Page 44 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

TWO DAYS LATER

“ What have ye done!” Magnus hissed.

The man before him was sniveling on the ground, sputtering over his words.

“Me laird,” the man cried as he knelt on his knees, bowing so far his forehead was nearly pressed to the floor. “Me laird, I dinnae think it would fail. I am sorry. I dinnae ken…”

“Ye ken ye would fail the entire time,” Magnus growled, glaring at the man.

He had not spoken loudly, but the intent behind his words had been clear.

The man had arrived shortly after Magnus had sent Dougal into the villages, spreading the news of the reward.

His name was Artair, and he’d claimed to be a healer. Two days later, however, Bethany was now worse than ever, and it was glaringly obvious that Artair had lied.

Thankfully, Magnus had continued to receive potential healers while the man had been pretending to tend to his sister, but he’d deemed all of them as frauds.

They were either grifters, coming in and claiming to be able to heal her while only being after the reward money, or they’d been women coming in with the intent of snaring something very different—him.

Magnus drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair he was sitting in, his lip curling in disgust as he watched Artair continue to cry at his feet.

“I cannae stand this anymore,” he growled, pushing himself up to standing. “Mayhaps some time in the dungeon will help ye think about why ye lied to me, and maybe it will make ye think about the harm ye did to me sister.”

He turned and looked at Dougal, giving him a nod.

Dougal moved forward, his large hands clasping down on Artair’s. The man began to scream, pleading with Magnus for mercy.

He fought against Dougal’s grip, throwing his body from side to side to try to free himself.

Without Magnus having to say anything, another one of his guards detached himself from where he’d been leaning against the wall.

He walked forward and grabbed Artair’s other shoulder.

Now that Artair was being held on both sides, some of the fight went out of him.

“Ye have to believe me,” he yelled. “Ye have to believe that I dinnae mean to cause the lass harm. Me laird, please.”

“Wait,” Magnus called, stopping Dougal and the guard just as they were about to walk out of the meeting hall.

The room was silent except for Artair’s pathetic whimpering. His teary eyes remained fixed on Magnus, filling with hope as he crossed the meeting hall to them.

When Magnus reached Artair, he leaned in, bringing his face within inches of the man.

“I believe ye,” Magnus said.

Immediately, Artair’s face began to light with hope. His tears, which had been falling steadily since shortly after he’d been dragged into the meeting hall, began to dry.

“Thank ye,” Artair murmured, his relief palpable. “Thank ye.”

The corners of Magnus’ mouth pulled up in a feral sneer as he shook his head.

“I said I believe ye,” he hissed. “I dinnae say that I cared. Ye are goin’ to rot in those dungeons. And ye better pray I daenae command me men to forget that ye’re down there.”

All the hope on Artair’s face vanished, immediately replaced by panic. He began to yell again, but Magnus paid no mind as he turned and walked back to the chair he’d been occupying.

By the time he sank down into his seat, the fake healer had been hauled out of the room, the sounds of his yelling fading into nothingness as he was dragged toward the dungeons.

Magnus sighed, sinking further into his chair. He rubbed his forehead between his thumb and forefinger as the beginning of a headache started to take over.

“Me laird?”

A soft, hesitant voice sounded from in front of him.

What now?

Magnus looked up, his eyes landing on a young maid by the name of Margaret who stood in front of him. She was eyeing him wearily, and after the display he’d just put on, he couldn’t really blame her.

“Aye?” he prompted, waiting for her to announce why she was disturbing him.

“There is someone here claimin’ to be a healer,” she said tentatively. “She says she has quite a lot of experience, and she’d like to try to help Bethany.”

Magnus had to fight back the urge to groan.

“She?” he asked. “So, she’s a lass?”

“Aye, le laird.”

Magnus didn’t say anything further, knowing that whatever else came out of his mouth was bound to be unkind.

It’s likely another lass after me and nae actually here to help Bethany.

“Bring her in,” he commanded.

Magnus took the time as Margaret walked away to start steeling himself for what was bound to be a fruitless conversation.

The sound of footsteps on stone drew Magnus’ attention, announcing Margaret’s arrival once more. Then, someone walked in behind her.

Glancing at the doorway, he saw it the moment she walked in.

Christ, but she’s bonnie.

And she was. She was plump, curvy in all the right places, in a way that made Magnus’ mouth immediately go dry. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face, expertly arranged in intricate braids, and her lovely, round cheeks flushed as sky-blue eyes met his.

The maid who had escorted her dismissed herself, quickly bustling away toward the doors that led out of the hall.

The woman before him gave a slight, respectful bow. All the while, Magnus could not take his eyes off of her.

The silence in the room was amplified. His guards were watching him closely. Magnus could feel the weight of their eyes, wondering what their Laird was going to do.

Magnus, however, was trying to get himself under control. The sight of her, the beauty and perfection of every curve, had knocked him off kilter.

But while most would shy away while he studied them, the woman before him did not. She stared at him, a polite expression on her lovely face, waiting for him to speak.

I have to get control of meself. I shouldnae let some lass with a bonnie face make a fool out of me.

He shifted in the chair, closing his eyes to draw in a deep steadying breath. The lass standing before him might be beautiful, yes, but the reason that she was here was so much more important.

I daenae care if she’s beautiful or if she looks like a banshee’s arse. I still need someone who can help Bethany.

He opened his eyes, finding the woman still watching him with a patient expression.

“Speak,” Magnus commanded, reminding himself that this was for Bethany and that his men were watching him. “And ye best convince me ye ken how to help me sister. Otherwise, I’ll have ye fed to the dogs.”

“Laird McIntosh,” Sinead said, bowing her head again in acknowledgment of his station, “me name is Sinead, and I am an accomplished healer. I believe I can help yer sister.”

“What makes ye so sure?” the Laird asked in a brusque voice.

Sinead’s hands began to sweat. The man before her was brash. When he spoke, it was in a curt, rude manner—one that Sinead herself was accustomed to only when she was dealing with her mother.

But despite this, she could not stop staring at him—could not stop admiring his face and drinking in his broad shoulders. And most of all, Sinead could not stop admiring his sheer, brutal beauty.

“I was trained by the healer we have at clan McKie,” she responded, doing her best to keep her voice from trembling.

She was trying to keep her mind working right.

I cannae be attracted to this man. I cannae think about anythin’ else other than this reward. It can change me life.

“He is a skilled healer,” Sinead continued, proud when she found her voice steadier. “And he taught me everythin’ he kens. Between that and the incentive of the reward, which I hear is quite fair, I believe that I’ll have all I need to help yer sister.”

Laird McIntosh grunted. “And that’s what ye’re interested in, then? Simply the reward? Nothin’ else?”

Sinead was not sure why, but she got the feeling that this question was important although she felt it was rather obvious. Wouldn’t everyone have been showing up for the reward?

Unless he’s been lied to because of it. Mayhaps somethin’ has gone wrong. Mayhaps he’s unsure of who to trust.

“I assure ye, me laird,” she said, imbuing each word she spoke with nothing but sincerity, “I am here because I believe I can help yer sister. I wouldnae trifle with someone’s life with a lie.

And the reward, if it is as generous as I’ve heard, will be somethin’ that will allow me to reclaim me own life. I am here because of both.”

The Laird narrowed his eyes at her, gaze still filled with pessimism as he regarded her. Sinead did not shirk away from his intense stare.

Instead, she focused on breathing. She tried to find solace in the act of pulling air into her lungs. She tried to use the steady rhythm of it to bring peace into her mind.

Sinead tried everything, really, to keep herself focused on anything other than Laird McIntosh’s unnerving gaze and the way it made an unfamiliar desire warm her belly.

“All right,” Laird McIntosh said, pushing himself out of his chair to stand.

Sinead had to stop her mouth from popping open. She’d known that he was large, the broadness of his shoulders had told her that, but now that he was standing, she realized just how much she had underestimated the absolute heft of him.

Laird McIntosh prowled closer, towering over her when he stopped mere feet away.

“I’ll hire ye,” he growled, his deep voice rumbling through her. “Ye have two weeks to heal me sister. And ye best nae be lyin’ to me, or I’ll feed ye to the dogs.”

The desire in her belly was replaced by fear. Staring up at this man, at the simmering, icy rage just behind his dark brown eyes, she had no doubt that he meant every word.

She could not speak. All words failed her as she stared up at this tantalizing monster of a man.

So, Sinead did the only thing that she could do.

She held Laird McIntosh’s gaze and gave him a quick, firm nod of agreement.

What in the name of Christ Himself did I get meself into?