They both knew. Isobel crossed the room quickly, pushing aside the curtain with trembling fingers. The courtyard below was still grey with early morning light.
She looked down and saw a man who could only be the Laird of Dunalasdair. He swung from the saddle, landing lightly before handing the reins to a waiting groom. From her perch high above, she catalogued his traits.. The Laird was tall. Broad-shouldered. Long sweeps of dark hair were pulled back to the nape of his neck.
He turned slightly.
The rays of the sun chose that moment to poke through the clouds and shine brightly on his silky locks.
Isobel went still. She knew the burnt copper highlights in that mane.
She leaned further out the window and squinted at his appearance. Sure enough, a strip of cloth was wound around his hand and slightly up his wrist, likely concealing an injury.
The man from the stream.
Her knees wobbled as a vision of the man from yesterday, this same man who now stood in her family’s courtyard, returned to her.
His hand covered in blood. The tip of his dirk separating his chest from hers. The look of loathing in his eyes that he hadn’t even bothered to try to conceal.
“No…” she whispered.
Margaret moved beside her. “What is it?”
Isobel did not answer. She watched him cross the courtyard, his stride long and certain. He paused, slowly lifting his head, his gaze moving across the windows, then stopped.
Isobel stepped back from the window.
It is as if he knew I was watching.
A sense of panic made Isobel’s heart jump erratically in her chest. She lifted her hand and fanned her face, willing herself to breathe deeply and slow her frantic thoughts and heartbeats, but none of her ministrations made any difference.
The Highlander I met is the Laird of Dunalasdair. The warrior…the brute…this man is to be my husband.
Suddenly, Isobel did not think Margaret’s suggestion to runaway the night before was so horribly misguided.
Why did I not listen to her? Why did I not go when I had the chance?
Isobel’s eyes darted around her room then scuttled back to the window as she mapped out an expedient escape route.
If I just tie my bedsheets into a rope, I can be out the window in…
A knock sounded, then the door opened without waiting for a reply. Her mother hurried in, pale and breathless.
“He is here,” she said.
Catriona rushed across the room and grabbed Isobel’s hand. Margaret moved forward and grasped the other side. Isobel’s fingers were ice cold. She trembled and quaked, but her mother and friend held tight.
Footsteps began moving through the corridor outside.
And this time, there was no possibility of escape.
* * *
So, this is an Englishman’s household.
Alasdair had been escorted into Mr. Graham’s study by an elderly and tottering butler. He stood there for all of thirteen seconds before a bevy of people joined him. The man of the house, Mr. Thomas Graham himself, had crossed the room immediately and taken up a post behind an enormous and gaudy wooden desk. It was covered with a smattering of papers as wellas several ink pots, a blotter, and a wax sealing ring. Alasdair had narrowed his eyes and stared at the gold ring.
That trinket must’ve cost a fortune.
But Alasdair was unimpressed by this faux display of wealth. He understood enough from the letter the Elders sent that Mr. Graham was in trouble financially and that meant all the items that were stuffed into this overcrowded work space were mere shows of wealth, rather than evidence of refinement or heritage.