“I should hope neither.”
He startled her so badly that Mared stuck herself with the needle. She awkwardly gained her feet and forgot the bloody stockings, forgot everything, and nervously tried to straighten her old green gown as she quickly surveyed her tiny room.
“I beg yer pardon, I didna mean to disturb ye—”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “I was…was repairing…” Repairing her stockings? She thought she’d keep that to herself and let her voice trail off as she forced herself to look at him.
Diah, but he looked fully recovered—strong and vital and terribly, terribly alluring. He was dressed to go out. His hair was neatly combed over his collar. His navy coat was superfine—she knew because Grif had come home from London with something similar, a coat made of an exquisite cloth. He wore gray trousers and a gray silk waistcoat heavily embroidered with dark blue thread, and his neckcloth, naturally, was perfectly pressed, thanks to Rodina.
He quite literally made her pulse leap to her throat, made the blood rush to her temples and pound like a drum, for she’d not seen him look so…healthy…in weeks.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her damp palms on the side of her gown as Payton just stood there, gazing at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable. She felt ridiculously apprehensive—since when could this man make her feel like a blushing maiden? “Was there something ye required?” she asked, privately cursing herself for sounding so breathless.
“No,” he said softly and stepped into the room, slowly closing the door at his back. He leaned against it as his gaze traveled down the length of her and up again. His gaze felt blistering, scorching. She’d seen this look before, recognized the desire in it, and suddenly believed he’d come to tell her he would have her in his bed. Unthinkingly, Mared stepped backward.
Her movement seemed to shake him from his thoughts; he glanced at the threadbare rug, then lifted his eyes again. “Ye should have a warm rug.”
“It is warm enough.”
But he was shaking his head. “No. A warm rug.” He looked at her again. “I’ve come to remind ye about Kinlochmore, and I will require ye to attend with me.”
Mared’s heart dipped. She thought he’d forgotten or reconsidered his decree that she would accompany him to his cousin’s wedding ceilidh. Certainly he hadn’t mentioned it since she’d written his reply to his cousin more than a month ago. She had a sudden image of herself surrounded by dozens of Douglases, the whispers of her curse spreading like fire, the looks of censure, the disdain for her name. “No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “No.”
A lock of dark sandy hair had fallen over his eye, and he looked so very different now, as if it pained him to tell her this. “I need ye with me, Mared,” he said quietly. “I’ll consent to bringing one of the maids along so that ye may rest assured of yer virtue. But I need ye with me.”
“Please donna ask this of me. Please, Payton,” she begged him. “I’ll be humiliated—”
“No! I’ll no’ allow that to happen, on my life. But I…” He tore his gaze from her, looked at the ceiling, ran a hand over his hair, then abruptly pushed away from the door, walked to her bureau. “I must have ye there. That is my decision.”
“But I—”
“’Tis no’ open to debate,” he said evenly.
Mared gaped at him, her mind whirling, and Payton turned from the bureau. “We will depart Monday morning at dawn, then. Choose one of the maids to travel with ye, aye?”
“Mi Diah, ye are a bastard,” she whispered.
The muscle in his jaw flexed, but Payton said nothing; it seemed to Mared that he did not know what to do or say. He sighed and lowered his head, looked at her from beneath his lashes, his lips pursed.
“What?” she asked angrily. “What is it ye would say?”
“I need ye in Kinlochmore, and that is final.”
Mared glared at him.
“Good night.” He walked to the door of her room and opened it. With one last look at her, he stepped out and shut the door.
“Bloody hell,” Mared whispered and sank onto her lumpy bed, staring at the wall, her mind racing ahead to the horror of a Douglas wedding ceilidh deep in the Highlands.
That Sunday, at Talla Dileas, Mared, Ellie, Natalie, and Anna, who in her pregnancy had grown as big as a walrus, stared at the gowns spread on Anna’s bed. “They’re all lovely,” Mared said. “Where did ye get them, then?”
“My sister Bette sent them after last Season.”
“They are a wee bit fancy for the likes of the Douglases,” Mared muttered as she sorted through them.
“Will you tell us all what he said once more?” Natalie asked, looking wistfully at the gowns.
Ellie smiled at her daughter. “Natalie’s head is full of romance, thanks to several books she found in the library and Anna’s penchant for telling stories.”