Don’t run down the hill, Honoria, you will fall.
Don’t swim in the lake, Honoria, you will drown.
Don’t eat so fast, Honoria, you will choke to death.
Well, they could all choke on the air they breathed!
Bursting through the front entrance in a flurry of skirts, she headed for the small hill beyond the castle to clear her mind.
A pox on any sibling who tried to stop her because the pollen she might drag into her lungs would cast her into a timeless sleep. It was more probable that she would die of boredom before her brothers allowed her to do anything remotely thrilling. They could go to Hades for all she cared—except for Hugh. Her twin was the only MacCallan man she tolerated at present. He stood up for her and Isla. Always had their backs. Falcon too, but he was presently in London with his wife.
Boyd and Lachlan, the siblings most likely to get into a brawl, were busy readying the horses when she stalked past them. It was a beautiful day with nary a cloud in sight—the perfect day for travel. Her anger soured.
They each cast a curious look her way but wisely said nothing. Hah! The two devils knew what injustice had transpired here today and had done nothing to aid her.
“Good-for-nothing male cretins,” she muttered, shooting them each a glare.
“Where are you heading, Honoria?” Lachlan shouted after her.
“To sulk,” she snapped, not bothering to look back.
“Och, come now lass, it cannot be that bad,” Boyd called out.
Honoria ignored them, confident they wouldn’t follow unless they wished to lose a limb. They always left her to brood after they snuffed out all her hopes. And always upon their return, they brought gifts.
As if gifts would console her battered pride.
Those brainless lumps did not understand. About the only thing Honoria adored more than culture and poets was painting. Granted, she did not paint as any young lady of her age painted, landscapes and portraits, but enjoyed a more peculiar style.
Truth be told, she was terrible at sketching, though she enjoyed painting faces. Mostly it wasn’t painting itself that appealed to her, but the layering of abundant colors at her disposal. Her own intuitive art style, as Honoria thought of it, was usually inspired by her moods.
Honoria did not mind that her paintings were odd. She painted from her heart.
And if her brothers did not love her paintings, they abhorred her sketches. About the only thing she was good at sketching were eyes: animal eyes, young eyes, wrinkled eyes, any eyes. Of course, those eyes made her brothers’ skin crawl, which was why she hung them on the walls all over the castle.
If living under the watchful gazes of nine brothers tested her sanity, why not drive them a little mad in return? It was one of the few things that kept her occupied—and sane—which was no way to spend a life.
Was it too much to ask to accompany them to Edinburgh?
An undignified snort left her lips.
The cool air nipped at her skin as Honoria made her way up a hill overlooking the looming brick walls of the castle. Her home was beautiful. Nestled in the Northern Highlands and cloaked between mountains and pastures, it stood strong and nearly impenetrable.
A long time ago, Castle MacCallan had once almost fallen to ruin, but her great-grandfather, the fourth Duke of Roxburgh, had relocated from Inverness to restore the castle to its former glory.
While Honoria loved her home, she longed to participate in the city life, too: attend theatres, dance at balls, saunter through art exhibitions. But their father wished for his children to be raised outside the influence of corrupted city life—or English influence, as he oftentimes said. And Adair, as most of her brothers, had adopted the same school of thought.
“An ancient line of thought,” Honoria muttered as she hunkered down to settle on the grass in view of the castle. She tucked her legs close to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. Adair and Gregor were striding toward the stables, issuing orders to the servants, almost ready to depart.
Disappointment settled in her chest.
For the past month, every night before she turned in for bed, and every morning when Honoria opened her eyes, she prayed for something,anythingthat may bring about change—preferably the sort of change that resulted in her traveling to Edinburgh.
But no such luck.
She was to stay at MacCallan Castle.
At this rate, she would die an old maid, which would be fine if she could get to the city before passing on to the next life. Perhaps the time had come for her to go off on her own exploration.
