Page 58 of Craved By a Highland Beast

An’ all o’ it happened in front o’ Bonnie’s eyes!

How heartbroken she had been when Mr. McIlroy had spoken. How she had looked at Evan, betrayal etched in her eyes. Evan had felt her grief in his own body, settling heavy in his stomach, and he hadn’t even yet had the chance to find her and explain thesituation to her, all because his council would not let this matter go.

“It was necessary,” Padraig said with a slight bow of his head. “Ye were gone fer too long, me laird. The council was forced tae make a decision, an’ I maintain it was the correct decision.”

“Ye should have consulted me first,” Evan insisted. “I have told ye now o’ me plan tae wed Bonnie an’ there is naething ye can tell me about the Lady Buchanan or her men tae change me mind.”

“An’ yer men?” Padraig demanded, taking a halting step forward. “Everyone in this room agrees. A union with Miss MacLaren would be too perilous. We ken o’ Graeme Ruthven’s intentions. We ken Miss MacLaren is betrothed tae him an’ it is only a matter o’ time afore they wed.”

“It is more than a matter o’ time,” Evan interrupted, holding up a hand. “I willnae allow him tae touch her.”

“It may come tae be that yer involvement is unnecessary,” Padraig said. “Once Ruthven’s plan is revealed, surely Miss MacLaren will be relieved o’ her betrothal tae him. Either way, our involvement is ill-advised. We will remain neutral in this conflict.”

“It is far too late fer that,” Evan pointed out, looking at every man in the room. “I have already brought her here an’ I will wed her. An’ if any o’ ye is opposed tae this, then . . .”

What threat was there for him to give? Replacing them with other advisors would surely cause a riot among them, and so would challenging them to a fight. Tensions between them were already high and Evan was doing a terrible job at calming them.

“What me brother is tryin’ tae say,” Alaric said, stepping forward, “is that perhaps there is merit in considerin’ Miss MacLaren as a potential bride. Is there doubt among ye that the MacLaren Clan is stronger than ever? Surely, they would make better allies than Clan Buchanan.”

“It is o’ nae importance when ye consider that both our laird an’ Miss MacLaren are already betrothed!” cried Padraig in a rare burst of exasperation. He had always been a patient man, level-headed and mild-mannered, but now he could hardly contain his anger. Evan saw it in the way his eyes narrowed, the skin around them crinkling with annoyance, his skin getting a faint tint of red.

Silence followed the man’s outburst and Padraig took a moment to breathe, bringing himself back under control. Presently, he said, “I implore ye, me laird . . . see reason. It is a heavy burden ye carry, but ye ken as well as anyone in this room that the clan is more important than the matters o’ the heart.”

Evan knew that to be true, of course. Few in his position were lucky to marry for love, fewer still could say they had made the right choice. And yet, whenever he thought about Bonnie, whenever he remembered the pain in her gaze, he couldn’t bring himself to agree to this wedding with the Lady Buchanan.

“Leave me,” Evan said eventually, having the council away.

“Me laird?—”

Before Padraig could finish, Evan said, “We will discuss this later, Padraig, I promise. I wish tae speak tae me brother.”

After a moment of hesitation, Padraig nodded and ushered the rest of the advisors out of the room. When the door closed and plunged them in silence, Evan let his head fall in his hands, drawing a deep, steadying breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Alaric pull a chair next to him, perching himself on it.

“I cannae dae this, Alaric,” he said. “I cannae betray her like this.”

Castle MacGregor was as grand inside as it was outside, though it lacked the ostentatious character of Castle Ruthven. The glory of this place came not from sprawling tapestries and branching chandeliers of solid gold, but rather from the portraits of the previous generations, hanging in the rooms and the hallways and revealing the clan’s past to Bonnie.

Isabeau hardly gave her time to see any of it, though, as she dragged her around the place, until the two of them came all the way to the north side and went once again out into the courtyard, but this time at the other end of the castle. There, Bonnie noticed a smaller building, one that resembled one of the cottages out inthe country, surrounded by a garden of flowers and herbs whose scents permeated the air, making it fragrant.

“This is where I spend much o’ me time,” said Isabeau as she pulled Bonnie along once more, into the small building. Inside, the air was just as fragrant from the dried bunches of herbs that hanged from the ceiling, dappling the light as it crossed them. The walls were lined with shelves, some of which held books while others held jars and other containers, all of them neatly labelled.

Bonnie knew a healer’s cottage when she saw one and now she walked around, looking at the old, cracked spines of the books in awe.

“Yer a healer?” she asked Isabeau.

“A midwife,” said Isabeau, leaning against the table that dominated the middle of the room. “But I have learnt many things. An’ I can see yer hurt.”

Bonnie turned to look at Isabeau in surprise, her hand reaching for her shoulder on instinct. “How did ye ken?”

“I can see that ye favor yer left arm,” said Isabeau. “An’ ye protect yer right arm as though there is a fresh wound. An’ we received word from Evan, so I already kent.”

Bonnie couldn’t help but laugh, joining Isabeau at the table when she gestured at her to approach. Bonnie sat in one of thechairs there, a simple wooden seat with a short back, as Isabeau walked around the room to gather her supplies. She returned with clean cloth, a few jars filled with pastes Bonnie couldn’t identify, and a small pot of hot water from the large one which sat over the fireplace.

“An’ I thought fer a moment that ye were a witch,” Bonnie teased as she bared her shoulder for Isabeau to take a look at the injury. The cloth that was wrapped around it had only a few specks of blood on it, and Bonnie could only think that was a good thing—slowly, she was healing.

“Ach, I hope nae one thinks I’m a witch!” Isabeau said, only half-joking as she began to clean Bonnie’s wound with soft, methodical movements. She was very careful, Bonnie noted, making sure she missed none of the blood and the old paste the healer at Castle Ruthven had applied over the wound. “I promise ye, I’m nae evil.”

“I dinnae think anyone could see ye an’ think yer evil,” Bonnie assured her. It was the truth. Isabeau looked like innocence personified, with her wide green eyes and the smile that never seemed to leave her rosy lips. She resembled the dolls with which Bonnie played as a child with her patrician beauty and her shiny dark hair. “Nae one who is evil would care about a wounded person . . . or fer a maither an’ her bairn, in fact. How is it that a young noble lass wishes tae be a midwife?”

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