Gavin tossed his head back and laughed so heartily, Mena couldn’t help but notice how the sinew of his masculine throat and collarbones were exposed to the dancing shade of the late afternoon. “Been listening to clan gossip about the laird, have ye?”
Mena glanced back down with a sheepish smile. “It’s not just clan gossip; he’s known as the Demon Highlander even in London. I was just … wondering if you, if the locals, gave the myth any credence.”
The corner of his sensual mouth tilted roguishly. “The Brollachan was around before the Christians brought the fear of demons to this land, but the idea is the same, I suppose. It is said he’s a wicked cast of Fae that has no shape but for fearsome red eyes. If ye look for him on a deserted road and ye make him a deal, he’ll possess ye for a time, gift ye the speed and strength of the Fae. But then he’ll drag ye down to perdition when he’s finished with ye.”
A shadow with red eyes?
“Is he dangerous to … to anyone else?” Mena stuttered.
“Only if ye meet him on the road, but not if he’s inside a dwelling. A Brollachan is said to be good luck if they haunt yer home … or yer keep. Grateful spirits, they, and not fond of the chill.”
Though Mena felt ridiculous, the information allowed her to peel her tense shoulders away from her ears. “Oh, well, that’s good news, I suppose.”
“Ye’re most likely to see them around this time of year.” He studied her again for a moment with that strange, intent expression, before bending down to pluck her another sprig of lavender and add it to her arrangement as they meandered through the forest thick with songbirds and equally boisterous creatures. “Do ye believe in demons, English?”
Mena couldn’t stop picturing the horrible red-eyed shadow she’d seen earlier today. She’d like to believe it had been a dream, but would much rather it be real than a hallucination.
“I—I think I’m beginning to,” she confessed with a diffident grimace.
“Was it the Mackenzie?” he queried, his tone hardening. “Does he frighten ye, lass?”
“Not at all.” He terrified her.
Hiding her features in her bouquet of blooms, she glanced up at her companion. Large and strong as he was, he didn’t carry the daunting menace Ravencroft did. His demeanor tended more toward charisma than hostility. In fact, she felt a sense of ease next to him, as though he posed her no threat, whereas the laird was nothing if not intimidating.
“I must admit the Marquess Ravencroft isn’t what I anticipated when I accepted the position. He tends to be a bit…” Mena stalled, searching her extensive vocabulary for the right word.
Gavin ticked off on his fingers. “Formidable, grim, disagreeable, imperious, overbearing, high-handed, authoritarian…”
As the red stones of Ravencroft came into view, Mena found herself laughing, enjoying the answering chuckle of amusement that produced a charming dimple, a surprising and attractive change in the Highlander’s chiseled face.
“He’s not as bad as all that.” She surprised herself by defending the laird.
“Aye. He is.”
Mena’s eyebrows lifted, as the sudden and serious vehemence in his voice caught her unawares. It was as though Gavin St. James were attempting to warn her, somehow, against her enigmatic employer.
Curious, Mena asked, “How well do you know Laird Ravencroft?”
The question produced another lift of his muscular shoulder. “It’s been decades since he’s settled here for more than a few weeks at a time. I doona think anyone truly knows him, as he’s not an easy man to be acquainted with. And it’s hard to trust a man who was raised by the hand of Hamish Mackenzie. Who looks so much like him, and shares his apparent gift for … brutality.”
It was that penchant for violence that caused Mena the most concern in regard to her life here at Ravencroft.
She’d seen enough of it to fill her lifetime. Though, she supposed, thinking of Dorian Blackwell and his cohorts, of Ravencroft himself, and the many men sent off to war … She’d been exposed to less than others.
Mena spent a great deal of time not thinking about what kind of brutality might be visited upon her should her deception be exposed.
“Even still…” she murmured, more to herself than the man next to her. “He tries very hard to be a good father.”
“Aye,” Gavin agreed with a noncommittal shrug. “He does love those bairns.” With a wave of his hand, the Highlander dispelled the sense of sobriety that threatened their conversation. “It seems to me that people either adore or despise the laird, though all his clan must agree that he’s brought fairness and prosperity back to Wester Ross in the short time he’s been home.”
Adore him or despise him? “Am I to assume you are in the latter camp?”
They broke the tree line and the Highlander expelled a sigh. “I doona despise the laird. Though our interactions have been … complicated,” he said cryptically.
“Yes, well, he’s a complicated man.” Mena contemplated the keep and its mysterious laird for a moment until she found her hand captured in a warm grip. The heat of Gavin’s skin reminded her of how wet her skirts were, and how chillier every moment became.
“Thank you for the escort.” She curtsied to him, her features relaxing into a genuine smile. “I should proceed from here alone.”