Page 16 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

CHAPTER 5

Later that evening, Ceana followed the housekeeper down the upper corridor with her freshly washed hair hanging damp against her back.

The borrowed gown fit well enough, though its unfamiliar sleeves rubbed the scrapes on her palm and the clean fabric beneath it pressed against muscles made sore by the journey. A warm bath, food, and an hour beside the chamber fire had softened her exhaustion.

The elderly housekeeper walked at a steady pace. Her ring of keys and the authority with which servants moved aside suggested she had served at MacKane Castle long enough to command most of it without raising her voice.

“Master Tommy has asked twice whether ye will be at breakfast,” she revealed as they approached the stairs. “He also wishes to ken when ye will visit Ness.”

Ceana curled her hand into her skirt. “His faither may decide I am too dangerous for breakfast.”

The housekeeper glanced at her. “The boy has met many people brought here by his faither. He has asked after only a few of them.”

“I see,” Ceana uttered, though it still bothered her how Tommy’s obedience continued to be a huge matter.

They reached the study door, and the housekeeper knocked before opening it. “Lady Ceana has traveled through the night, me Laird. She requires rest.”

“This will take only as long as she requires,” Oscar assured her.

The housekeeper stepped in far enough to place a second cup beside the whisky decanter, and the look she gave him carried a familiarity few people seemed willing to show him. She withdrew without another word and closed the door behind Ceana.

The quiet click of the lock left her alone with Oscar.

His study was larger than the festival tent, though the same discipline seemed to surround it. Ledgers lay aligned on a broad desk, and maps had been secured flat beneath polished stones.

A locked chest stood near the wall, and two swords rested on a rack within easy reach. The only object that seemed to have wandered into the room without any purpose was a small carved horse beside the inkpot, its legs cut at uneven lengths.

Oscar stood near the desk with a cup of whisky. His sword belt and traveling coat had been discarded. A dark waistcoat fitted closely across his shoulders, and the sleeves of his linen shirt followed the solid shape of his forearms. Rest had restored Ceana’s ability to notice how thoroughly he filled his clothes. She resented the improvement.

Focus, Ceana. Focus.

“Whisky?” he asked, indicating the second cup.

Ceana considered refusing but realized that standing before him with empty hands would leave him free to see how unsettled the closed door made her.

“A small amount,” she responded instead.

Oscar poured without comment and held out the cup. Ceana took it without touching his fingers, and the whisky burned across her tongue and settled warmly in her chest. She kept her face composed while he watched her drink.

“The contract is there,” he said.

A sheet of parchment waited at the center of the desk. Ceana approached and saw Daphne’s name struck through with one precise line. Her own had been written above it in a firm hand.

Ceana Tulloch.

“Ye amended this yerself,” she remarked.

Oscar shrugged. “I prefer to read important terms before signin’ me name beneath them.”

Ceana set down her whisky and leaned over the parchment. It remained a working draft, with space left for additions and formal witnesses.

The contract, named Clan Morrag, promised MacKane protection once a marriage had been properly declared. Another clause granted her authority over her personal attendants and the women serving in the household.

The document could not be used to marry her off without her agreement. It could make refusal far more difficult once her father received it.

“Why are ye continuin’ with this?” she asked. “Ye took me because ye believed I was Angus’s bride. I am neither his bride nor useful leverage.”

“I still need a wife.”