Page 3 of Kilted Seduction
Thora grimaced. “I have nae proof, me laird, but I ken what I saw. I ken what the future holds if ye dinnae listen tae me.” She stepped closer to him, praying he’d recognize her sincerity. “I ken ye’ve nae reason tae believe me, that I’m just a lass ye never met afore. I ken what I must sound like tae ye. But this is the truth, whether ye wish tae believe me or nae, and ye must dae as I say, or yer clan falls tae ruin.”
“Me clan falls tae ruin if I dinnae listen tae the words o’ a strange lass spouting prophecies o’ danger and ruin?” Laird Cameron snorted derisively, a mocking smile on his face. “Lass, I believe in what can be seen and proved, nae fairytales and ‘mystic’ whimsies. I’ve seen fortune tellers afore, and never a one with any truth tae their meanderings. They are just that, nae something on which tae base the actions o’ a laird, or the decisions o’ leading a clan.”
“I ken ye believe that, but this is different. I…”
“Every so-called seer I’ve ever spoken tae says they’re different, lass. Be they wise women seein’ visions in the smoke, or lasses with powerful dreams.” Laird Cameron interrupted her. His expression was rapidly losing its mirth, as amusement transformed into irritation.
He stepped closer. “Can ye give me proof? Plans, penned in Lachlan Ross’s own hand, mayhap? Movements o’ warriors or scouts that might be watchin’ fer ways tae attack? Rumors from the servants, or the men-at-arms, who might be preparin’? Reports o’ supplies and weapons bein’ gathered fer an assault? These are the things I believe in, Thora MacTavish, nae dreams and ‘prophecies’.”
Frustration filled her, and she felt the sting of angry tears in her eyes. “I have naething o’ the sort. Only me word and me dreams. Why can that nae be enough fer ye? Dae ye honestly think I’d come here, in such weather, if I didnae believe what I said?”
Laird Cameron’s brow creased, and for a moment, she hoped that her words might have made an impression at last. Then he shook his head. “’Tis true, ‘tis clear ye believe in yer visions, or at least, ye believe in something enough tae brave the storms, I’ll give ye that. But just because ye believe yer dreams, daesnae mean I have tae. Fer all I ken, ye’re delirious from bein’ caught in the storm, and a night in the care o’ our healer will see ye blushin’ over yer ravin’.”
“I’m nae delirious!” Thora stared at the laird. She’d known, from her visions, that he’d be stubborn, and rather ruggedly handsome she had noticed, with those green eyes and dark hair his, but she’d never guessed that he’d be this close-minded. “I dinnae have a fever, and I’m nae ravin’!”
“Daesnae mean there’s aught o’ substance tae what ye claim tae have seen.” Laird Cameron shook his head. “Ye’re welcome tae wait out the storm in the castle if ye like. I’ll nae turn ye out in this weather, but I’ll hear nay more o’ this nonsense about visions and threats that cannae be proven, and supposedly come from my allies, at that.”
“Laird Cameron…”
“Nae more.” He shook his head. “I’ve real work tae be doin’, and preparations fer Yule tae tak’ care o’ fer me clan. The guards will tak’ ye tae the kitchens tae get some food, and then ye can find a place tae rest.”
With that, he went to his chair and sat down, clearly dismissing her. Thora considered storming over and dripping all over his papers until he listened, but then common sense prevailed. In all likelihood, the only thing that would accomplish would be to get her thrown out of the castle, or into the dungeons for the night.
She was hungry, soaked, and shivering with cold. She needed a moment to get dry, warm and fed. Then she could make a plan to force the laird to listen to her - one that might actually succeed in doing more than frustrating him further.
Aedan watched as Thora hovered in front of his desk. He could see the frustration in her gaze, the anger in the set of her shoulders, and half-expected her to charge over to his desk and demand he listen to her. Instead, she finally gave a sigh and turned to the door, apparently resigned to her failure.
She was a bonny lass, he had to admit. The way the soaked dress clung to her body left almost nothing to the imagination, outlining gentle curves and a modest bosom. She was slim, lacking the more generous curves he knew some men preferred, but there was an elegance and grace to her that caught his attention and sent sparks of heat through his blood. With her pale skin, dark hair, and almost luminous eyes, she put him in mind of the stories his mother had read to him long ago, about Faerie maidens come to court mortal men.
Even the ‘dreams’ she spoke of seemed like part of a child’s tale come to life. Had he been of a more superstitious nature, he might have suspected her of trying to ensnare him with some sort of spell. It was a ridiculous thing to think, when he was a grown man, but he couldn’t help those wayward thoughts.
Aedan shook his head. Beautiful the lass might be, but she was keeping secrets, and that was always something to be wary of. The way she spoke and moved was at odds with her claims of being a simple village lass. She was too assured, too confident for a young lass from a village or a farm. Even had she been from a home where her ‘gift’ was revered, and the girl herself treatedlike a prophetess of old, she should have been much more reserved when speaking to a laird. Instead, she acted as if she’d been raised in a castle.
She might be a servant from another laird’s castle - he could imagine one of his neighboring lairds noticing the absence of their ‘seer’ and breathing a sigh of relief. Unless, of course, they were the superstitious sort who believed in such things.
A laird who put too much stock in ‘predictions’, and thus treated her as more important than her regular station, might explain her self-assurance.
Aedan sighed. He couldn’t afford to make any assumptions about the lass. He also couldn’t afford to spend too much time thinking about her. He had work to do, and he didn’t need any distractions, even if they were beautiful mysterious maidens.
Despite that, the memory of her face, ethereal and straightforward, lingered in his mind. That, and the echo of her words.
‘Ye need tae attend Laird Ross’s Yule celebration, or yer clan is in grave danger.’
Why was it so important, and how had she known about the Yule celebration, or his decision not to attend it?
CHAPTER THREE
Food and dry clothing improved Thora’s mood but didn’t solve her problem. After a simple meal of stew and bread, she found herself in a set of unused servant’s quarters, considering the problem of Laird Cameron and his refusal to listen to her.
He was pragmatic, and he didn’t believe in her gift. That would make everything far more difficult. If her words alone could not convince him, then she had to find a way to make him acknowledge her sincerity. She also had to find a way to convince him to follow her suggestions. But how could she do that?
He’d been kind enough to give her a room and a new pair of shoes, which meant she could still talk to him. Maybe he’d take her more seriously now that she didn’t look half-drowned. Thora took a moment to make sure her hair was nicely braided and her appearance was neat, then left the room, retracing her steps to the laird’s study.
She heard voices as she neared the door and slowed her steps, the politeness she’d been raised with warring with her curiosity. Curiosity won, and she slipped closer to lean against the door.
“...cannae afford tae dae that.” It wasn’t the laird’s voice. She wondered if it was the voice of the man who’d been with him when she arrived - his second in command, perhaps?
“It daesnae matter what we can or cannae afford. This is what needs tae be done, tae keep our lands free o’ bandits and raiders.”
