Page 8 of A Laird and a Gentleman

“What is this?”

Mistress MacInnes shrugged. “If the necklace was from your mother, perhaps it is from her?”

With suddenly trembling fingers, Mariam plucked the aged parchment from the spire and set the shell back down. She held her breath as she unfolded the long, skinny parchment. Emblazed upon the yellow-gold paper in black ink were the words: On the seventh day from the opening of the shell, you will come into your own.

“What does it say?” Mistress MacInnes’s gaze was filled with curiosity.

Mariam crumpled the paper in her fist, wishing this was all a bad dream. It said she would have to make a choice in only a few days. It’s time to decide if I am good or evil. The path toward evil would be so easy to slide onto. But choosing good meant having to fight. It meant finding something inside herself that was worth fighting for. A touch on her shoulder brought her back to the moment.

“Is it a message from your mother?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Mariam passed the crumpled parchment to Mistress MacInnes. Did Mariam’s mother know she would face this battle within herself? A sudden chill shivered along her spine as the frantic beating of her heart echoed in her ears.

“’Tis quite a puzzle,” Mistress MacInnes replied, “but it sounds as though you have some time to figure out the true meaning of these words.”

“Only a week. Not much time at all,” Mariam cried.

“And many battles were won in far less time.” Mistress MacInnes stood and extended her hand to Mariam. “I have every faith in you, my dear.”

She accepted the outstretched hand and stood beside the hunched old woman. “Why? You barely know me. How can you know what is inside me?”

“I have known many people in my life and have learned to size them up rather quickly. Besides, I knew your mother once, long ago.”

The woman should hate Mariam for all of the horrible things she’d done to make her life more difficult over the last year. Mariam let out her breath slowly, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order as she stared into the woman’s face—terrified and relieved by what she saw there. True concern swam in the depths of the other’s tired green eyes.

Mistress MacInnes did not look away. Instead, the warmth in her gaze intensified. “You and I are friends, Mariam. Friends care about each other.”

“Friends?” The word was hoarse and unnatural-sounding upon her tongue. “I’ve never had a friend before. Not one.”

Mistress MacInnes smiled. “Call me Nessie, then. All my friends do.”

“You knew my mother?”

She nodded. “Aye. It was many years ago, but I still remember her well.”

Warmth flooded Mariam’s chest at the connection this woman once had with her mother and at the fact the older woman had befriended her. “I—”

“What, might I ask, is going on here?” Cameron’s voice boomed from the doorway.

Mariam’s gaze jerked to his. “Cleaning, as you asked.”

His irritated gaze shifted to the now spotless floors, walls, and ceiling. The scent of lemon and oil mixed with the tallow of the candles, creating a heady combination in the afternoon air. “You were to clean this chamber yourself.” He strode into the chapel until he stood beside both Mariam and Mistress MacInnes.

“It wasn’t Mariam’s fault.” Mistress MacInnes straightened as much as was possible beneath her hunched form. “This was entirely my idea.”

“Nay, I am at fault here. I should have declined the assistance.” Mariam could barely get the words past her dry throat. Cameron had obviously come directly to her from the lists as evidenced by the damp tendrils of hair that framed his face, the high color in his cheeks, and the moisture that molded his linen shirt to his heavily corded shoulders. Realizing her gaze lingered on his body contours longer than was appropriate, she quickly brought her attention back to his face.

“Why must you challenge me on everything?” His gray eyes glinted fiercely. “In case you didn’t hear me the first time, I said I would not force you to leave this castle. But keep testing me like this and I might.”

“M’laird, she tried to send me away,” Mistress MacInnes pleaded.

“This does not concern you, Mistress MacInnes. You can leave us now.” His gaze never wavered from Mariam’s.

Mariam was scarcely aware of anything but the man before her—the sleek ripples of the muscles of his arms, the way his chest moved in and out with each breath. His gray eyes held both anger and something else . . .

It was the something else that suddenly made it hard to breathe. She was dimly aware of Mistress MacInnes’s departure as all her senses focused on the man standing before her effortlessly holding her gaze with his own.

“I tried to punish you in a way that might humble you—to make you respect what others do around here a little more, but once again you manipulated the situation for your own purposes. So perhaps it is time for you to come up with a punishment you can and will deliver on.” His voice was silky soft, almost a murmur. His index finger reached out and touched her cheek. She inhaled sharply. The sensitive skin seemed to tingle and almost burn beneath his touch. His hand wandered down to caress her throat, his thumb finding the wild beat of her heart there.