“As many as it takes to confuse the English,” Jane replied without looking back. “That’s what old Colm in the kitchenssays, anyway. He’s been here since before the old Laird’s time, and I wouldnae argue with him for all the world.”
Isobel laughed. “Why not? Is this Colm terrifically fearsome?”
She thought of the way Laird MacRaeh looked that day, when he battled two men at once. He had been a menacing sight to behold. But now… She shook off remembrances of the moment that had just passed between them and recollected her coquettish promise.
I want to learn about this castle…as well as the Laird who rules it. I cannot do that if I continue to fixate on what I saw before.
“I try not to get on Colm’s bad side,” Jane answered as she wound her way down yet another staircase. “He makes the best bannocks in the kitchens, and I should hate to be denied the pleasure of tastin’ them when they come straight out of the oven.”
“Very well.” Isobel nodded. “I shall take note. Agree with Colm on every matter so that I may also be reap the benefits of his friendship.”
Jane giggled. “Now yer learnin’, me Lady.”
Jane moved through the space like water, finding channels and instinctively knowing which staircases led where, which doors were worth opening, and which were better left closed. She had the knowledge of someone who had grown up within these wallsand understood them the way Isobel understood her father’s house.
“This whole east wing is the Laird’s,” Jane said, steering them firmly away from a set of dark oak doors. “Daenae come here unless ye’re summoned.”
“He summons people to his wing?”
“He summons people to wherever he happens to be standin’.” Jane’s voice was dry but fond. “Our Laird is a busy man.”
“Yes,” Isobel mused. “I imagine he has his hands full.”
They moved through a long gallery where the faces of MacRaehs from the past watched them from heavy frames. Most of them wore similar expressions—severe, composed, and utterly confident in their authority. Isobel slowed down in front of one portrait that seemed to call out to her. The man in it was younger than the others, with dark eyes that held something the others lacked.
Warmth.
“His father,” Jane said quietly, coming to stand beside her. “The old Laird. He died at Culloden. The current Laird was seventeen.”
“Ah…” Isobel murmured. “My mother mentioned something of that nature a few days ago.”
Isobel examined the painted face. This Laird bore a strong resemblance to his son, with the same jaw and sharp cheekbones. But the expression of the mouth was different—more relaxed, as if this man hadn’t yet learned to school his expressions.
“What was he like?” Isobel asked.
“Fair. Firm. The clan would have walked into the sea for him.” Jane paused. “When he died, everythin’ got very quiet here. His son was a boy one day and a Laird the next, and there wasnae time for anythin’ in between.”
Isobel looked at the portrait for a moment longer.
“Come,” Jane said. “There’s more to see.”
They found the library at the end of a quieter corridor, behind a heavy door that swung silently on well-oiled hinges. Isobel stepped inside and immediately felt something in her chest loosen. Shelves reached up to the ceiling in every direction, packed with volumes in leather and cloth, titles in Latin, French, Gaelic, and English. The room smelled of old paper, candle wax, and dry wood.
“One of the finest collections in the Highlands, or so Lady Branwen claims.” Jane moved to one of the narrow windows and looked out at the rain. “The MacRaehs have always valued learnin’. Nae fashionable in most clans, but they never much cared for fashion.”
Isobel ran her fingers along a row of book spines, stopping at a volume of poetry with a cracked spine and pages worn from many readings. She gently pulled it from the shelf and turned it over in her hands.
“Does anyone use the library now?”
“The Laird,” Jane said carefully. “Sometimes late at night, when he cannae sleep. He has his father’s habit of it, though he’d nae thank me for sayin’ so.”
Isobel opened the book. The handwriting inside the front cover was old, faded, and clearly a woman’s hand. A gift inscription, partly worn away over time.
“Which books does he read?”
Jane glanced at her sideways. “The same ones his father did, mostly. There are a few with the spines more worn than the others, if ye look.” A pause. “I thought ye might want to ken. Since it’s yer library too, now.”
“Thank you for saying as much.” Isobel gently reset the volume and took a moment longer than necessary before turning away. “The library is…a treasure.”