Page 9 of Falling for His Cousin’s Betrothed

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Nightfall had settled over the entire Highland Valley when Lyall’s maid, meandering in the castle’s kitchen, decided to boil water in the black kettle. “I suppose some black tea will knock a bit of this chill off,” she mused as she walked across the taupe- and lavender-tiled floor toward her lady’s chamber. Only a tiny sliver of moon could be seen through the curtain as she stood beside the window, watching a series of clouds roll by.

Lyall was sitting in a chair close to the fireplace. She wasn’t used to the damp, chilly weather creeping in so early in the season, and while she was prepared like all Scot people for the ensuing weather that came with the change of season, she nevertheless desired warmth and comfort.

The maid gave her a cup of tea. “I wonder if Laila wants a cup as well,” Lyall said, pouring two cups of water into ceramic mugs. The dark air seemed to sink through the window panes, and she pretended not to be cold as she dipped two tea bags into the water.

Whoosh!A strong wind swept through the yew trees, and Lyall watched their branches dance in the night. She placed the two mugs on a marble carrying tray, then lifted it up to her waist and exited the kitchen.

The hallway was dark yet familiar, and she thought about her past as she walked its length to the foyer and approached the landing. She lifted her skirt to her ankles and climbed each creaking, wooden step. Their steepness was no deterrent for her as she walked with determination upward, then down the hall to Laila’s room. She knocked on the wooden door and lowered her head, waiting patiently for Laila to answer. For as reprehensible as she might seem to Laila, Lyall nevertheless made it a point to respect her privacy. She might be a seemingly stoic, driven woman with a steel heart, but she still prided herself on certain attributes.

When Laila didn’t answer, she shifted her weight and set the tray of tea on a cherrywood end table. “Laila?” she called. There was still no answer. “Laila. What are you doing?” she asked, hands on her hips. “Open the door.” Lyall waited another moment, then wrapped her hand on the knob and turned it clockwise. The door opened slowly. “Laila?” She craned her neck then stormed inside the bedroom. Laila, however, was nowhere to be found. “But…” Lyall frowned and lifted up the bedcovers. “Where could she be?” she asked aloud. “Where did she go?” She rushed to the wardrobe and threw open the large doors but saw only a small selection of linen tunics, hanging in a lonely line, on wooden hangers. “I don’t understand,” she muttered, then rushed to the hall.

“Elliot!” She ran to the spiraled banister and clung to its circular column. “Elliot!” With a furrowed brow, she waited for the guard’s response but heard nothing in reply. “Elliot!” she called once more, her voice echoing throughout the deep, dark castle walls. A clunking sound rose from the depths of the hall, and Lyall ran to the base of the steps, just in time to see Elliot, his face red with alarm, at the bottom of the landing.

“What is it, Lyall? We were in the cellar, tying up the wine crates,” he said, wiping his brow.

“I can’t find Laila. She’s not in her quarters.” Lyall placed her hands back on her hips and spun around. The tea tray was all she noticed in the distance.

“Where would she be?” asked Elliot, more to himself than to Lyall.

“I do not know!” Lyall was curt, and her lower lip trembled. “That is why I called upon you!”

“Okay, my lady. Let me gather my thoughts.” Elliot rested a hand on his chin and frowned. He couldn’t even begin to imagine where Laila could have disappeared to. Her father was gone, her beacon of light, her compass on the path of life. She was lost now, alone and forgotten. He imagined that she could be anywhere, given how upset she had been the last time he’d spoken with her. He thought about their conversation, bits and pieces of garbled words from Laila rolling around in his conscience. On the night of her father’s death, she had asked him for a bottle of wine, and he had reluctantly given her one. He shook his head and felt a lump form in his throat. He thought of his own daughter and of how devasted she would be if he were to perish. It was too heavy and dark of a thought, so he erased it from his mind and looked back at Lyall.

“What will you do?” she asked hastily.

“I will gather Maxwell and Donegal. We’ll see to it that every inch of the courtyard is scoured for her presence. I’ll have Maxwell take up the eastern castle side, and Donegal can go west.” Elliot ran a hand through his tousled hair and drew in a deep breath. He didn’t like the idea of forging into the night, especially since he had already had a couple of drinks, but he knew that Laila’s life might depend on it, and he would do whatever was needed to see her back to safety.

“You’ll send out a beacon for the moat?”

“Yes. I can have Maxwell head that way now, assuming he hasn’t left from the cellar yet. That being said, I’m going to leave now, madam, and check that I have the proper backup in place should we find ourselves deep in the thicket late into the evening.”

“Very well, Elliot. I trust your judgment and know you will return with Laila in tow.”

“As you request, madam.” Elliot bowed his head and turned for the darkened hall. “Maxwell! Donegal!” he called to his guard mates as he made his way into the dimly lit corridor.

Lyall hoisted her skirt in her hands and shuffled along the velvet carpet runner until she reached the stairs. What has gotten into Laila? she wondered as she looked out the window. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the room, and she shook her head. To her, it was the ultimate of dishonor—to be fled from. What would she tell her suitor? Surely, he would wonder why Laila disappeared and that it wouldn’t cast a favorable light on Lyall.

“Make haste!” Lyall called down the steps as Elliot clambered along, his heavy boots echoing along the wooden castle ground. “I cannot even believe this has happened,” Lyall muttered to herself as she strode down the steps, her mind reeling with anger. “After all I’ve done for that lass.” How could she get past this? After all, she was now the heiress, the monarch, and this would not bode well for her reputation. She shook her head in disbelief as she made her way past the library, the stained-glass installations catching her eye as she walked.

“Gentlemen! We now go!” Elliot’s voice rang through the halls. “Take a flask of water from the peg and add an extra blanket to your pack.” Lyall craned her neck and listened as Elliot gave orders. “Hurry!” he called out once more just as Lyall entered the empty study. “Maxwell, you ride on Bartholomew. Donegal, you take Everly.” Elliot blurted directives, and Lyall watched from the mahogany desk as the three men, dressed in heavy woolen garb, strode outside the castle.

“They’ll find her,” she said, an air of contempt in her voice. “They have to.” She smirked. The dark night sky seemed to swallow the entire valley, and Lyall strained her eyes to see something—anything—in the night. Yet all she could see from her space in the study was a blanket of stars that seemed to dance, ever so slightly, above the yew trees. She sighed, then pulled out the high-back cherrywood chair that had been Aiden’s favorite, sat down atop its velvet cushion, and pushed it in until she was seated evenly at the desk. “The time has come.” She reached for a piece of parchment that was placed delicately yet purposefully between two leather-bound books. She placed it on the center of the desk, then pulled an ivory, feather-tip pen quill from a small ceramic cylinder.

An owl’s hoot startled her just as she dipped her feather pen into the ink well. It flew past the large glass windows and landed on a nearby hazel tree. Lyall watched as it preened its feathers in the moonlight. Such a majestic bird, she thought. It reminded her of days gone by when she and Aiden used to walk the castle grounds, sniffing the heirloom roses, the bluebells, and the heather. How long ago it all seems to me now, she mused with a twinge of solemnity. There was no point in becoming tripped up in the past. She knew that from experience, so without further ado, she dipped her feather pen into the ink and penned her first letter, a large, arcing, and delicate letter “D.”

Dear Edward,

It is with a heavy heart that I write you with a matter that needs attention. Laila has fled from the castle and is somewhere in the Highlands. While our courtship, budding and promising as it seems, will have to wait, I hope you find it in your heart to accept this act of patience as only one, among many of your strong suits.

She drew in a deep breath, reread her words, then set the feather pen back in its ink well. The owl, having found a comfortable position in the yew tree, stretched out its wings and took flight just as a cloud drifted across the horizon.

Just as she was about to emboss the back of her letter, she heard the resounding thump of the front door closing. Lyall spun around in her chair, surprised. Was that Abigail? She knew that on Sunday evenings, Abigail often went riding on Hollingwell’s Equestrian Trails. Lyall, having once been a horsewoman herself, approved of Abigail’s pursuits and even bought her a pair of red leather riding gloves the prior Christmas.

“Abigail!” called Lyall. “Is that you?

“Yes. I thought Morgan was here on Sundays. I was hoping to fetch a bowl of her signature stew.”