Highlander’s Frozen Heart by Shona Thompson
Chapter Four
Marianne heaved a frustrated sigh as her husband rolled off her and lay on his side next to her, chest heaving.
“Ye’re a bonnie lass, ye know that?” Malcolm murmured, reaching over to cup her face and kiss her.
Marianne turned her head, so he kissed her cheek instead. “You Scots have an odd way of complimenting women.”
“D’ye not like being called bonnie?” he asked, a playful edge to his tone. He always tried to keep this playful edge around his wife, as if attempting to soften her icy exterior.
“Did you ever call Arguen bonnie?”
Malcom sighed and rolled over so that he was laying on his back. “’Tis an expression tae mean ye think a lass is pretty.”
“So it means nothing when you say it to me?” Marianne probed.
“Marianne, wha’re ye doin? Ye ken I’m faithful tae ye.”
“But you still think about her.”
“’Tis impossible not tae. We grew up taegether, and ye ken how I am. I always need a healer after a fight or a hunt. So do other people in this castle.”
Marianne huffed. “Surely there are other healers. It is by her doing that I have no heir to give you.”
“Och, love. The midwife said--”
“The midwife is delusional! And perhaps even in league with your precious healer!”
“Marianne, what’s this about?”
“I want her gone. I have seen the way you look at her. You think I’m blind?”
Poor Malcolm was bewildered. He was sure he would never understand the ways of the English, no matter how hard he tried. “What can I do tae convince you otherwise?”
Marianne rose from the bed and padded across the floor, throwing the curtains open. The sudden sunshine hurt Malcolm’s eyes, and he turned over, burying his head in the pillow.
“I told you, I want her gone,” Marianne said, as she sat at her vanity, angrily brushing her long golden locks.
“She’s already in the dungeon, awaiting the trial. Ye just have to be patient and keep faith.”
Marianne ceased brushing her hair and gave him a crazed look through her mirror.
“And if the trial finds her not guilty? What then?”
“Och, wife, I cannae say.”
She recommenced brushing her hair. “If for whatever reason she is found to be innocent, I will take matters into my own hands. Is that clear?”
Malcolm nodded, though absentmindedly. When it had been confirmed that the magistrate would be arriving later in the week, Marianne had begun to gather her own witnesses. It was incredible, yet harrowing, to see how she used her powers to persuade people to her way of thinking. He knew that if she set her mind to something, she would get it. But he knew it spelled trouble for Arguen, and if he and Douglas didn’t do something fast, she would be doomed.
Laird Blake Mawr looked down at the garden from the window in his study. An older woman from the village, whose children were all grown, had offered to watch his daughter Mirellain and other children of the castle staff when their parents were tending to their duties. His daughter played dolls and laughed, the sound clear like a bell. It warmed his heart to hear her so content. He watched her with the other children for a few more moments before turning back to his correspondence. Running a castle on his own was more work than he’d ever imagined. In being made laird of Ernmore Castle at such a young age, he learned a lot quickly, but he never felt caught up, no matter what he did.
All he wanted was for his community to thrive and for his daughter to live happily. He wasn’t sure he was achieving either. He knew his castle staff found him to be cold and aloof, and his daughter frequently asked after her mother. Young Mirellain was all he had left of his own immediate family. His son, Duncan, had died two winters ago of the pox. He’d only held his baby sister once. Of course, Blake was no stranger to death, but it pained him knowing Mirellain was to be raised without a mother or siblings. There was no shortage of children in the village, to be sure, but Blake couldn’t shake the guilt. With no wife or siblings for Mirellain to grow up with, he feared she’d live a half-life. He never told anyone this; it was his burden to bear and his alone.
His friend James told him work would have to wait, at least for tonight. The candles would be burning for another reason. The castle was hosting a series of balls this summer. Each time, James promised him he’d find a fine lass. He was not wrong--there were many fine lasses present at each of these balls--but Blake couldn’t find it in his heart to care for anyone else right now.
Blake heaved a sigh and tried to mask his annoyance with an air of dignity. At least now he was taking a break from dancing, but apparently, overly ambitious mothers thought it was the perfect time to shove their daughters at him. He was gracious, of course, but declined dancing with any of them, preferring instead to watch and listen. Such quiet activities were not so easily done with his chattery friend, James, around.
“So? See anyone ye like?” James asked, peering over his pewter mug to assess his friend.
“Nay. An’ if I did, ye’d be the last tae ken.”
“Och, ye stick in the bog. I’d be the first tae ken, and ye cannae deny it,” James teased.
“Have ye no respect fer a grievin’ widower?” Blake asked dryly.
“Nay. Ye’ve been grievin’ three years. Time’s up.”
“I’m not settin’ my cap for any lass here.”
“Fer feck’s sake, Blake. The hall’s filled wi’ bonnie lasses eager fer a dance, or more. And if not, it’s free quim, ye ken?”
Blake regarded his friend with derision. “James, I’ve told ye before, ye cannae mistake vulgarity fer wit.”
James nodded dejectedly. “Aye, ‘tis right. But doesnae make it any less true,” he said with a wink.
Blake rolled his eyes. “Let me alone. Go find yerself a bonnie lass. Red over yonder’s been makin’ eyes at ye.”
He directed James’s gaze toward the woman with a subtle nod. The woman flashed a coy smile at James, beckoning him to come over. “Ye ken me well, Blake. I’ve always liked lasses with fiery hair.”
“Then go an’ tell her. I’m sure she’ll be flattered.”
“I will,” James said, setting his pewter mug down. “In the meantime, try not tae look so angry, eh? Pretend tae enjoy yerself.”
“I am nothing if not truthful,” Blake said flatly.
“Ye catch more flies with honey,” James said, walking away. Blake would have retorted, but he didn’t want to shout.
He found flies to be very unpleasant.
