Page 15 of Highlander's Captive Bride
“I’m to show ye the healing rooms and all the supplies we have in the morning, Daisy,” Nadia replied, “in case ye need anything for Elodie. Shall I come and find ye after breakfast?”
“I suppose that’ll be fine, depending on the child’s condition, of course,” Daisy returned, hope stirring inside her that such a tour might give her the opportunity to find a way to escape.
“Ye can go now, Nadia,” Jamie told the girl.
“Very well. I’ll see ye in the morning, Daisy,” Nadia said, taking one more worried look at Elodie before leaving the room.
“The Laird wants to see ye,” Jamie announced as soon as Nadia had gone.
Daisy’s heart sank, but she got up and nodded.
Poppy looked up from her knitting. “I’ll let ye ken if anything happens,” she promised her with a smile. She then turned it on Jamie, who, Daisy noticed, smiled bashfully back at the servant as he ushered her out of the room.
The young warrior appeared to be completely smitten.
Full of trepidation about the forthcoming encounter with her captor, Daisy nevertheless noticed that the place was well-lit with lamps as they went down the left staircase, turned right in the great hall, and took a broad, high-ceilinged passage lined with tapestries and paintings. The decor looked very familiar to her, having been raised in Castle McGunn, and yet there was, of course, a strangeness to it all.
“Where are we going?” she asked, suppressing the tremor in her voice that threatened to reveal her nervousness.
“To see the Laird,” Jamie said simply, giving her a half smile.
She was not deceived by his pleasant manner or boyish, good looks. It was clear to her he was the Laird’s right arm and, therefore, could not be trusted. Halfway down the hallway, he stopped by a large, intricately carved door. She halted, too, taking in the picturesque renderings of thistles, heather, numerous deer and stags, fanciful heroic warriors, and winsome maidens in long, trailing gowns.
Jamie rapped sharply on the door.
“Come in,” came the barked reply in a voice Daisy recognized all too well. Her stomach dropped further as Jamie opened the door and ushered her inside, following her in.
“Ye can leave us alone now, Jamie,” the Laird said, looming large behind a vast desk that appeared to match the door in its carved artistry.
“Right ye are,” Jamie replied, but she saw the look of disappointment on his face as he turned and left, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Silence reigned for a few moments as the sound of his footsteps retreated, as if the Laird was listening to them fade as well.
Daisy found herself standing in the center of a beautiful, old carpet hued in rich reds and greens, in a den that was distinctly masculine. It smelled masculine, too, she noted, catching the familiar whiffs of woodsmoke, whisky, leather, and musk.
Her chin held high despite her racing heart, she looked around with interest, determined to show that she was not intimidated by the fearsome weapons arrayed on the walls, nor the collection of stuffed heads of stags and boars that stared glassily down at her. It was not much different from her brother’s study, which had been her father’s, and his father’s before him.
“So, what d’ye make of it?” the Laird asked in his deep, gravelly voice, rising from his seat behind the desk and coming around it to stand a few feet away from her.
Daisy swallowed her nerves and looked up at him. He looked… different. His plaid was gone, and he stood in his kilt, half boots, and a black coat, with a snowy white shirt beneath that was open at the neck, revealing the smattering of springy, dark hairs on his chest.
He seemed larger and more well-formed than before. She noted that he had shaved, and his dark hair looked somehow neater, though still unruly. His chiseled features glowed amber in the lamplight, and his dark eyes fixed upon her, his expression stern but with a hint of enquiring eagerness.
She swallowed a trembling breath, for his presence was acting upon her senses again, making her pulse race and heat run up and down her body. Inwardly, she cursed him for it and resolved to be professional.
“I gave her a draught that seems to have eased her pain for a while. She was sleeping peacefully when I left,” she told him, strengthening her voice, which threatened to betray her nerves.
“Hmm,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off her. “Sit, will ye?” He gestured to a pair of matching leather armchairs.
Daisy wanted to refuse out of pride, but she was exhausted by the events of the last two days, and hungry, too. She sat down.
He crossed to a corner cabinet, and she watched as he poured two tots of whisky and brought them back, passing one to her before taking the chair opposite.
Again, she wanted to refuse the drink.
“Slàinte mhath!” he said, downing the dram in one go and setting the glass on the desk.
“Slàinte mhath,” she echoed, giving in to temptation and tossing the whisky down.
