Beauty and the Beastly Highlander by Kenna Kendrick

Chapter Seven

Finley looked at himself in the mirror, squinting at his reflection.

Ach, I dinna look as bad as the lass said.

Sure, he thought, his beard was far from well-kept, and he didn’t even remember the last time he had had a haircut, but he didn’t look as terrible as Etna had implied. Then again, he looked more like a farmer than a Laird and a shabby one at that.

He had to admit that Etna wasn’t wrong about the bath being necessary, though. He had just been so preoccupied with the brigands and the attacks that he hadn’t paid any attention to anything else. He didn’t care what he looked like; he could never be handsome with that scar on his face anyway.

With a sigh, Finley began to shave, gliding the razor gently over his skin. There was a lot of hair to shave off, and it took him a while, careful as he was, to get every last bit of that beard. Once he was done, he moved to his hair, and though he could hardly do an expert job, he began chopping it to shoulder length.

In retrospect, Finley thought that he should have brought the barber to do it for him or ask Lochlan for help, but his own efforts would have to do. When he rinsed his face and looked in the mirror once more, he winced.

He hadn’t seen his face like that ever since Anna’s death. The man in the reflection was a stranger to him by then, and he didn’t know what to think. He had spent so long neglecting himself that the mere sight of his clean-shaven face was disconcerting.

Finely turned away from the mirror and patter his face dry with a towel. It was a good thing, that change, he told himself, even though now his scar was more visible than ever. At least he looked more civilized, more like a Laird than he had in a while.

And most would think that his scar was a testament to his bravery.

He snorted at that thought, shaking his head. He had been anything but brave that day, and he wanted no reminders of it.

As Finley sank in the tub, he began to think once more about Etna. The woman was a mystery to him, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t figure her out. What kind of person had the nerve to speak to a Laird in the way that she had spoken to him? She was hot-headed and rude, and he wondered how such a woman could be Dougal’s daughter.

Then he realized that she was most likely thinking the very same things about him, and the thought brought a smile to his lips, one that he quickly bit back. It did no good to develop any attachment to anyone, especially not her.

But the way she had spoken to him and the way that her body had felt against his own invited the same thoughts to his head over and over. Finley desired her, and he could hardly deny it, no matter how much he wished he could. She was the perfect distraction from all his problems, and he could see himself spending several nights with her in his bed.

But that’s the issue. I canna have any distractions in me life.

Finley shook his head and wished that the water in the tub was cold so that it could take his mind off Etna. When he hopped out of the water, he dried himself and dressed in fresh clothes, the simple, repetitive motions helping him to empty his mind of any sexual thoughts he had about her.

The last thing he wanted to do was cause a scandal. He was already on bad terms with all his clansmen and women, and rumors of a sexual relationship between the two of them could do more harm than good.

When Finley finished making himself look presentable, he returned to his study. On his way there, he didn’t fail to notice that the corridors were brighter, much to his chagrin, as though the maids had taken it upon themselves to light up the way.

I bet it’s Etna’s doin’ . . . she doesna ken when to leave things as they are.

Once in his study, Finley poured himself a cup of wine and waited. He didn’t know what else to do with himself, feeling like a young boy who was waiting for his teacher to continue the lesson, and he cursed himself for it.

He shouldn’t have to be told how to write his own speeches, he thought. He was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Sure, he was a little rusty after not giving a single speech in five years, but he doubted that anything had changed.

And yet, when he grabbed the pen and the ink, determined to prove that he still had the skills, his mind went blank, and his hand faltered over the paper. Even when he scribbled, he soon found that he hated what he was writing and promptly crossed it off.

What is the matter with me? Why can I na do this?

Perhaps Lochlan had been right, Finley thought, but that made him even more determined to write something. He continued to scribble furiously on the paper, crossing off his sentences and rewriting them, and he was so focused on his task that he didn’t even hear the knock on his door.

“Me Laird?” asked a voice, and Finley looked up to see Etna standing by the door, watching him with a curious frown.

When Etna saw Finely, she could hardly believe it was the same man. Clean-shaven and dressed in fresh clothes, he looked the part of a Laird, like someone who belonged in a castle.

And he looked handsome, so handsome that Etna stumbled over her words, forgetting what she wanted to say to him.

“I . . . uh . . . am I interruptin’, me Laird?” she asked, and the words sounded high-pitched and strange even to her own ears.

Finley put the pen down slowly. “Nay,” he said. “Weel . . . I shaved, and I bathed as ye directed. Are we done?”

“We’ve only just begun,” Etna pointed out as she took a seat across from him, glancing at the paper, curious to see what he had been writing. When he saw her, Finley grabbed the paper, balled it up, and tossed it in a drawer, and Etna tried to change the subject quickly. “Ye ken . . . ye look verra nice.”

There was no mistaking the surprise in Etna’s tone. Finley raised an eyebrow at that, and Etna cursed herself quietly for showing her shock at the transformation.

“Did ye think that I would be hideous?” he asked her. “Did ye think I’d look like a beast?”

His words took Etna by surprise, and she averted her gaze, not daring to reply to Finley’s question. Her cheeks reddened, a blush that betrayed her embarrassment.

“Ye shouldna believe everythin’ that people say,” Finley told her.

“I . . . I didna . . .”

“I’m sure that ye did. Everyone does.”

“I didna,” Etna said, this time with more certainty and determination. “I willna lie to ye . . . I didna ken what to think when I first came here. Weel . . . I still dinna ken what to think about ye. But I’ll tell ye one thing. It’s na yer scar that makes people call ye a beast. Na one cares about the scar, me Laird, apart from ye.”

It was Finley’s turn to be quiet. Etna stared at him, defiant. Everyone in the castle had mollycoddled him for too long, and she wouldn’t be doing the same. Finley was a grown man. It was time that he took on some responsibility once again.

For a few moments, the two of them shared an awkward silence, one that neither seemed to know how to break. In the end, Finley poured Etna a cup of wine, offering it to her in place of an olive branch. Etna took the cup and tilted it in a toast before taking a sip and visibly relaxing.

“The real work has yet to begin, me Laird,” Etna said then. “If ye wish to connect with yer people, ye must speak to them from the heart. Be the man that they deserve to have for a leader. Show them that ye’ve changed.”

“But I havena changed,” Finley pointed out.

“Na yet,” Etna said. “But ye will. If ye wish to change, I’m sure that ye can and ye will.”

There was a vulnerability in Finley’s look that Etna hadn’t expected to see, as though he clung to her words. How long had it been since someone had been nice to him, she wondered? Then again, she could hardly blame the clan for being anything but nice since Finley himself was so unpleasant and disagreeable.

She felt for him, though. Her heart sank, knowing that Finley had once been a kind young man who had been through so much that he now dwelled in the dark, surrounded by people who feared him.

Finley drained his cup, and then he stood, fetching the only carafe in the room that still seemed to have some wine in it. Etna stood from her seat as he poured the drink and walked to the window, pulling the thick curtain that covered it back.

“Why do ye always keep the curtains closed?” Etna asked him. “Look at this view . . . it’s marvelous.”

Finley joined her by the window, looking out into the distance at the hills that surrounded the castle. Beyond them, the sky stretched into a brilliant blue with waves of white, creating a view that looked like a painting.

“I dinna wish to be reminded of joyous things when I canna have any joy meself,” Finley said.

“Who says that ye canna have any joy?”

Finley frowned at that, as though the mere thought of being happy was confusing to him.

“Na one has to tell me,” he told Etna. “I ken it meself. I do . . . I havena felt joy in a while, and I ken that I never will again. I’ve made me peace with it.”

“Ye’re na lettin’ yerself feel any joy just because ye think ye canna?” Etna asked. “Have ye tried na tellin’ yerself that ye’re na capable of joy? That ye’re na worthy of it?”

“I dinna ken what would bring me joy,” Finley admitted.

Etna gave him a small shrug. “The sun. The waters of the loch. Yer brilliant daughter . . . anythin’. Ye only have to look.”

Finley did look. He looked at her, and Etna felt exposed under his intense gaze, bare. When she opened her mouth to speak, Finley leaned closer, putting an end to her train of thought.

And then he kissed her.

He kissed her like she was the very air that he was breathing, greedy and demanding, his lips an insistent press against her own. One arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and she responded with a soft moan, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

Etna’s desire crashed over her like a wave. She had never experienced anything like that kiss before, and Finley’s evident desire for her left her dizzy with want. Before she knew it, her hands were moving on their own accord, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, and Finley deepened the kiss, his hands moving to her hips as he pressed her against the wall.

The sound of the door opening had Finley jumping back like he was burned. He was heaving, and so was Etna, and there was no hiding what they had been doing.

When Etna turned to face whoever it was that had come into the room without even knocking, she saw none other than Arlene, and the shame that overtook her made her wish that she could hide behind Finley and never meet Arlene’s gaze again.

“Oh . . . dinna let me interrupt ye,” Arlene said, waving a hand dismissively. “I only wanted to ask ye if ye’re still plannin’ to leave the morrow.”

Etna exchanged an awkward glance with Finley and tried her best to hide in the shadows of the room. Finley gave his grandmother a smile and then managed to say: “Aye . . . I’ll leave first thing in the mornin’.”

“Good, good,” Arlene said before she gave them both a wave, closing the door behind her as she left.

.

There was a heavy silence between Etna and Finley for what seemed like eons to her. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, nor did she know how to excuse herself. What she did know was that she could never face him again, either, and that the number of people she could look in the eye was dwindling—fast.

“I . . . uh . . . I’d better get ready for the morrow,” Finley said, and Etna couldn’t be more relieved to have a reason to leave. “I’ll be visitin’ the villages, and I must be well-rested,” he said, even though it wasn’t even midday yet.

“Och, aye,” Etna said, already heading for the door, eager to get out of that room. “Aye . . . good luck with that, me Laird.”

With that, she was gone, but the moment the door closed behind her, she leaned against it, her trembling legs refusing to take her any further.

What have I done? I ruined everythin’.