Page 8 of To Serve a Laird
Dougal sipped his drink, thinking. “Make sure you’re not distracted by a pretty face, Iain,” he advised. “It might be better to settle for a quiet life. Lady Cameron, the elders mentioned, for instance…”
He spoke from experience. Dougal had once been in the same position as Iain, being pressured into marrying a young woman with a rich father and a large dowry, although he was in love with someone else.
He had resisted as long as he could, but in the end he had dutifully married his wife, and they had brought two children into the world. They were not madly in love, although neither were miserable, and despite the fact that their relationship was not passionate, Dougal considered himself fortunate.
“I am truly tired of all the pressure everyone is putting on me to marry, Dougal. I mean, what’s the rush?” Iain looked at his friend, then growled in frustration. “I have no need of a rich wife, and I am not seeking one.”
Dougal nodded and changed the topic of conversation to something less serious. They sat chatting companionably for a while before Dougal announced that it was time for him to go.
“Think about what I said,” he advised, patting Iain’s shoulder. “I am married to a good woman, and I am quite content with my lot.”
Iain nodded. “I will,” he promised.
But I am not you,he thought as he said goodbye to his friend.
He sat down at his desk again and tried his hardest to focus on his parchment work. Soon it would be time for the tenants to come and pay their quarterly rents, and at the same time heap all their problems and complaints on his already overburdened shoulders.
Even though he had a perfectly capable steward, a man who had served his family for years, the tenants on his estate seemed to like to have their Laird directly at their beck and call. The elders and Lairds from other local clans had told him many times that he was far too accommodating, and it was true that he found the whole process exhausting. However, he actually liked meeting and interacting with the ordinary people, and was always mindful of the fact that they were the ones who had helped him amass his wealth.
Accordingly, he focused his attention on the ledgers in front of him. It was only an hour later when the numbers began to blur in front of his eyes that he realised he was not going to be able to finish his day’s work. His exhaustion was too distracting.
Having already eaten, Iain decided that his day was done, and went to his favourite place in the whole castle: the library. He loved its smell, the warmth of the big fire, the comfort of his chair, and the company of the books all around him. They were all old friends, and he had made a promise to himself that he would read every single one of them before he died.
That would give him a good reason to live a long life, he reasoned.
He often spent solitary evenings in the vast room, reading, resting, thinking happy thoughts and putting down the day’s burdens until the next morning; they would still be there tomorrow. It was the best time of his long day.
Iain took down a book about naval history, which was one of the many subjects that interested him, then poured a glass ofwine, sat down in his comfortable chair by the warm flames and buried himself in the text.
However, the long and exhausting day finally began to take its toll, and in no more than a few moments his eyelids began to close, and he drifted into a pleasant doze.
The dream began almost straight away.
He was standing on one of the turrets looking down at the valley below and thinking about how he was going to have the thatch on six of his tenants’ cottages mended. Yet another problem!
Then he heard footsteps approaching him, and he turned to see a young woman approaching him.
At first, he did not recognise her, then he noticed that she was carrying an armload of books, and realised it was the new maid—Claire, was it?
Yes, except now she was wearing a lovely pale blue dress and was smiling at him happily.
My god, she’s gorgeous!’he thought, and realised that his body was responding to her as she came close enough to touch him.
Claire curtsied politely and held the books out to him. “I thought you would like these, my Laird,” she said. “They are my own, but I am too busy to read them.”
“Thank you,” he replied as he took the volumes from her. “I will read them and give them back to you.”
She shook her head. “No, there is no need for that,” she answered. “They are a gift. You rescued me from a fate worse than death. It is I who should be thanking you.”
With that, she curtsied again, then turned and walked away, leaving him to look after her in a state of complete bemusement.
Suddenly, he was awakened by the sound of the door handle being turned, and the creak of its hinges as it opened. He wasabout to jump to his feet and approach whoever was entering his sacred domain, but curiosity won the day, and he sat, still and silent, listening.
His candle had long since gone out, and he was to all intents and purposes invisible. He watched and waited.
4
Iain had suspected who his visitor was before he saw her face by the light of the candle. It was the new maid, Claire, and she had somehow managed to find her way to the library.
