Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

I cannae do this! I cannae do this! I should be in the chapel, I should be tendin’ the sheep, I should be talkin’ to me rosemary, nae this!

Terror held Paisley’s chest in a steely grip as she was led down the long hallway that Camden had shown her the other day. Heavenly, golden light filtered through the diamond-hatched windows, the rainclouds parting to allow the sunset its due glory.

Lively music swept toward her, accompanied by the babble of merry voices, the percussion of clattering cutlery, and the dull clink of tankards and goblets.

“I think I ought to change me dress,” she tried to say through sawing breaths, her heart beating so wildly she feared it might make a bid for freedom through her ribs.

Olivia—the force propelling Paisley down the hallway with such vigor—waved a dismissive hand. “None of the other gowns suited ye as well as this one, and there is nay time. The feast cannae begin until I arrive, and ye dinnae want to have to contend with hungry guests. Tempers rise when bellies are empty, and the drunkards get drunk faster.”

“Maybe ye should go in first,” Paisley urged in desperation. “I can follow after. It’ll seem odd if ye walk in accompanied by a stranger like me.”

Olivia chuckled quietly. “And allow ye to run back to yer rooms to hide? I dinnae think so. What I do think is that this feast and this cèilidh will do ye a world of good, and I willnae be told that I wasted me time selectin’ a pretty gown for nay reason.” She leaned in. “Ye never ken, ye might catch the eye of someone who can offer ye permanent safety and security.”

“I’m really nae interested in such things, M’Lady.”

Paisley had not expected to see Olivia again until the cèilidh, though the older woman’s warning had lingered like a malaise.

So, when Olivia had turned up at the bedchamber door a few hours ago, insisting that she would accompany Paisley to the cèilidh, it had come as a worrisome surprise. More surprising was the fact that Olivia had seemed perfectly cordial and cheerful, making no further mention of the previous day.

“Ye say that because ye havenae met the right man yet, but I’ll help ye with that,” Olivia replied with a wink.

Why are ye so determined to play matchmaker?

Paisley had an inkling that she knew the answer. Olivia likely wanted to foist her on some other man so she could ensure that Paisley was ‘not someone to worry about’ with Camden. Or, the older woman was trying to protect her virtue. As if Paisley could not protect it herself.

I wouldnae let him turn me into one of his conquests, M’Lady, she wanted to say. Then again, she could not quite forget the memory of him kneeling, nor the overwhelming desire that had gripped her, intrigued to discover what he would have done if they had not been interrupted.

Perhaps it was for the best that she had an objective guardian to defend her honor. A voice of reason when temptation began whispering sweet nothings.

“I can even make ye a Lady if ye want?” Olivia chirped. “I believe Laird Donnelly and Laird Bruar are in attendance. Fine young lairds, and in want of wives too. Or Laird Moore, perhaps? He’s nae what ye’d describe as a lass’s first choice—a fair temper on him, always dour and grim—but I reckon a lass like ye could soften him.”

“M'Lady, please…” Paisley swallowed thickly, her rough, quick breaths dizzying her.

But they were already at the towering double doors of the Great Hall, and Olivia was already ushering her into the lion’s den.

The hinges screamed, drawing the attention of everyone inside. At least a hundred pairs of eyes swiveled toward the newcomers, the chatter lulling, the music seeming quieter than before.

Paisley suspected it was all in her imagination, but it was as if the hall had gone utterly silent; the guests all staring at her, judging her, figuring out immediately that she did not belong there. How was she supposed to play the part that Camden had given her when her throat was closing up and her heart wanted nothing more than to turn tail and flee back to her room?

If I could’ve seen ye before this, I might’ve been assured. If I could’ve spoken to ye, heard the details of what ye need once more…

But Olivia had evidently had a hand in preventing that. Camden had not visited Paisley since he had walked in on her wearing the emerald-green gown. And she, in turn, had not dared to venture out to find him, not with Olivia’s parting words ringing in her ears.

He sought her now. His eyes did, at least. She felt the burn of them before she saw him.

When their gaze locked, a familiar hunger flickered in those black pools, conjuring up phantom kisses down the curve of her neck. Apparently, he did not have to touch her to make different parts of her body respond—he could do it with a look.

Paisley pretended not to notice, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve instead.

“I seated ye beside Amelia,” Olivia whispered, pointing to a rosy-cheeked young woman with a cascade of golden curls and bright eyes. “I reckon ye’ll be firm friends by the time puddin’ is served.”

Panic plunged a hand into Paisley’s stomach, twisting her innards. “I’m nae sittin’ next to ye?”

“Mercy, nay. I’ll be sittin’ beside me son, but I’ll nae be far.” Olivia gave her a gentle push, leaving her to walk alone, under the scrutiny of so many eyes, to sit beside the golden-haired stranger.

Amelia did not hesitate to pour a goblet of heady, spiced wine for her new neighbor, and Paisley did not have the heart or the wherewithal to refuse the gesture. She had tasted wine before whenever she took the sacrament in the convent, but that was just a sip. Yet, she had a feeling she was going to need the wine for what was to come, even if it went against her discipline.

I have broken so many rules already, what is one more?

“Amelia,” Amelia said, holding up her own goblet.

Paisley mustered a thin smile. “Paisley.”

“Well, Paisley, it’s a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”

“Likewise.”

“Here’s to a wonderful evenin’.” Amelia clinked her goblet against Paisley’s, and with that, Paisley took a great mouthful and swallowed it.

The warming spices coated her tongue and slipped easily down her throat, where the wine smoldered in her stomach like a comforting fire. Not at all like the sour wine of the convent, which burned as if she had gulped down pure vinegar.

Maybe this willnae be so bad…

She cast a discreet glance at Camden, her heart jumping at the heat of his gaze. He was not seated very far away—there were four guests between them. Had he been staring at her all that time?

A woman sitting on his left rested a slender hand on his shoulder to draw his attention, the gesture like a bramble scratch to the center of Paisley’s chest. She was one of the most beautiful women, if not the most beautiful woman, that Paisley had ever seen, with wavy locks of chestnut-brown hair, rosy cheeks against porcelain skin, and eyes as clear and blue as the shallows of a loch in the summer.

Camden’s lips moved as he responded to the woman, but his gaze did not falter, still fixed on Paisley.

Nay, I think this is goin’ to be exactly as bad as I feared.

“And who might ye be?” a soft voice asked Paisley as she finished her second goblet of wine.

She turned to her other neighbor, an older man with a thick head of silvery hair and a beard to match, a pleasant smile poking through the coarse strands.

“Paisley Nunford,” she replied with an easy smile of her own, the wine steadily chasing away the beehive of nerves that had followed her down to the Great Hall.

“Do ye ken the family well?”

“The family?”

The man chuckled. “Laird Cairn and his maither.”

“Ah, of course.” Paisley shifted in her chair, giving him her full attention. “I am friendly with them, aye. And who are ye, if I may ask?”

He held out his hand. “Laird MacLean. That’s me daughter, Kenna, over there next to Laird Cairn.”

“Is her maither here? I would very much like to see who she gets her beauty from.”

Laird MacLean guffawed, his rich laughter rumbling through the constant noise of the feast.

Paisley gulped, realizing what she had said. “Nae that ye’re an ogre, M’Laird. Goodness, I didnae mean that. It’s just that yer daughter is one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen in me life.”

Which is why it doesnae make a jot of sense why Camden isnae payin’ her any mind.

He had settled into the merriment well enough, eating and drinking to his heart’s content, conversing with the other men who sat closest to him—and his mother, of course—but he barely seemed to acknowledge Kenna. She, in turn, did not seem too disheartened, chatting amiably with the woman on her left.

“I’ll tell her ye said so,” Laird MacLean replied, cutting into a plump piece of roast pheasant dripping with glossy blackberry sauce. He chewed and swallowed, showing his good manners, before he continued. “Lady Cairn has organized a fine event, has she nae?”

Paisley nodded effusively. “Simply wonderful. I doubt I’ve ever seen such majestic garlands, and I’ve seen me share of ‘em. And I dinnae ken if it’s because I havenae eaten much in days, but this feast is heavenly.”

“Aye, it’s perfect for a betrothal celebration,” Laird MacLean said.

“Och, I doubt it’ll serve that purpose. Camden and I havenae announced it officially yet, and I imagine he’d prefer to tell his closest friends and family first,” Paisley replied without thinking, the wine clouding her judgment. “Nor will there be much time to hold a feast in honor of it. I am eager to be done with it quickly, ye see.”

It took her longer than she cared to admit to notice the older man’s stunned silence… and to realize what she had said. She was supposed to leave it to Camden, and there she was, letting her tongue wag freely.

“I dinnae think I was meant to say that,” she said, popping a crispy, roasted potato in her mouth to stop herself from saying something else she was not supposed to.

Amelia chimed in from Paisley’s other side. “Did ye just say ye’re betrothed to Camden?”

Paisley grimaced. “I wasnae supposed to blab it like that, but… I suppose ye’d have found out soon enough, seein’ as ye’re Lady Dougal. And ye, of course, Laird MacLean, seein’ as ye’re a laird, so ye must be close to him.”

But the shock on Amelia and Laird MacLean’s faces was not typical of someone who had just heard a juicy morsel of gossip. Amelia’s eyebrows were raised halfway to her hairline, her jaw slack. Laird MacLean’s kindly features had hardened into a grimace, his whiskers twitching, his friendly eyes no longer so friendly.

I’ve put me foot in it—I ken I have.

The hazy effects of the wine drained away until only sober discomfort remained, the delicious food sitting uneasily in Paisley’s stomach.

Laird MacLean twisted sharply in his chair, shooting Camden an icy look. “What is the meanin’ of this?” he hissed, quiet enough so only the uppermost end of the table could hear.

Taking a sip from his ale, the drink glistening on his lips in a way that briefly restored Paisley’s appetite, Camden raised an eyebrow. “What’s the meanin’ of what?”

“This lass tells me ye’re betrothed to her ,” Laird MacLean shot back, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the stem of his goblet. “Is this some lark, eh? I warn ye—it had better be. We had an agreement.”

Now the food roiled in Paisley’s stomach, acid horror stinging her throat as she looked to Camden for an explanation. What agreement was Laird MacLean talking about? Why did Olivia look like she was about to keel over?

What was Paisley missing?

The unbelievably beautiful woman next to Camden was the only one smiling, her tense posture relaxing. “Papa, Camden and I never agreed to be anythin’ more than allies. I told ye this. I told ye it was just a cèilidh, nae a betrothal celebration.”

“Camden,” Olivia cut in, her voice tight, “tell Laird MacLean there has been a mistake. This is supposed to be a betrothal celebration.”

Camden shrugged. “Then I apologize, but the mistake is yers and Laird MacLean’s. Ye shouldnae listen to the gossip of the council—they have never spoken for me, and they never will. I said ‘alliance,’ they heard ‘marriage.’” He glanced at Paisley. “I wouldnae pledge meself to Kenna when me heart belongs to another. Nay offense to ye, Kenna.”

“None taken,” Kenna replied. Her expression was hard to read, but Paisley thought she glimpsed a flicker of relief in her eyes.

Paisley, however, was anything but relieved.

Camden had made a fool of her. He had deceived her, as all devils were wont to do. He had charmed her into his scheme, leaving out the part where she would be injuring another woman and offending that woman’s family. He had shoved her onto a stage with a scrap of the script, keeping the full plot to himself. Now, she was embroiled in a mess that was not of her own making, and she had never craved the solace of the convent more.

Sick to her stomach, she pushed back her chair and muttered a hasty apology, walking down the length of the Great Hall and out the doors with as much dignity as she could muster.

She did not know where she was going; all she knew was that she needed to be as far away from Laird Cairn as possible.

Ye hid the truth from me, Camden… and it’s on me for ever thinkin’ someone like ye could be trusted.