Page 25 of Highlander’s Wrath

Disaster Strikes

After her meeting with Laird Barclay, Coira ran back to her bedchamber as fast as she could. She no longer trusted herself around his lairdship, and she had all the proof she needed to know that he could not be trusted around her either.

He was right, of course; she should never have fallen into the habit of accepting his kisses with such obvious pleasure. Since their disastrous dinner three weeks previously, Coira had wracked her brain and closely examined her heart in order to discover what flaw existed there. She found it quickly.

She was in love with him. From the first time she had seen his tall, dark figure enter the conservatory of her home in London, Coira had found Laird Barclay to be everything she wished for in a man. No flaw could be found when looking at his face. He possessed everything she deemed necessary attributes for a man: the way his grey eyes laughed with good humor when they went riding together, his crooked smile, and gentle touch. She adored how he cared so much for the welfare of his son. But it was his strong, muscular torso, his long, hard thighs made lean from all his horse riding, and his arms thick with sinew and muscle—those were the images that kept her awake at nights. As for the ruggedly masculine scent he exuded after they spent the day riding outdoors, she found it intoxicating. Whenever Coira smelled the rough texture of her horse’s saddle or inhaled the perfume of the pine trees circling the moradh, she thought of Laird Barclay.

It was only when she got to know his temperament a little better that Coira had been quick to ascribe his outbursts to his appallingly lonely childhood and lack of proper parental guidance. She was able to see the frightened, confused child deep within him when Hamish vented his frustration and rage on those around him.

Once, she even caught herself reaching out her hand to curl one finger around the dark hair that was beginning to grow out at the back of his head and fall over his collar. Every day, the thought of seeing him again had set her heart racing so fast, her pulse seemed to reach feverish heights.

When he had suggested she thank him for sparing the prisoners by granting him special favors, for one brief moment, Coira had been tempted to say yes. She imagined him sweeping her off her feet and carrying her to his bedchamber, not to emerge until every fiber of her being that cried out for his touch had been assuaged.

But that illusion was to remain unfulfilled. She was Miss Coira McDonald, not some straw damsel. She must leave the castle as soon as she could before she lost her mind as clearly as Laird Barclay had seemed to have lost his own.

As much as Coira believed she could tame his lairdship’s temper, she knew she was not strong enough to hold off his advances forever; she must leave him or risk losing her maidenly reputation. She could only pray that she would eventually forget about Hamish Barclay and begin her life anew once the raw wound inside her heart had healed.

The next day dawned clear, and the winds had dropped. Coira made haste to wake her small charge and let him know they were allowed to spend the day outside. Colban crowed with happiness when he heard this news and begged his governess for her help dressing so he would not miss a moment’s playtime in the sun.

“No, no. First, we must break our fast and then have a lesson. It would not do to skip learning our numbers, would it?”

Colban chafed at this but had to agree in the end after Coira promised him they would make a snowman if the drifts were high enough. As Colban ate his porridge, she looked out of the window at the grounds outside the castle walls. She saw the prisoners hard at work already, piling the snow off the road and pulling logs into the courtyard for kindling. The men had been provided with trews, but the weather was cold enough for them to wear the Farquharson plaid tightly belted around their waists and wrap their great kilts around their stooped shoulders. The chains had been removed from their hands and feet; the snow was enough to stop them from fleeing into the barren moors and mountains.

True to his word, the Barclay heir sat like an angel through most of his lesson even though it was not his favorite subject. While Colban was more than happy to learn about the bloody battles that defined Scottish history and paid attention to stories about the people who lived in faraway lands, he was usually truculent about committing letters and numbers to memory.

Coira noticed his mind wander as she drew on the slate with a thin pencil of chalk.

“Do you not care to learn about counting, Colban?”

He shifted around on his small chair for a moment before reluctantly saying, “Aye an’ nay, madam. Ye see, I want to please me faither by showing him I ken the stuff, but I prefer playing outside counting pebbles. No’ looking at the squiggles on the slate.”

Coira had to admit this made a lot of sense.

“What about if we count the numbers off on your fingers?” she suggested.

She looked at his tiny hands and thought they were even too small to hold a quill with any reasonable degree of dexterity. Her heart went out to the wee child.

“Let’s do something different,” she said. “Let’s count the countries marked on the maps in your father’s library. In that way, we can practice our counting and see the great lands across the North Sea and beyond too!”

Colban clapped his hands and gave her a hug, saying, “Thank ye, madam! Now don’ forget ye promised me we’d go outside an’ play with the snow as well. It was ye who told me all good folks keep their promises.”

She patted his head. “I’ll not forget, sweetheart. Do not worry.”

Thus, they spent an enjoyable time studying some of the sea charts in Laird Barclay’s library and counting how many neighboring countries Scotland had. When the bell tolled ten hours past midnight, Coira judged it to be a good time to pack away the beautifully printed maps and go outside.

Colban ran ahead of her the moment the guards opened the castle gateway. The inside of the castle was kept snow-free out of necessity. What few flakes escaped being swept away were turned to sludge with all the comings and goings of the servants as the day progressed. Only outside the castle walls was all the fun to be had, and Colban was quick to take advantage of it.

“Don’t get yer mittens wet, Colban! The ice will stick to yer skin,” Coira warned the small boy.

One of the guards said, “Never mind about the damp, miss. The wee scamp can use our fire to dry off if he catches cold.”

And so, Colban and Coira made merry in the snow until the bell rang out to announce dinner. They ignored the bell, however. Riding toward the castle along the recently cleared roads, a uniformed stranger approached. He reined in his horse a few yards away from the gates, saying, “Ye’re in luck. The messenger made it as far as the village, and I have come bearing yer letters.”

Coira was expecting a letter from her parents and reached out her hand for the bundle the rider was holding in his hands, saying, “I will take it in to his lairdship.”

Seeing Miriam making her way from the dairy to the great hall entrance carrying a jug of cream in her hands, Coira shouted, “Miriam! Be so kind as to watch over Master Colban for me, please. I will take that cream to the dinner table when I present the mail to Laird Barclay.”

The maid sniffed. Nothing anyone could tell her would convince her that her mistress had been able to hold herself aloof from Laird Barclay’s handsome charms.