* * *
“Freya, what can you tell me about the Laird?” Bernadine asked her maid one morning while the girl was helping her to dress. Bernadine had grown rather fond of Donnan’s sister’s wardrobe, full of warm, heavy fabrics that made her feel cocooned in comfort even as she walked about the castle and its cold stone walls.
That morning, Freya had chosen a beautiful deep red woollen gown with lace accents that fit Bernadine beautifully, though, as with all of the Miss Young’s wardrobe, it was a tad tight in the bust.
“What are ye wantin’ to ken, miss?” Freya asked as she gave one last, good pull to Bernadine’s stays.
Sadly, the maid had gotten much better at the art of tying corsets as of late, and Bernadine had to puff out her belly and chest in clandestine fashion while the maid’s nimble fingers tied the strings, or else she would spend the whole day short of breath.
“Well,” Bernadine said, exhaling a deep breath and letting her posture return to normal. “Everything, really. All I know is that he is Laird of the castle, clan chieftain, and, like so many of his sex, rather arrogant. What can you tell me about his family? His childhood? Does he have a sweetheart?”
She asked the questions innocently, but of course her desire for the answers were anything but. She was tired of the castle, of its unfamiliar walls and unfamiliar people. She wanted to go home, and she thought she had finally figured out a way to do so. Gleaning information from her maid was the first step in her plan to finally escape these godforsaken stone walls and the prisoner they had made of her.
At the last question, Freya burst out in a loud guffaw that echoed about the room. “A sweetheart! Och, miss, sometimes yer Sassenach notions do make me giggle.”
“Is it such a foreign suggestion, that he might have a woman? Surely, he is old enough, and I would imagine that a man in his position would be expected to marry, to continue his family line.”
“Aye,” Freya said, wiping at the tears of laughter in her eyes and sniffing. “That is true enough, that he’ll need to marry at some point or other. But the Laird doesnae have anyone at the moment, miss. I have not been at the castle long, but my older sister, who has been workin’ as a maid here for some years, tells me that Donnan has had any number of women, but none longer than a fortnight or two. They are not sweethearts, that is for certain. Nothin’ sweet about what goes on betwixt the two of them.”
“Hm, interesting,” Bernadine muttered as Freya stepped toward her and helped her into the gown.
She planned to ingratiate herself to the Laird, to become one of the objects of his affection. She was pleased to know she would have little competition for the role, since he seemed to be in between bedfellows at the moment. And she knew he wanted her. She had seen the way he looked at her that night at the ball, like she was a prize he wanted to win, a meal he ached to devour. She would capitalize on those sentiments and use them to her advantage.
And yet as she thought of just how she would seduce him, the moves she would need to make, the feelings in him she would need to stir, she could not help a certain warming of her skin.
Such that Freya exclaimed, “Och, miss, yer blushin’ somethin’ fierce! Are ye overwarm? I can dampen the fire if ye like,” she said, nodding toward the raging flames in the hearth to their right.
Bernadine waved the comment away, saying only, “I blush often. It is nothing to worry about,” before allowing the maid to continue her fussing and let her get back to her scandalous thoughts.
Thoughts of Donnan without the look of suspicion he so often had around her, replaced instead by a look of softness, care, even…love. Preposterous! Bernadine admonished herself. Donnan Young was no more able to love than one of the sheep grazing out in the meadows. He was a brute and a tyrant and a kidnapper to boot. His heart was no doubt made of stone and ice, his mouth incapable of sweet platitudes or pretty phrases that true lovers exchanged.
You know that is not true, her traitorous mind told her. You know those lips, that mouth, are capable of immense pleasure, lustful kisses, seductive speech.
Freya fussed with the lace lined at the bodice of Bernadine’s gown, flattening it so it hung prettily over Bernadine’s ample bust. “As for his family, he has very little. Just the one sister, and she rarely visits now that she’s married and with child,” Freya told her, her brow furrowed in concentration as she attempted to straighten the pleats of fabric that flowed from the gown’s waist.
Bernadine wanted to kiss the woman for dragging her mind out of its perilous contemplations.
“Only one sister? What happened to his parents? Cousins? Aunts and uncles?” she asked, confused. Surely, he must have a cousin, an uncle, even a wayward aunt. Didn’t these Scots breed like rabbits? Surely there must be family member or two of his somewhere.
“Dead, miss,” Freya said, shaking her head as she stood back up straight, her hands falling to her sides. “His mother and father were killed in a clan raid some years ago, and all his siblings but Miss Young, or Lady Douglas, as she is called now, died in infancy or childhood.
“I believe he had a fallin’ out with his father’s brother some years ago, and they dinnae speak. His mother was an orphan raised by a neighborin’ clan, so all her relatives are lost or long dead, I expect.”
“So he has no one?” Bernadine asked. She realized her voice sounded oddly sympathetic, and though she hated that she felt sorry for him, she could not help it. She hated to think of anyone being totally alone in the world, because she knew exactly how it felt.
Though she had her papa and Guinevere, both of whom loved her more than words could say, Bernadine had spent much of her life feeling lonely. She had no siblings, no mother, not even any childhood friends to spend time with, for their estate in Cornwall was far removed from neighbouring houses where other children her age lived.
Most of her memories from childhood were of her playing with her dolls, or riding on her horse, or walking by the sea, all of which she had done alone; to think that she and Donnan might have this in common.
I can use this against him, she reminded herself, though she found the prospect brought her little of the triumph it should have. Preying on a man’s lack of family and loved ones seemed too cruel, even if it did suit her purposes.
“Well, he has his men, lads he fought with and grew up with. Most are married with wives and children, so they perhaps are not as close as they once might have been, but I dinnae think ye should worry yerself, miss. He’s a Laird, after all. He has everything he could ever want and more,” Freya said in a somewhat less-than-charitable tone.
“Oh Freya, I am not worrying about the Laird. I am simply interested in him. I hardly know anything of the man who kidnapped me, and I think I rather ought to, if I am to be his captive for the time being,” was Bernadine’s reply.
Freya looked at her suspiciously, nodding as she turned to the boudoir and straightened the brushes and combs lying on it.
“Be careful, miss,” Freya told her as she bid her adieu and left the room.
Bernadine rolled her eyes, but she was, as ever, rather surprised at just how astute the young maid was. She was far smarter than her years suggested. Bernadine tried to brush off Freya’s comment, but she knew her maid was right. Donnan was a fearsome man to go up against, and she would do well to remember that.
This is not child’s play. This is my life. My happiness. All in his hands. I must tread carefully if I am to best him.
Bernadine walked to the window seat, which had quickly become her favorite spot in the whole of the castle for reading and contemplation, both because of the view and because it was tucked away in her chambers where few would disturb her.
She had spent much of her time these last two weeks at that very seat, looking out at the spring-green pastures, the sheep and cows dotting the fields, the sun occasionally peeking out from behind the clouds that seemed so pervasive this far north.
Though Bernadine picked up her book and tried heartily to immerse herself in
the story it told her, of a silly heroine named Iris who wanted to fall in love with her father’s secretary, Bernadine’s mind kept straying to her plan and its object, Donnan.
Was she really capable of faking affection for him? Could she really use all the information Freya had given her against him? It seemed wrong, somehow, but then, her entire life seemed wrong since she had arrived in Scotland. And it is all his fault.
Bernadine had to remind herself of this constantly, for though she professed to hate the man, she found herself more and more intrigued by him rather than repulsed by him.
He had shown her glimpses of kindness, of care, that made Bernadine suspect that his heart could not be entirely cold. The attraction she had felt that first night at the ball had not ceased, despite her anger at the man. He was an infernal, handsome conundrum, and one she was interested in knowing better.
As she gazed down at the blurred words of the book in her hands, Bernadine had to admit that her desire to seduce Donnan was not wholly unselfish in its aims. Yes, it would allow her freedom. But it would also allow her, for the briefest of moments, to imagine a different life, a different reality. One in which that ball ended in their acquaintance, and perhaps a courtship, even love.
Bernadine wanted, needed, to indulge in this fantasy. When she returned to England, she would go back to the season and all its banal balls and suitors. She would hunt for a suitable husband who could fulfil her desire to have a child, or at least attempt to do so, and start a family. She did not expect to find love or anything of the sort in this quest.
Therefore, she deserved this. A few moments of feeling truly cherished. By the Scotsman whose eyes she had not for a moment been able to forget since that first night.
Chapter 11
Bernadine knew it was either very late in the evening or quite early in the morning when she awoke a few days later. The sky outside was pitch black, the castle perfectly quiet, and all seemed at a standstill.
This was not the first time she had awoken from slumber during her time in Scotland. In fact, since her arrival, she had hardly slept a full night through. Nightmares assaulted all her dreaming hours, often resulting in her sitting up in bed suddenly, sweating, hair askew, skin cold to the touch, wondering whether what she had just dreamed really was only fiction, or whether it might be fact.
This night was no different. The nightmare that had been plaguing her for weeks had again occurred, wherein she was embracing her papa but was suddenly ripped from his arms and shoved into a carriage by a large, frightening man with a face covered by a black cloth. The carriage rushed past darkened London townhouses, in the windows of which she could see her mother’s face, her mouth open in a silent scream.
It was an awful, disturbing dream, and Bernadine always awoke from it with her mother’s screams ringing in her ears. She knew it was impossible that these could be from her memory, infantile as she had been when the woman died, but the screams sounded so real, so anguished, that they always left Bernadine feeling shaken.
She always wished, after one of these nightmares, that she had someone to hold her, someone to tell her that all would be well. Their words would, of course, be a lie, captive as she was, but at the moment, she was perfectly fine with false truths so long as they calmed her.
But as she looked about her room, she was reminded again that she had nothing and no one. There was not one person in the castle other than Freya who cared a whit for her welfare, and she only did so because it was her job to do so. Bernadine was all alone, and she felt the loneliness acutely as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room before her, her breath coming out in cold puffs thanks to the cold, silent hearth.
At home, Guinevere had always been the one to comfort her when bad dreams had assaulted her as a child. The woman would carry young Bernadine to her own room, settling her on the small settee by the hearth with a thick woven blanket tucked all around her. She would sing Bernadine back to sleep, and the dreams she would have after her eyes closed were invariably sweet and calm.
The nightmares had stopped when Bernadine grew older. This was the first time in years that she had had her sleep interrupted by such horrid visions, and her adult mind made them far more realistic and troubling than the nightmares that had plagued her as a child.
Without anyone to comfort her, Bernadine had turned to her trusty companion, the written word, to calm her back to sleep. Reaching for the candle at her side, she lit the match she kept on the holder.
The hit of sulphurous perfume from the match was a balm to her nerves, for it reminded her of home, of reading far past when it was acceptable for a young girl to do so, the candlelight flickering on the wall and making interesting shapes and patterns. She set the holder carefully on her lap and rubbed her hands over the flame, massaging warmth into her chilled hands.
Her book was next to the candle holder, and Bernadine carefully leaned over the flame and brought it to her lap. It was a sweeping and hilariously dramatic Gothic romance set in the wilds of the Yorkshire moors. The winds ripped through the heroine’s frock and curls as her lover hunted for her through the gnarly trees gracing the property. It was deliciously scandalous and Bernadine was enjoying every page of it.
Donnan Young’s library was unexpectedly, truly wonderful. Full of the exact sort of novels she loved, Bernadine had now devoured a third of a shelf of adventurous stories, like the one she was now holding, full of women and the men they fell in love with. It was escapist literature, the exact sort of thing men generally disparaged, which made it all the more surprising that Donnan’s library was full of it.
Perhaps they are his sister’s novels, Bernadine thought to herself as she removed her bookmark and opened to the page she had last read. That the girl had such excellent taste in literature made Bernadine wonder whether, in another life, they might have been friends.
She would have loved to finally have a female friend, rather than just the acquaintances she said hello to at balls and while out shopping. She wanted someone to confide in, to share her hopes and dreams and, above all, her fears, which she kept locked away in the depths of her heart. She feared that anyone might think her weak, meek, or any of the other myriad adjectives so often used to describe her sex.
However, Bernadine knew she was not meant for such close relationships, friendly or romantic, because she could never find anyone to be herself around. She was too shy among the women of her station, always anxious of becoming a target of their gossiping mouths and assessing eyes.
And around men, though she was quick-witted and cheerful, she had realized quickly that men of the ton wanted her for one thing and one thing only: her name, or rather, the money it came with. Her beauty was a boon to them, but they did not require it. They required her to line their pockets, to keep their pockets full. She was a bank to them and nothing else. Her time with Donnan was her only chance to feel truly desired for who she was, not her family name and all its trappings.
That was why she needed this time with Donnan, false as it was. She wanted to know what it was to not only be wanted, but to for someone to be really, truly interested in her, not just her body, but her mind. Hadn’t Donnan told her he wanted both?
After that, she could once again turn to her trusty companion: literature. It was, her way of living the life she wanted to live, one of adventure, love. Thank goodness for novels, she thought as she settled into her pillows and dove into the story. Without them, her life would be truly pitiful.
Twenty minutes later, Bernadine was fully engrossed in the story, her eyes speeding down the page as she followed the heroine, Eliza Barnes, running from what she thought a ghost in the castle, when she suddenly caught a snippet of sound from outside her window, muffled by the heavy curtains drawn shut to keep the night-time breeze out.
It must be some livestock or other, she thought as she turned a page and refocused her eyes on the words in front of her. Her room was far enough away from the stables so that the noise did not assault her day and
night, but she did hear the occasional sound from that part of the castle when the wind was quiet and there was no one about, as was the case at that particular moment.
A few minutes and a chapter later, she heard the noise again, and this time much louder than before. It sounds almost like a sheep, Bernadine thought as she put the book down and listened. The noise came again, louder this time now that she was focusing on it.
She rose from bed and walked toward the window. The moon was nearly full and the sky abnormally free of clouds, allowing her to see a white, furry animal lying on a hill half a mile away. A sheep? She wondered, straining to see that far in the dark.
She knew that Donnan let his animals roam rather far, but they were usually brought in before night, to prevent them from being eaten by predators lurking the hills. For a sheep to be out this late was odd indeed, more so because the animal sounded like it was in great distress.
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