The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,100

uttered a damned word about it. “They’re MacDougalls, and if anyone speaks of superstition, I will personally escort them out the door.”

Sighing, Emma did not appear convinced. “Mayhap we’ll end up with no servants whatsoever.”

“Nonsense.” He softly chuckled to put her at ease. “You’ll have Betty. I’ll have Livingstone…and Cook thinks the world of you already.”

Thank heavens Emma smiled, even if it wasn’t quite as radiant as usual. “What else do we need?”

“Only our happiness.” Breathing a sigh of relief, he tossed the cloth on the bedside table and moved his hand to her knee. “Are your legs still in working order?”

She flexed her feet. “Aye.”

He swung her knees over the side of the mattress and took her hands. “Well then, there’s an entire keep with which you must acquaint yourself.”

She groaned. “’Tis all so overwhelming.”

“Now that the footmen have moved your trunks where they belong, we shall start with this chamber, and I’m going to count every damned pace with you. I swear, my love, within a month you will be as familiar with Dunollie as you are with Moriston Hall.”

“A month?” She cringed as he put the cane in her hand and pulled Albert off the bed. “I cannot possibly.”

“Hmm. I for one would never bet against you. Look how you took to Achnacarry and then to Gylen. You needn’t have a fear.”

* * *

Emma sat in her solar, practicing her Celtic harp with Albert at her feet. She’d only been at Dunollie a day and had already memorized several chambers in the keep, including her very own solar. Ciar had gone to speak to the servants, which made her nervous, though focusing on the music helped to ease her discomfort.

She prayed he was right, and the people here would grow fond of her—or at least not fear her. As Ciar had patiently helped her count paces, she realized she could accomplish and endure anything with him at her side. She was Lady Dunollie now. She had broken into a fortress and freed an innocent man. She had hidden in the cellars of a ruined castle and learned exactly what it was to love. She had endured the stocks and faced the ire of her brother. And through it all her feelings for Ciar had never faltered.

With her husband beside her, she must hold her chin high—have the courage to show the clansmen and women that she was worthy of her station.

Emma stopped playing as Albert growled and leaned against her.

“Beg your pardon, m’lady,” said a young man from the doorway. “I’m Bram, and this is Tavish.”

She uprighted her harp. “Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she heard a smack—not a hard one, but these two lads were obviously nervous. “Go on,” said another, seemingly Tavish.

“We came to apologize for leaving your things askew,” said Bram.

“Uh…” Tavish seemed to be a bit tongue-tied. “We didn’t intend for you to fall.”

“Aye, and cause those awful bruises—”

“Enough,” Ciar boomed from behind the lads as if he might be ready to give them each a hiding.

Emma smiled. Had he been in the corridor since the boys stepped inside? And what was it about the bruises? Her husband had insisted the marks were scarcely noticeable, but by the tenderness of her nose and beneath her eyes, they were probably worse than he let on. “I thank you for your apology.”

“Your music is bonny,” said Bram.

“It surely is,” Tavish agreed.

“Would you like to hear more of it?” asked Ciar in a much more civil tone.

The two lads agreed with resounding ayes, and Emma reached for the harp, readying her hands.

“Well then. I do believe ’tis time to celebrate our nuptials with Clan MacDougall.” Ciar stepped so near, his spiciness swirled about her. “Let us feast on the morrow, and Her Ladyship will play for you.”

“Oh, no.” Emma shoved the harp back. “I couldn’t possibly.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hmm, just like your reluctance to perform at Achnacarry?”

Emma’s chest tightened. “Please, not the morrow. I need time to settle in—a sennight, a fortnight?”

“Very well, if that is what you wish.” He removed his hand. “Off to the wood heap with you lads.”

“I’m sorry.” After the door closed, she gripped his wrist. “I cannot perform with these awful bruises. I’d prefer to wait for them to fade.”

He lightly pinched her chin and moved her head left then right. “Your bruises are nothing Betty cannot hide with a wee bit of powder. And mark me, the sooner you demonstrate