Page 62 of A Virgin for the Icy Laird
“Forgive me,” he said, “I didnae ken ye had an aversion to animals.”
“I daenae.” She did not look around to check if the guard was gone. She could not risk locking eyes with the dead creature. “Forgive me theatrics. Forgive me also, for I am about to tell ye somethin’ unseemly.”
“Do go on.”
“I will be returning home now?—”
“Have we nae managed to make ye comfortable?”
She continued despite his interruption. “There is a matter that requires me attention, Callum. I intend to leave this very moment.”
His eyes flicked over her shoulder to where her carriage awaited and Mrs. Donnelly and her maid stood watching. “Ye cannae expect to travel without proper protection. It’s nae safe for ye to travel on yer own. By the time ye reach yer faither’s castle, the sun would have set.”
“I am aware.”
“Has Adair been informed?”
“Nay, which is why I’ve come to ye.”
“I cannae give ye permission nor allow ye to leave.” He looked back at the castle. “Wait for me. I will find Adair. Proper preparations have to be made.” Before he left, he called out one last time, “Wait for me, Isla. Daenae leave.”
The sun cast one last halo over Scott Castle as it dipped beneath the horizon.
Isla stepped out of the carriage already feeling like a foreigner in her own home. She understood Callum’s concern for her, but she had chosen to disobey and leave as quickly as she could. Something told her this was a critical matter.
“Where is Duncan?” she asked Celia.
“The clachan.”
Isla felt a perverse sense of gratitude that she did not have to go into the castle. She did not miss it. She felt no attachment toward it. Unless he saw the carriage, her father would never have to know that she’d returned home.
Celia led her to a cottage at the top of the hamlet, then left to perform the duties she’d abandoned the day before. Isla had ordered her maid to hide with the carriage in the coach house until she returned. She intended for their visit to be swift and covert, so she was left standing in Duncan’s stone courtyard alone.
The front door was ajar, but for some reason, she knocked. When she stepped inside, she did not like the sight she saw. A man who could barely crack one eye open should have servants to at least stoke the fire for him.
Isla stormed into the room, reaching for the poker sticking out of the grate. Duncan did not register her presence, and her heart sank as she assumed the worst.
Because she was too worried about him, she did not notice the napkin on the stool by the hearth. She grabbed the poker and immediately yanked her hand back as the heat of it seared her skin.
Her yelp stirred the man on the bed.
“Lady Isla, is that ye?”
She rose from her crouch, feeling useless. “It is I.”
He had angled himself in a way that allowed him to see over his feet. He assessed the situation, her hand shaking with pain and the poker she’d dropped on the wooden floor.
“Please daenae bother with that. Mrs. Wembley just stepped out a moment ago.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Wembley returned. She had been the clan’s cook for as long as Isla could remember. When she saw her, a genuine smile spread across her face.
“Me Lady, what are ye doin’ in this old shack? Shouldnae ye be preparing for the wedding?”
In her hands was a tray holding a steaming bowl of soup. It sloshed as she walked over and set it on the edge of the bed.
It was nice to know the household hadn’t abandoned Duncan in his time of need.
“I asked for her,” Duncan explained.
