Highlander’s Wrath by Adamina Young
This Strange Feeling
They had no time to react to this unexpected action because, just then, the door banged open as the footman came to empty the washstand.
The interruption came in time for the unfortunate man to see Master Colban’s new teacher enveloped in Laird Barclay’s passionate embrace.
“Och! I beg pardon, me laird. I’ll just…” The footman made a helpless gesture at the washstand bowl and mouthed a few soundless words.
With lightning speed, Hamish picked up the water pitcher on the stool next to his son’s bed and flung it at the footman’s head, shouting, “Get out, ye cur! How dare ye enter without first knocking!”
The sound of the pitcher smashing against the doorframe and the shriek the footman gave as he ducked down woke up Colban. The small boy began to whimper.
“You—both of you—get out!” Coira hissed as she put her arms around Colban and began to soothe him.
“Ye cannae talk to me like that in me own home—” Laird Barclay began to say, but when he saw the look of irate scorn on Coira’s face, he closed his mouth firmly and backed himself out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Still needing someone he could take his anger out on, Laird Barclay went prowling down to the servants’ quarters to find the poor footman. Only after he had hauled the frightened man out of his hiding place and kicked him out of the scullery door did he feel his temper simmering down. Hamish judged this to be a good time to approach Coira again. There was unfinished business between them, and Laird Barclay knew he would not be able to sleep until he had found out how his advances had been received by his son’s beautiful new governess.
Growing up with the constant affirmation that his castle was an extension of his own self-esteem, Laird Barclay felt no qualms in knocking on Coira’s bedchamber door so late in the evening. When Miriam answered the door with a questioning look on her face, all he did was push the opening a little wider and say to the plump woman, “Out. I wish to speak to your mistress in private.”
Miriam was aghast at this ungentlemanly behavior and began to gobble indignantly at the laird until a serene voice sounded from inside the room, “Let him in, Miriam. I have need for hot water anyway, so make yourself busy doing that, if you please.”
Only after shooting Laird Barclay a darkling look did the maid leave.
Unperturbed by how loathsome he had just made himself to Coira’s maid, Laird Barclay pushed his way into the bedchamber, saying, “I am glad ye have nae gone to bed yet, lass.”
She was seated by the fire, wearing a Barclay arisaid around her shoulders; the evening was chilly. She gave him a glance when he came to sit opposite her. “What have you done with that unfortunate man?”
Every interaction Hamish had previously had with women had led him to think they were all souls of endless curiosity, but when he took a closer look at Coira, he could tell she had no interest in what he had to say to her; all she cared about was the wretched footman.
“I threw him out of the castle and told him to never darken me doorstep again.”
Coira continued staring at the fire. “And did you ever think the man was not to blame? How was he to know someone was awake inside the room? In fact, I think you told your servants never to knock on your son’s bedchamber door in case they woke him up when he was asleep, not so?”
Laird Barclay opened his mouth to refute this but then shut it again.
Coira saw him do this out of the side of her eye and then carried on with what she had to say.
“Do you know your servants, and everyone else in the Highlands, call you Blackheart Barclay?”
Hamish held his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. He was weary of trying to explain it. “Nay, lass, ‘twas me faither who was called that. He had a fearful bad temper and no pity with which to moderate it. And if I’m no’ mistaken, his own faither—me grandfaither—was also awarded the name.”
Coira had never seen his lairdship look so dejected and forlorn. For one moment, the years had rolled back, and he appeared in her eyes like a sorrowful child.
She reached out her hand to him and took his large hand in her own. “Hamish, if ye care for me at all, would ye be so kind as to go out and fetch back the poor footman? I believe two generations of blackhearted Barclays in this castle are enough.”
He looked down at her hand and then across at her. He nodded.
“What is it you wished to say to me?” Coira asked.
For a moment, he was rendered off balance; the lass was so kind and asked her questions in such a dignified manner. He did not want to ruin the moment by saying the wrong thing in case she removed her hand from his.
“Er…naught…except I promise that ye must have nay concerns about what the servants might say about us. I have told the housekeeper that ye are a fine lady beyond all reproach, no matter what the footman might care to say about our embrace. I was carried away. I am nae used to having constant female companionship. Have no fear of it happening again. ”
A small smile seemed to pass over her lips. “If I’m any judge of character, Laird,” she said, “that ship has sailed even before the footman saw us together. ‘Tis just as my mother told me it would be. A young woman of uncertain station and an unmarried man—or at least a widowed one—mean that tongues are going to wag. What you should really be worrying about, however, is if you deem a stolen kiss more harmful to your reputation, or whether it shows you in a worse light to be thrown into a rage at the slightest provocation?”
He grinned. “Ye wish me to call meself a scold or rake, is that it?”
She returned his smile. “Neither. I want you to act like every other gentleman out there: honorable and predictable. If you do, I will dine with you at every chance I have, I promise.”
Hamish shouted with laughter, “I have a feeling ye have cozened young boys to do yer bidding afore, lass, using those same blandishments!”
She looked so lovely as she laughed. Her shoulders lifted and dropped in a teasing way, and the arisaid slipped off her shoulder on one side, showing the delicate muslin of her nightgown underneath it. Tempted, but also encouraged by her proximity, Laird Barclay sat forward and swept Coira into his arms. For one moment, he waited for her to struggle and protest, but she did not. She simply looked into his eyes with her own perfectly blue ones; her lashes fluttered slightly, and he saw the flames from the fire flare within them.
The scratching at the door alerted him to Miriam’s return.
“I see yer servant is better trained than mine are,” he whispered gruffly in her ear, and then he released her from his arms.
Unperturbed, Coira straightened the arisaid around her shoulders and said, “Do come in.”
Miriam entered the bedchamber, and from the looks of her, it was clear that she had raced up and down the stairs to cut short her mistress’s tête-à-tête with his lairdship. She shot Laird Barclay a baleful look as she hefted the pail of hot water to the washstand.
An amused grin spread across Laird Barclay’s face, and when Coira observed it, she was convinced Hamish Barclay had a wicked side to him, but one not given to evil. She had hope for his redemption because as much as she wanted to deny and chide herself for falling for a handsome face and tall, muscular body, Coira had to admit to herself that she found a certain elusive charm about her new master.
“I bid ye a very good night, Coira.” Hamish shot a glance over at Miriam before amending his words. “I beg pardon, Miss McDonald.”
And on those words, he left Coira to her turbulent thoughts beside the fire. She had a strange feeling inside her stomach, a sweeping, elated sensation, as if her heart was a rosebud unfurling in the sunshine.