and tone of voice cordial.
Although she hadn’t heard him enter the room, she realized where her irritation had come from—him. As he arrived, or certainly when he approached her closely enough to recognize the book she held, a favorite, judging by the wear on it, she felt it. Yet his irritation faded, quickly replaced by curiosity. He held out his hand.
Without thinking, she placed the book in it. Her irritation suddenly spiked. Hers? Or his?
This man was angry, but hiding it behind his deceptively simple question and polite treatment of a stranger. How much did he know about her?
“Are…are ye laird...” she managed to stutter.
“Logen MacDugall, aye, newly Laird MacDugall. And ye are Coira, recently returned to us from the highlands.” He turned the book over in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then returned his gaze to her. “Ye must tell me of yer adventures there. I’m sorry I failed to welcome ye before now, but our healer wished ye to have some time to yerself.”
So his anger had not been directed at her? Her lack of understanding of this new ability frustrated her, but she dared not show it. If he was not the firebrand she expected, bent on delivering her punishment, she did not want to incite his anger further. What should she do? A flush warmed her chest and neck.
“I...I thought that was why I had been summoned, laird. Because of my...misadventure there.”
A hint of sadness drifted to her, heavy and low, followed by a slight creasing of the skin between his brows, then stronger chagrin. Logen’s lips pursed and he stepped away, behind the table. “Indeed. Please, sit down.”
“Is no one else joining us?”
“What? Nay. I wish to speak with ye without the...interference of others.”
Coira exhaled softly, tightly controlling the urge to sigh in relief. No onlookers. No one else to judge her. No storm of others’ emotions in the chamber to confuse and overwhelm her. She might get through this with her dignity intact after all.
She nodded and took a seat, head down, hands clasped in her lap, and waited.
When the silence became unbearable, she looked up again. Laird MacDugall, Logen, watched her. A chill ran down her back, but she held his brown-eyed gaze, suddenly emboldened by his hesitation.
“Ye ken this is an unusual...”
“I understand this is unusual...”
They spoke over each other. Logen’s lips lifted slightly, and Coira nodded in acknowledgement of the awkwardness. “How much did my escort tell ye?”
Logen sat and placed the book on the table in front of him. “Enough.” Suddenly he seemed cold, closed off from her.
Coira blanched. Enough...for what?
Logen’s gaze drifted to the window where the sun hid behind puffy clouds. His unreadable expression gave her no clues as to what he was thinking—or feeling.
Though her strange new talent worried her, the loss of its insight frightened her. Waiting for his judgment set her teeth on edge. Coira fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.
Suddenly, a ray of sunshine brightened the room. Logen turned to her and nodded. “The Lathan, on the advice of his lady, excused yer actions due to the illness ye suffered while ye fostered with them, and hoped returning to the sea air would make ye well.”
“What?” Confusion swept over her, stealing her breath and forcing her to her feet. Suddenly, she was back in the Lathan great hall, watching as Toran, Laird Lathan and his new bride, the Healer Aileana, approached her. She could feel the trembling child beneath her arm, the dirk in her other hand. And see Donal MacNabb’s steely glare focused right between her eyes. Her own feelings were still missing. Numb. Even the memory of plunging the dirk into the Healer’s chest and the fire of Donal MacNabb’s blade as it pierced her side failed to arouse any of the fury that had been a howling, raging beast within her that night. It was as if everything had happened to someone else. Not to her.
