Read Online When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Ranney
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close behind her.
She entered, remaining by the door, hesitant to damage the flooring that gleamed beneath her feet. Water ran from her petticoat in rivulets and her shoes were caked with mud. But that wasn’t entirely the reason she hesitated. The chamber was so small and crowded that her presence seemed intrusive.
At the end of the room, taking up the entire width, was a bunk built into the wall, framed with mahogany timbers and a curtain of red, black, and white plaid.
On the far wall was a series of shelves, each framed with a ledge, no doubt to prevent the books stored there from falling. To her right was a chest built in the shape of steps rising from the floor to the ceiling, each level containing a series of small doors or drawers bearing a small brass key adorned with a red tassel.
At waist level, a table jutted out from the chest. Designed, Iseabal realized, to swing back into the rectangular slit. When it was open, the table could act as a desk or a place to have a meal.
There was nothing on the left side of the room, which was just as well, since her trunk had been placed there. The woven basket looked waterlogged, absurdly forlorn, and out of place.
This room represented her marriage as nothing else could. She didn’t fit into this man’s life.
She turned, forcing herself to face her husband. Iseabal was certain that she had never looked worse. Her hair was hanging around her face in damp tendrils; her clothing was drenched. Even her shoes squeaked when she walked. The dye from the yellow kerchief was dripping steadily down her neck.
The MacRae retrieved a bit of toweling from his odd chest, startling her by wrapping the linen around her hair, and securing the ends of the cloth in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. His palm felt warm, as did his breath against her cheek as he bent closer.
She’d never before been so close to a strange man.
His presence had an extraordinary effect on her, but it wasn’t dread fluttering in her stomach, or panic in her chest. Her breath felt tight, but that could be due to the pain in herside. Her heart pounded in her chest, due to the exertion of the journey, no doubt.
Once again he startled her by grabbing another length of toweling and beginning to blot her cheeks dry.
“You look miserable and exhausted, Iseabal,” he said gently, placing a cloth on the table. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.” How tremulous her voice sounded, she thought. Almost faint, as if she were afraid to speak. Silence would be better, perhaps. Anything but conversing with this man the law had bound to her.
“You need to change your clothes.”
“Yes,” she answered, making her voice sound more firm.
Silence stretched between them, there being nothing more to say, no words to ease the awkward moment.
He walked to the door and opened it, the storm an oddly perfect backdrop to his appearance. Iseabal had the strangest thought that he could as easily be one of the early Scots, naked and painted blue, standing on a hillside with his arms outstretched as if to threaten his enemies with his very size.
Belatedly, she recognized that she should have thanked him for his kindness, but the words wouldn’t come.
Crossing the cabin suddenly, he lit a lantern sitting on one of the steps of his chest. The soft glow illuminated the shadows as he hung it on a hook mounted on the wall.
“If the storm gets worse,” he said, “extinguish the lantern.”
“Where will you be?” she asked, swallowing heavily.
“I have an errand to perform,” he said finally, shattering the silence, his eyes steady on hers. “After that I have a ship to command,” he said, smiling. “We need to get out of the cove before nightfall.”
Iseabal nodded, watching as the door closed deliberately behind him. For a moment she simply stood there, thinking that the magistrate from Edinburgh, with his tightly curled wig smelling of dust, wouldn’t have smiled in quite that way. The merchant from
She entered, remaining by the door, hesitant to damage the flooring that gleamed beneath her feet. Water ran from her petticoat in rivulets and her shoes were caked with mud. But that wasn’t entirely the reason she hesitated. The chamber was so small and crowded that her presence seemed intrusive.
At the end of the room, taking up the entire width, was a bunk built into the wall, framed with mahogany timbers and a curtain of red, black, and white plaid.
On the far wall was a series of shelves, each framed with a ledge, no doubt to prevent the books stored there from falling. To her right was a chest built in the shape of steps rising from the floor to the ceiling, each level containing a series of small doors or drawers bearing a small brass key adorned with a red tassel.
At waist level, a table jutted out from the chest. Designed, Iseabal realized, to swing back into the rectangular slit. When it was open, the table could act as a desk or a place to have a meal.
There was nothing on the left side of the room, which was just as well, since her trunk had been placed there. The woven basket looked waterlogged, absurdly forlorn, and out of place.
This room represented her marriage as nothing else could. She didn’t fit into this man’s life.
She turned, forcing herself to face her husband. Iseabal was certain that she had never looked worse. Her hair was hanging around her face in damp tendrils; her clothing was drenched. Even her shoes squeaked when she walked. The dye from the yellow kerchief was dripping steadily down her neck.
The MacRae retrieved a bit of toweling from his odd chest, startling her by wrapping the linen around her hair, and securing the ends of the cloth in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. His palm felt warm, as did his breath against her cheek as he bent closer.
She’d never before been so close to a strange man.
His presence had an extraordinary effect on her, but it wasn’t dread fluttering in her stomach, or panic in her chest. Her breath felt tight, but that could be due to the pain in herside. Her heart pounded in her chest, due to the exertion of the journey, no doubt.
Once again he startled her by grabbing another length of toweling and beginning to blot her cheeks dry.
“You look miserable and exhausted, Iseabal,” he said gently, placing a cloth on the table. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.” How tremulous her voice sounded, she thought. Almost faint, as if she were afraid to speak. Silence would be better, perhaps. Anything but conversing with this man the law had bound to her.
“You need to change your clothes.”
“Yes,” she answered, making her voice sound more firm.
Silence stretched between them, there being nothing more to say, no words to ease the awkward moment.
He walked to the door and opened it, the storm an oddly perfect backdrop to his appearance. Iseabal had the strangest thought that he could as easily be one of the early Scots, naked and painted blue, standing on a hillside with his arms outstretched as if to threaten his enemies with his very size.
Belatedly, she recognized that she should have thanked him for his kindness, but the words wouldn’t come.
Crossing the cabin suddenly, he lit a lantern sitting on one of the steps of his chest. The soft glow illuminated the shadows as he hung it on a hook mounted on the wall.
“If the storm gets worse,” he said, “extinguish the lantern.”
“Where will you be?” she asked, swallowing heavily.
“I have an errand to perform,” he said finally, shattering the silence, his eyes steady on hers. “After that I have a ship to command,” he said, smiling. “We need to get out of the cove before nightfall.”
Iseabal nodded, watching as the door closed deliberately behind him. For a moment she simply stood there, thinking that the magistrate from Edinburgh, with his tightly curled wig smelling of dust, wouldn’t have smiled in quite that way. The merchant from
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