Page 4 of Wedded to the Twisted Highlander
“It was to ease the muscle cramps,” the healer explained.
Astrid couldn’t help but notice the way the healer reacted to the Laird. It was as if the old man knew that his master was all bark and no bite.
“I think it’s time that ye rest,” the Laird said, the anger in his voice fading. “Go, the lass will take over from here on.”
“Me Laird?” the healer asked as the Laird escorted him out of the room.
Astrid watched as the Laird’s father slowly relaxed. She looked at the herbs, balms, and tonics littering the tabletop. It seemed that the man had everything he needed to live but lacked the will to go on.
“How did ye ken to wipe off the spearmint?” the Laird asked, his voice startling her.
She hadn’t expected him to be so close. Yet, there he was, barely a breath away from her. There was no getting around him—he encompassed and shrouded her. The scent of burned oak and peat swirled around her. It was a homey, earthy scent that seeped into her and soothed her bones.
She swallowed hard as she caught a harsh movement out of the corner of her eye.
“Ye cannae give it to dyin’ muscles,” she said, noticing the strong citrusy scent in the room. She grabbed the balm and dared to take a whiff. “This willnae do anything but cause his skin to blister. Laird McFair, I hate to tell ye this, but yer faither is?—”
“I ken,” the Laird muttered as he stepped away. The fresh air cleared the cobwebs from her mind. “I’m nae tryin’ to prolong his life. Just make him more comfortable. I can nay longer trust Dreyfus wit’ that task. Nae after what I just witnessed. That is why I’ve decided that ye’re goin’ to look after me faither from now on.”
“What? Me Laird, nay, I cannae do that,” Astrid protested as he turned on his heel and walked to the door.
“Aye, ye can. And ye will,” the Laird fired back as he pulled the door open. He paused on the threshold and glanced over his shoulder at her. “See that she doesnae leave the room.”
“Me Laird, ye cannae. Please.” Her heart sank into her stomach as the door slammed shut. Despair clawed at her throat. “Please, I have to go back to the village. It’s a matter of life and death. She’ll die without me. Please.”
2
“Excuse me, but can ye tell me how much longer I have to stay in here?” Astrid asked, poking her head through the crack in the door. She glared defiantly at the guard standing outside.
“Till the Laird says otherwise,” he responded.
With a brisk flick of his wrist, the door slammed shut in her face.
Stumbling back, Astrid shook her head, appalled by his rudeness. She glanced at the old man resting peacefully in the bed. His breath rattled with every inhale. As much as she wanted to help him, she knew it was only a matter of time before he left for heaven.
“Ye’re to come wit’ me,” a maid said the second she burst through the door.
Astrid nearly jumped out of her skin at the opportunity to get out of the room.
“Can ye at least tell me where ye’re takin’ me?” she asked as she followed the maid through the dimly lit corridors of McFair Castle.
Her chest tightened as the echoes of her footsteps mingled with the soft murmurs that drifted from the rooms they passed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the maid flashed her a smile.
“To yer room, of course,” the maid answered cheerfully—which was a stark contrast to how Astrid was feeling. “The Laird wants to make sure ye have a place to lay yer head while ye’re here.”
“And ye wouldnae happen to ken how long that would be? Do ye?” Astrid implored as she tried not to pay any heed to the eyes that lingered on her longer than she liked.
She didn’t like being the center of attention. A few side looks were enough to make her nerves spike.
“I cannae say, I’m sorry. But I can tell ye that ye are very important,” the maid said, giving her the side-eye as if questioning her Laird’s judgment.
Astrid couldn’t blame her. She was a street urchin, with ragged clothes and all. There was no denying or hiding her status. Thedirt smudges on her cheeks and the tangles in her hair betrayed her.
“Och, I dinnae think so,” Astrid said as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Well, who am I to say what goes on in the Laird’s head? But ye must be very skilled to be here.”
Yet, when she looked over her shoulder, the sight of her armed escort reminded her all too well that she was no guest, but a prisoner under the ruse of hospitality.
