Page 24 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
CHAPTER EIGHT
The nerve of that man! The absolute nerve.
Elaina marched down the corridor with long, determined strides.
Rules, guards and protection spoken in the same tone her father had used, as if concern excused control.
She was keenly aware of the familiar footsteps behind her. It was the same guard. He was still following. She did not look back.
Let him trail me like a shadow if he wishes.
She refused to give him or Duncan the satisfaction of seeing how deeply it unsettled her. If Castle Grant was to be another place where she was watched at every turn, then she would at least claim the right to be angry about it.
The kitchen was already alive when she entered. The warm air was thick with the scents of bread, simmering broth, and smoke from the hearth. A few servants glanced up in surprise, then quickly looked away again, as their murmurs rose and fell like birds startled from a branch.
Elaina went straight to the shelves.
Her breath eased as soon as she saw them. Bundles of dried herbs hung neatly along the wall, some faded with age, others better preserved. It was clear evidence of a healer long gone but not entirely erased. She reached out almost reverently, her fingers brushing over labels written in a careful, unfamiliar hand.
Valerian root, lemon balm, chamomile, yarrow…
Her shoulders loosened for the first time that morning.
At least this is still mine.
She set to work at once, requesting hot water with politeness and choosing what she needed with practiced ease. She crushed roots with the mortar and pestle, feeling the steady rhythm grounding her thoughts. The sharp, earthy scent of valerian rose into the air, followed by the lighter, calming sweetness of balm.
As she worked, her anger slowly transformed, burning down into something sharper and more focused. If she was to stay there, she would not do so meekly. She would be useful. Shewould be necessary. She would remind Duncan Grant, and everyone else in this castle, that she was not a liability to be managed but a woman with purpose and skill.
She poured the mixture carefully, watching steam curl upward, and thought grimly that if sleep refused to grant her peace, then she would take it by force, one carefully brewed draught at a time.
Time slipped past unnoticed.
It was only when her hands began to tremble slightly as she tied off the last small vial that Elaina paused. Her stomach gave a low, traitorous growl, loud enough that she froze and pressed a hand to her middle in disbelief.
She glanced toward the small window near the hearth. The light had faded to deep amber, with shadows stretching long across the stone floor.
Goodness, it’s late.
She had not eaten since the previous day. Anger and purpose had sustained her longer than sense ever could, but now her body was making its demands known.
Elaina turned toward the cook, who was stirring a pot near the fire. “May I have something tae eat?” she asked politely. “Anything will dae.”
The cook hesitated. She exchanged a glance with one of the nearby maids, which was quick, uncomfortable, and laden with meaning.
Elaina noticed at once. “What is it?”
The cook sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “I’m sorry, me lady. I was given direct orders. Ye are tae be served only in the dining hall.”
For a heartbeat, Elaina simply stared at her. Then fury surged, hot and uncontained.
Laird Grant.
This was him again. These were rules wrapped in civility, and control disguised as concern, as if dictating where she ate were necessary for the safety of the clan.
“I see,” Elaina said tightly.
She would gladly have turned away then and there, pride outweighing hunger. She had done without before. She could do so again.
