Page 8 of Ruined By the Ruthless Highlander
His eyes flickered with excitement as she waited for him to correct himself.
“Aye,” he said calmly. “Mairi.”
Marian’s jaw tightened. It was clear that he was doing it to annoy her, and it worked. The thought infuriated her, and so did his men’s laughter.
They must think me a joke.
She forced a smile, trying to hide how much of their teasing got to her.
“My Lady.” Lilly tugged at her sleeve again.
Marian had forgotten about her maid for a minute. The poor girl’s cheeks were rosy with embarrassment. And even thoughshe hesitated, her eyes already conveyed the words she was about to say.
“Perhaps we should?—”
A loud rattle of wheels behind them cut her off, and they both turned to look.
It was another carriage, rolling into the courtyard and splashing through the wet ground. Its passenger was a thin, balding man in a travel-stained coat.
He hurried out, clutching a leather satchel stuffed with papers and splashing mud with his boots.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he called out breathlessly. “The rain kept me.”
Marian hesitated.
Is he a friend of the Laird’s?
“I am the steward appointed from Edinburgh, Edward Calder. I was sent to welcome the new claimant and rightful owner of Glen Carrick, after the passin’ of Laird MacLeod and his direct heir. Lord…” He peered at his papers. “George Whitcombe.”
Marian’s pulse quickened. She stepped forward, answering him before realizing how absurd it looked.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, shifting slightly on her feet. “I am Marian Whitcombe. We sent word a week ago. My father has passed, and the estate now falls under my guardianship through my uncle and mother.”
“Ah…” The steward blinked, nodding slightly as she showed him the sealed document. “I see, me Lady.”
He raised his head to look at the Laird and his armed men, obviously trying to reconcile their relationship to her. But before he could speak, the Laird stepped forward to introduce himself.
“I am Lachlan MacLeod,” he said, folding his arms. “Laird of Clan MacLeod and this castle. And as ye can plainly see,” he added dryly, “I am nay ghost.”
The steward’s face went white, and Marian could have sworn that she heard the Laird snort. But there was no time to investigate.
The Laird continued, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. “The land remains mine. And I’ll haunt this castle long before I’m driven out of it.”
“Me… Me Laird,” the steward stammered, rifling through his satchel as if to find something. “It was widely reported that ye had fallen durin’ the last skirmishes in the north.”
“Ye assumed me dead?” The Laird raised his eyebrows.
The poor steward staggered backward. “Nay!” he sputtered, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. “Survivors claimed ye were left for dead, and unfortunately, nay messages reached Edinburgh to contradict it. I will have to return to Edinburgh for clarification,” he added, before rushing to leave.
“Wait!” Marian called after him. “What about the issue of my inheritance?”
He paused, thinking for a second. “Until the Crown and the elders respond… I suppose the ownership of the property is… ah… disputed.”
The courtyard fell into an awkward hush, save for the rattling of the carriage wheels as he left.
The Laird glanced toward Marian with a smirk on his face. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from his eyebrows.
Marian scoffed. “I refuse to accept this,” she started. “Clearly, you scared him off. You should?—”
