A Lord for the Lass

by Amalie Howard

“He loves yer mother.”

  His expression gentled. “She’s easy to love.”

  The soft note in his voice, tempered by pain, caught her notice. But Makenna didn’t want to pry. It was clear that Lady Haverille was the most important thing in his life, but she suspected his affection for her was intertwined with his own feelings about himself and the man he was. A touch of wistfulness sat on his face as he stared at the two of them. Makenna wondered if he was recalling spending tender moments with her when he’d been a boy.

  She smiled. “Did ye learn to plant with her as well?”

  “No.” His jaw flexed. “We did not have a garden.”

  As if a lamp had been extinguished, all softness fled from his face, leaving the faintly sardonic expression she was well used to in its place.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he quipped. “Gardens are much too dirty for my tastes.”

  With a false smile, he nodded brusquely to her and strode off toward the keep. Shaking her head at his mercurial mood, she followed his footsteps after a good amount of time had passed so they wouldn’t cross paths, and headed up toward her chamber, intending to freshen up before tackling the rest of the ledgers. The mundane work helped to keep her mind off things…and the awful feeling that something terrible was about to happen. She couldn’t shake the sensation, no matter what she did, and the estate books helped. Further, the discrepancies she had found and shared with Lord Leclerc would have to be reconciled, and she had to admit that it had given her an immense thrill to demonstrate her skill, especially against his.

  “Tildy?” she called as she entered her room, but the maid was nowhere in sight. Makenna must have missed her in the kitchen on the way up, or she might have been down at the creek doing laundry with the other women.

  Makenna spared a quick glance to the looking glass on the dresser and nearly squealed at her reflection. She looked like a dozen birds had decided to make a communal nest in her hair. And Julien hadn’t said a single word! She was surprised he hadn’t taken the opportunity to tease her. Perhaps he’d been attempting to be courteous for a change. Either way, her vanity was pricked. Well, she would have to make do without Tildy. Her brush wasn’t in its usual place on the dresser, but lay on the middle of the bed.

  Odd. What was it doing there?

  Climbing up, she reached for it, only to hear a furious, hissing sound. She froze, a scream bursting from her lips as something long and wriggly shifted beneath the sheet, and a black head with a pair of orange eyes emerged. Makenna recognized the zigzag black-and-gray markings of the adder as it rose nearly vertical. Her heart stuck in her throat while stark terror froze her limbs. Her breath burned her lungs, her chest constricting as black spots danced before her eyes.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God…

  She despised snakes. Though she’d been around many, having grown up at Maclaren, it did not make her fear any less. In fact, it only intensified it to a new, terrifying level. Combined with the dread building up in her bones at the thought of Colin appearing at any moment, Makenna couldn’t move a muscle.

  Suddenly, the snake reared and struck out, but by some deeper gut instinct Makenna threw the hairbrush and deflected its attack. She let out a wild scream just as Tildy burst into the room, bearing a load of linens. The maid took one look before dropping the clothes and grabbing a nearby broom. Without a moment’s hesitation, she swiped at the snake, beating it off the sheets. Makenna leaped onto the bed as the snake slithered into a corner of the room, and the maid instantly joined her, broom still in hand.

  “How did it get in here?” Tildy shrieked.

  “I dunnae ken,” Makenna gasped, her heart still pounding.

  More maids crowded the door, as well as Lady Haverille and Malcolm, who were both covered in dirt as if they’d rushed in from the garden.

  “There’s a snake!” Tildy screeched, brandishing the broom.

  Malcolm shrieked and fled to the bed. He was quickly joined by Lady Haverille, while the other maids dashed in the opposite direction, all of them screaming as loudly as Makenna had. It would have been comical if the snake wasn’t thoroughly agitated and defensive. Her sister Sorcha had explained that they were not usually aggressive unless disturbed or alarmed, and this one looked quite irritated to have been squashed and now cornered.

  What had it been doing in her bed? Under the sheets. Her brain was too confused to make sense of why a snake would be in her bedchamber, but something niggled at her. How would a snake, a highly venomous one at that, slither its way onto the mattress, three feet off the floor? Her stomach roiled into a mass of knots, bile rising, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Can we keep it?” Malcolm asked excitedly.

  Lady Haverille shook her head. “No, it’s not a pet. It belongs outside.”

  Makenna agreed. Far, far outside.

  She breathed through the vile push of sickness in her throat as the snake slithered out from the corner, and another chorus of screams ensued.

  “What in hell is all this racket?” the lord of the manor shouted, rounding the doorjamb. His eyes widened as the bevy of bodies perched on Makenna’s bed, and then shifted to the wriggling snake. Makenna shuddered and tore her eyes away. The thing was at least two feet long and thick. It looked angry. She tensed as Julien approached, watching as the snake coiled onto itself and reared back in preparation.

  “Dunnae get closer,” she warned him, her voice shaking. Sweat broke out along her hairline and down her spine, and her vision started to spin. Again. Now wasn’t the time to swoon! “It’s poisonous,” she blurted out.

  His eyes met hers, immediately reassuring, his soothing presence washing over her. “I know.”

  The head groom, Alban, a heavily bearded old man, entered the room next, a pitchfork in his grasp. The maids who had run away must have had the foresight to fetch him, knowing he’d had a lot of experience in making sure snakes didn’t harm the horses. Within moments, the groom had removed the deadly visitor and the room had cleared. Lady Haverille left to wash up, and Malcolm followed Alban, chattering a mile a minute about snakes making wonderful pets. Makenna suppressed a shiver. Boys and snakes. She’d never understand the lure.

  “Fetch your mistress some water,” Julien commanded Tildy and turned back to Makenna, his voice low. “What happened? How in hell did that get in here?”

  She explained how she’d found the snake, and Julien’s eyes narrowed. “Buried under your sheets?”

  His disbelieving tone mirrored the frantic, half-addled thoughts she’d had earlier. Makenna almost didn’t want to look at his face to see the misgivings there. It was highly improbable that that snake had meandered on its own up several flights of stairs and into her bed. Which meant that someone had likely put it there. Someone in the castle. Her stomach heaved again.

  “I seem to attract all kinds, it seems.”

  The attempt at humor didn’t work. Julien didn’t even rise to making a quip about creatures seeking out her bed. She was still shaking when she accepted the water from Tildy. She drank it, and then dismissed the maid. She knew why Julien wasn’t in a joking mood. Snakes did not wander into second story keeps. Makenna shuddered. They were rarely found inside homes. Then again, it was an old castle, and it could have come from anywhere. Someone going to such lengths to get it in here had to be a product of her overwrought imagination.

  No one here at Duncraigh would want to hurt her.

  Would they?

  Her legs buckled and she crumpled weakly against the bedclothes, before nearly leaping into Julien’s arms in case there were any more of the snake’s brethren lurking in her bed. There were none, he assured her, but she moved gingerly to the edge nonetheless.

  After the immediate danger had passed, Julien resorted to his usual tactics, of taunting the worry out of her. “Honestly, how is a ferocious Highlander like you afraid of a wee little snake?”

  “It was no’ wee.” She glared at him. “I suppose ye’re no’ frighten
ed of anything.”

  “No man is afraid of nothing.” He shrugged. “A little bit of fear is healthy.”

  “And what is worthy of yer healthy fear, my lord? Bears? Mountain lions?”

  “Poverty.”

  Makenna blinked at the odd answer. “I meant like rats and spiders and the like. Things like that.”

  Julien shrugged. “Red-haired wenches?”

  “Beast.”

  With a scowl, Makenna threw a pillow at him that he neatly dodged. But the answer he’d let slip had stuck with her long after he’d left, and long after she’d made Tildy change the bedclothes and thoroughly sweep the room. Twice.

  After a soothing bath and in a much calmer state, her thoughts drifted back to Julien. He’d admitted earlier that he’d never had a garden. Noble houses were synonymous with gardens. Poverty. What would he know of it? Julien did not carry himself like a man who had ever lacked for anything. As far as Makenna knew, his grandfather was a marquess and his parents were aristocrats. But his answer hadn’t been in jest. It hadn’t been a possible fear. No, he’d uttered the word as if it’d meant something…as if he’d lived it.

  She sighed. Whatever secrets he had would pale in comparison to hers, however. Makenna doubted that he was on the run from a maniac. Or from unknown enemies who might stoop to scaring the piss out of her by having someone put a deadly snake in her bed. The guards Julien had employed patrolled the perimeter of the grounds, not the keep itself. Anyone could have waltzed in here without being seen. There were many new faces at Duncraigh.

  Then again, the snake could have been pure chance.

  The question was, if it wasn’t an unlucky occurrence, had someone meant her harm?

  And would they strike again?

  Chapter Eight

  A daylong rain storm filled the skies above Duncraigh lands, turning them into a morass of bruised gray mist. Brice had just returned from an errand for Makenna—a foaling crisis or some such, though, honestly, Julien did not want to know—and had gamely suggested they spar indoors, in the great hall or even inside the barns. But Julien had shucked his shirt and insisted on the courtyard, where the pair had been training for the last handful of weeks.

  “I’m not afraid of a little bit of rain,” he’d told Brice, though he’d pulled on a pair of leather gloves to keep the claymore’s handle from slipping in his grip.

  And what is worthy of yer fear, my lord?

  Makenna’s question continued to haunt him as he and Brice traded blows with their swords, the footman pushing Julien with his raw strength, while he outmaneuvered the Scotsman with his deft skill and increasingly agile footwork.

  He’d answered her question honestly—poverty—and registered the mistake immediately. Damn it all to hell, he didn’t make mistakes. He didn’t give himself away like that, not to anyone. And yet the answer had come tumbling off his tongue without thought, without hesitation. Makenna was far too intelligent to have overlooked it, too, even with the remnants of fear still chilling her blood from the adder found underneath her bedsheets.

  An adder. Julien had puzzled over the venomous serpent’s odd resting spot, and how it had managed to slither all the way to her bedchamber and into her bed without being seen by any of the maids. He knew such things were not out of the realm of possibility, but it still sat as odd. Its appearance troubled him greatly. And he could not quit thinking about what might have happened had Makenna slipped beneath the sheets, the adder still coiled, unseen. Waiting to strike. The thought was nothing short of a nightmare.

  She could have been killed. The idea of losing her had struck him fiercely. Made him realize that despite his intentions to the contrary, he bloody cared what happened to her. Somehow, she’d crept under his skin. Julien scowled. Who was he fooling? Makenna Maclaren had gotten into his blood from the first day he’d met her…and she’d never left.

  Hell.

  Brice’s sword slammed into Julien’s, and despite the leather gloves, his inattention caused the wet handle of the claymore to nearly be ripped from his grasp. The rain had thoroughly drenched his hair and bare skin, his trousers and his boots, but Julien was still hot with sweat and exertion, and intense frustration. All because of the fiery-haired woman who had invaded his home—and his mind.

  “Shall we stop, milord?” Brice asked as a peal of thunder rolled overhead.

  “No,” Julien said, jaw clenched. He needed to expend himself, needed the good ache of his muscles after a sparring. He needed to eradicate the tight, heavy sensation in his chest and groin whenever he thought of Makenna. Swinging a claymore helped.

  Tossing up her skirts and finally bedding her would help more.

  Though Julien knew that that would only sink him deeper into the hole he’d dug for himself. No, brutal sparring would have to do.

  A resurgence of energy flooded his body and Julien advanced, using all of the weaknesses Brice had shown over the course of their training to beat him back, nearly straight into one of the granite hitching posts in the yard. One last swing of his blade and the footman’s sword struck the granite, and fell from his hand.

  Julien breathed heavily as Brice held up his arms in surrender.

  “Well done, Brice,” he said, ignoring the flicker of concern in the footman’s eyes when he stooped to pick up his weapon. The onslaught had caught him by surprise, it seemed.

  “Milord,” he replied, before giving a nod and retreating for his regular duties.

  Julien eyed the windows of the upper floors. Over the last day or so, Makenna had finished with the stacks of ledgers and had begun riding out to the different fields and farms included in Duncraigh’s holdings. There were sheep and cattle and more sheep to inventory, and then, of course, there would be the horseflesh to consider. But Duncraigh’s potential financial stronghold was in its wool, and that was where she wanted to focus her efforts. But Julien suspected that Makenna was also using the excuse of checking on the animals to do frequent rides around the estate, worried about potential unwelcome visitors.

  The snake had rattled her. It had rattled him.

  Once more, he shook off the horrible thought of Makenna lying poisoned and prone on her bed if the worst had come to pass. He wanted to put it down to chance, but he couldn’t rule out the fact that they might also have a metaphorical snake in their midst as well.

  Julien blew out a breath. The bout with Brice had beaten him into exhaustion, but his brain still spun. With thoughts of her.

  He looked away from the study windows, the rain and salty sweat in his eyes, and knew that Makenna had ensorcelled him from the start. She had not even needed to try. It had simply happened, and Julien was at a loss to understand why. She was just a woman, and one with an overabundance of trouble attached to her.

  Yet he could not stop thinking about her.

  Before, in Paris, he’d socialize almost every evening, and he’d satisfy himself with a woman from time to time. He’d been drawn to those with auburn hair and generous figures and keen stares. Those who were not prone to smiling at every inane word muttered by the men in their acquaintance. However, once the assignation had concluded, Julien would never feel the temptation to repeat it. It would satisfy him, but not wholly. He’d been searching, he realized now, for a specific face.

  A specific woman.

  And now, everywhere he turned at Duncraigh, she seemed to be there. If not in body, then in spirit. He’d see her maid, Tildy, or the lad, Malcolm, and they would remind him of her.

  The boy had, as Makenna had promised, worked diligently for his keep. He wore a serious expression as he saw to his chores, and when he sat with Lady Haverille learning his letters, and Julien recognized it. After his father had died, he’d had to work as hard to keep his mother from falling ill again. She’d still been weak, and Julien had been scared that she would regress. It had been a difficult time, and Malcolm, though his situation was much different, reminded Julien too much of himself.

  He’d drawn the lad away from his chores a
few times, wanting to give him respite. They’d taken a few fishing rods and a skiff out on a little, weedy pond, though all they’d managed to catch were a few sunfish. Julien, however, not one to waste any opportunity, had turned the conversation toward the Brodies.

  “Tell me about your home, Malcolm. Were you friends with Lady Makenna and Tildy there as well?”

  Malcolm had cast his line again and shook his head. “I didnae have many friends.”

  Julien ignored the hitch in his heart and pushed on. “What of Lady Makenna? Did she have friends?”

  Malcolm looked to be thinking hard about the question, the sun’s reflection dancing off the water and over his face. “She didnae come out of her bedchamber in the keep very often.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  The boy shrugged. “The laird…he was angry with her a lot.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “Aye, someone stuck him good,” Malcolm said, a boyish thrill lighting his eyes as if he’d been forbidden to speak of it. His voice lowered. “With his lady’s dagger.”

  Julien had tensed at the new information. Makenna had not divulged that the weapon had been hers. If she hadn’t done it, then one of her clansmen or clanswomen had hoped to implicate her. She’d told him as much, but he hadn’t been aware that there was a murder weapon that could point to her, which changed things. It tightened the noose hanging over her head. Julien’s mind had raced. Who could it have been? Someone who wanted her gone? Or someone who wanted her at their mercy? Though Julien would not eliminate women’s jealousies, Colin had the most to gain. Clearly, the new laird had felt he had enough evidence to convict her and intended to do so.

  Malcolm had continued, oblivious to Julien’s darkening humor. “He had it coming, my mum said, for what he did. People said he had a fierce temper. And sometimes he hurt the lady.”

  Julien’s fingers had tightened around the fishing rod handle. “Is that so?”

  “Aye, and I saw it once,” he replied, his eyes growing wider with the memory and the desire to tell it. “Laird Graeme brought Lady Makenna out to the whipping post, shouting at her. I dunnae ken what she did wrong, but he was going to lash her for it. My mum dragged me away before I could see, though.”