Page 2 of Burning for the Beastly Laird

She recognized her uncle’s voice. He was directing the maids to serve a heavily scarred man flanked by four equally terrifying sons. As he looked around to make sure that his generosity was noticed, his eyes landed on her.

For a moment, his smile dropped into something colder. Isla needed no interpreter for that look. It was a reminder of what was expected of her: silence, service, and obedience.

She had learned long ago what it cost to go against his wishes. She decided that she would never give him the satisfaction of having a reason to prove just how far his cruelty went.

So she moved through the crowd of men, filling cups and offering curt, practiced smiles. And yet she could not help but listen to the arrangements, deals, and agreements being made over meat and drink.

“That cannae be little Isla, can it?”

At the sound of her name, Isla nearly jumped and dropped the cups in her hands. She was always startled when she was addressed directly, especially by men. Like a ghost would startle if anyone from the mortal world saw that it truly existed.

“But aye,” another man agreed. “She is Isla, Eleanor’s daughter. There is no mistaking that shade of blue that only the Sinclairs seem to share.”

She looked around at the men leering and closing in, and realized with dread that she had become the center of attention for half the hall—men with too much ale inside them and too much anticipation for the Annual Gathering.

Then a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

She didn’t even need to look up to know whose hand it was. She had felt that heavy touch more times than she could count, and each time it was devoid of warmth.

“It is me Isla,” her uncle said.

“Mo Dhia!” a man exclaimed, his eyes raking over her body. “Ye have raised a fine lass, Sinclair.”

Now every eye was drawn to the little spectacle—the fine cut of her dress, the style of her hair. Their eyes flashed with desire they didn’t even care to hide.

If she had expected her uncle to protect her, he gave no sign of that.

“Aye,” he said, as if displaying a trophy. “She grew up into a bonnie lass, is that nae right? And most importantly…” His tone turned humorous, but Isla could feel it was anything but. “She kens her place.”

The men around them laughed.

Isla wanted to scream and shame them, but she knew exactly what that would cost her. The reminder of it alone was enough to force a smile onto her face, strained at first, then perfectly pleasant.

She kept the storm inside her leashed. Still, a silent fury flashed across her features, as if she were committing the names of those who had ridiculed her, and those who had simply watched and done nothing, to memory.

When the lairds finally lost interest in her and turned to their drinking and eating, her uncle dragged her away into a quieter corner and shoved her against the wall.

“Ye smile too much, Isla,” he spat in her face.

Isla kept her eyes downcast, afraid that if she looked at him, her rage would explode and spill over.

“I was merely being polite, me Laird.”

“I wasnae askin’ for yer opinion!”

He leaned in, one finger raised close to her face in open threat. Her heart lurched, and her fingers curled into a fist.

“I am warnin’ ye, Isla,” he growled, his breath stinking of ale. “No one needs a lady who thinks of herself. It is too much trouble. And I…” He paused, baring his teeth. “… daenae like trouble.”

The words landed like a slap. Perhaps an actual slap would have hurt less than being asked to belittle herself.

“Aye, me Laird.”

Satisfied, her uncle gave a smile, then turned and went back to his guests. And Isla, the storm inside her still churning, went back to work with her head bowed and her voice low.

She served and cleaned and restocked the kitchen, and started all over again until night fell and the guests grew louder.

Eventually, she saw her uncle gesturing to her across the hall. She released a slow breath, willing her face still. This was all she was—no better than the servants, at her uncle’s beck and call.