The Bedroom & the Rules Part 1

Catherine -

I woke to the sound of voices in the corridor—hushed, urgent conversations that carried the particular tension of servants receiving orders they didn't entirely understand. After a night spent on the narrow bed in that stone cell, my body protested every movement, joints stiff from sleeping on a mattress that felt more like penance than comfort.

How long was I meant to stay there? I wondered. Days? Weeks? Until I learned to be grateful for whatever scraps of courtesy Lord MacAllister chose to offer?

The lock turned with a sound that had become familiar overnight—heavy iron mechanisms that spoke of age and purpose and the kind of security that wasn't meant to be bypassed. I sat up on the bed, smoothing my skirts and trying to arrange my features into something approaching composure.

Don't let them see fear, I reminded myself. Whatever's happening, don't let them see weakness.

The door opened to reveal the same two servants who'd escorted me here, though their demeanor was subtly different. Less wary, perhaps. Or maybe less resigned to an unpleasant duty.

"Miss Montgomery," the older one said, inclining his head with something that approached respect. "We're to escort you to your new quarters."

New quarters. The phrase sent a complex mix of emotions through my chest—relief that I wouldn't be spending another night on stones that wept moisture, apprehension about what "new" might entail in this place where nothing was quite what it seemed.

"Has Lord MacAllister decided I'm sufficiently... contained?" I asked, standing with movements that I hoped appeared more graceful than they felt.

Something flickered across the younger servant's face—surprise, perhaps, or admiration for the bite in my tone. But his companion's expression remained carefully neutral, professional in the way of men who'd learned not to comment on their employer's decisions.

"His lordship has reconsidered the arrangements," was all he said. "Your comfort is now a priority."

My comfort is now a priority. Such careful phrasing, as if my previous accommodation had been an oversight rather than a deliberate choice. As if stone cells and iron bars were simply temporary inconveniences rather than the true face of this arrangement.

But I followed them without protest, because whatever game Kieran MacAllister was playing, cooperation seemed more likely to yield useful information than defiance. I could rebel once I understood the rules.

The journey upstairs was a revelation in reverse—each level we climbed took us further from the cold dampness of the dungeons and closer to the warmth and luxury I'd glimpsed during my first evening here. By the time we reached what appeared to be the second floor, the corridors had widened, the lighting had improved, and the air carried the scent of beeswax and roses rather than centuries-old fear.

"Here," the older servant said, stopping before a door that gleamed with fresh polish. "Your chambers, miss."

Chambers. Plural. Not a cell, not a room, but chambers that suggested space and comfort and the kind of consideration due to a guest rather than a prisoner.

The door opened to reveal luxury that made me catch my breath despite my determination to remain unimpressed. This wasn't the temporary elegance of the rooms I'd been shown yesterday—this was comfort designed for long-term residence, with attention to details that spoke of genuine care rather than mere display.

Velvet hangings in deep burgundy that complemented the warm stone walls. A fire crackling in a hearth large enough to warm the entire space. Windows that looked out onto gardens where roses bloomed in defiance of autumn's chill. Furniture that had been crafted by masters, books that had been selected with care, and everywhere the kind of touches that transformed a room from mere shelter into something approaching home.

It's beautiful, I admitted silently, even as part of me resented the way my pulse quickened with pleasure. And it's a cage made of silk instead of iron.

"His lordship will join you shortly to explain the... parameters of your residency," the younger servant said, and there was something in his tone that might have been apology.

Parameters. Another careful word, as if rules and restrictions could be made more palatable through careful vocabulary.

They left me alone to explore what was apparently my new prison, though prison seemed an inadequate word for accommodations that rivaled anything I'd known in London. The sitting room opened onto a bedroom that took my breath away—a massive bed with hangings that could have housed a family, windows that filled the space with natural light, and a dressing table that suggested Lord MacAllister had very specific ideas about the kind of comfort his "guests" required.

Or the kind of comfort required to keep them compliant.

The thought was sobering, a reminder that however beautiful these quarters might be, I was still here against my will, still bound by bargains I'd had no hand in making.