Page 55 of In Bed with her Highland Foe

Gilchrist did not want to nod, so he sat very still instead. He knew Aaden was right, even if he was reluctant to admit that Aaden’s plans seemed to be working well so far.

Kyven sat perfectly still in her chamber. She’d told Helen she would retire early for the night and Helen had left, but now she longed she was still there so she could talk about the pressure Shay was putting on her to announce their betrothal.

Now, she sat alone with one candle for company, still wearing this ridiculously ornate gown with her hair bundled up behind her head.

She stood abruptly and reached for the pins, tearing them out of her hair as fast as possible, trying to feel more herself. The pins clinked as they fell to the floor, her hair now wild about her shoulders. She reached for the laces at the back of the gown, struggling to reach and untie them. Her fingers scrambled, knotting the laces, before she tore herself free from the ornate gown. She threw it onto the floor and stumbled over it, marching toward a mule chest at the side of her room and flinging open the drawers.

She pulled out one of her oldest and plainest gowns, the dark green tartan slipping over her shoulders with ease. The laces at the front she tied as hastily as she could, perhaps not properly, revealing a glimmer of her stays and chemise beneath. She lifted a shawl next and wrapped that around her shoulders too.

If she could not talk to Helen about Shay and what she feared was ahead of her, then she had to find the next person she trusted most in this castle to talk to, the one man she was sure would give her wise counsel in this regard.

She opened the door and peered out, rather glad to see that just one guard had been left to watch over her bedchamber, yet he had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the wall beside his chair, and the pike in his grasp in danger of slipping out and clattering to the floor at any moment. As soundlessly as she could, she crept out and closed the door behind her, then tiptoed past him, trying not to rouse him.

Only when she reached the staircase did she dare run, trying to avoid being glimpsed by anyone. She gave a wider berth to the feasting room, just in case Laird Shay was still inside and would see her darting past. Glancing over her shoulder in the darkness, she checked again and again, but no one followed her. She was quite alone as she made her way to the library and opened the door.

There was a candle inside, the buttery light filling the space, and the firelight glowed warm. Hope swelled inside of her, until she saw that Gilchrist’s usual chair was empty.

She stared at the empty cushions in the box chair, gritting her teeth, about to leave the room when she heard someone moving about.

She peered through the shadows and the shelves, noting the tall figure that was moving between them. He had a stack of books in his hands, then appeared in the middle of the room, resting the books on the table beside his chair. His left arm hung loosely at his side, plainly still sore, and his eyes fixed on the fire. He hadn’t yet noticed she was there.

She didn’t make her appearance known and took the opportunity to watch Gilchrist. There was a darkness in his expression as he flung himself into the seat. He grunted under his breath in pain, but didn’t wince or flinch, then he reached for one of the books with his better arm. Though he tried to read, his eyes lifted repeatedly from the book and settled on the fire in front of him again.

He is distracted. He is in his own emotional turmoil.

She stepped forward, no longer wanting to come and pour out her heart and troubles to him but wanting to be there for him.

A floorboard creaked beneath her feet, and Gilchrist jerked his head away from the fire, looking at her, those blue eyes widening a little.

“I thought ye would be with Laird Shay all evening,” he said, his voice deep.

She slowly closed the door behind her, leaning upon the wood as she turned to face him.

“With him is the last place I want tae be,” she confessed aloud.

Gilchrist rested his chin in his hand, the elbow perched on the chair arm, but she saw the corner of his lips. He was smiling at her words.

“And ye’d rather be here? With me?” he whispered.

She nodded, without hesitation.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Come,” Gilchrist pleaded, wishing she would come toward him and be as they had always been in this room. She walked into the room, looking more herself than he had seen her for some time.

She wasn’t wearing one of the excessively formal gowns the council had insisted she purchase, but a gown that spoke of her clan roots, bearing the strong tartan pattern. Her hair was wild about her shoulders, so much so, that he was imagining trailing fingers through it, tilting back her head and kissing her neck.

Nothing was said between them as he stood and went to a nearby writing bureau. Reaching inside, he took out the pencils and papers he knew she loved to use to draw and brought them back to the hearth rug. She knelt down on the rug, taking them from him, their fingers brushing together, then he sat down in his chair.

Without hesitation, she rested forward on the hearth and began to sketch, biting her lip as she drew with earnest energy.

Gilchrist leaned into his hand once more, watching her.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“Everything,” she murmured. “Laird Shay is demanding we confirm our betrothal.” She scoffed, shaking her head.

Her hesitancy to marry Shay made Gilchrist’s heart beat harder in his chest.