Page 9 of A Bride for the Wicked Highlander (Daring a Highland Laird #2)

“ T his is one of me wife’s dearest friends, nae yer plaything,” Hunter muttered in a low voice, his concentration divided between his wife and Oscar. “If I’d had fairer warnin’, I’d have told ye I dinnae approve before ye went and informed yer council.”

Oscar sniffed. “I dinnae remember ye bein’ me faither, Hunter. Yer approval isnae necessary; it’s welcome, if it’s nae all doom and gloom, but it’s nae necessary. I’m me own man, as much a Laird as ye, with all the right in the world to make me own decisions.”

The milky sunlight darkened as an angry gray cloud scudded across the sky, spitting a few droplets of icy rain. Oscar cast a subtle glance in his bride’s direction, wondering if he ought to call her inside before the heavens opened.

“Aye, well whether ye want it or nae, I’ll give ye me opinion,” Hunter replied tersely.

“Ye’ve told me, time and again, that ye cannae and willnae marry.

Ye’ve vowed, both drunk and sober, that ye’ll never care for a lass for more than a night.

Now, all of a sudden, ye decide to take one of me wife’s best friends as yer bride?

Aye, ye’ll have me opinion on that, and nay mistake, because ye’ve either gone mad or I’m missin’ somethin’. ”

It is mad, but I’m nae thinkin’ of changin’ me mind. It baffled Oscar as much as it clearly baffled his friend. He couldn’t even explain it to his council, so how on earth was he supposed to explain it to Hunter? Or himself?

“She came to me,” he said carefully. “She was desperate. In trouble. I suppose she tapped a well of generosity I dinnae ken I had.”

Hunter gave him a withering look that seemed to say, Ye expect me to believe that?

“She tapped yer pride, ye mean,” Hunter grumbled.

“She made ye feel—I daenae ken—special or somethin’, because it was ye that she sought out.

That’s all this is: inflated pride. And I daenae think it’s wise to wed a lass because she made ye feel good for a moment. Ye, of all people, should ken that.”

Oscar bristled, his mood darkening with the clouds. “I’m nae a feeble lad gettin’ a compliment on the swing of his sword for the first time, Hunter. It’s got nothin’ to do with me pride.”

It’s just... her. I cannae explain it any better. It’s just her.

She’d asked and he’d consented, and he didn’t feel the least bit sorry about it.

How could he, when the only woman who had ever managed to cling to his thoughts had come to his door and offered to be his?

He was certain theirs would be a tempestuous union, but that didn’t fill him with doubts either.

Rather, he was intrigued to discover what potential the passion of their arguments had when diverted to more pleasurable exploits.

If she’s as fiery in the bedchamber as she is out of it, we’ll never be a peaceful pair, but we’ll never have a borin’ life together.

“Take that look off yer face,” Hunter urged, making Oscar realize that his gaze had wandered to Maddie. “See, this is what concerns me. I dinnae think I’ve ever seen that look on yer face before.”

Oscar sniffed. “What look?”

“The look of a ravenous beast,” Hunter replied with a sigh.

“The look of a man with an obsession that cannae be satisfied. She’s.

.. unusual, Oscar. She’s nae goin’ to kneel at yer feet and worship ye like the stream of lasses ye spend yer evenings with.

She’s nae goin’ to be what ye’re accustomed to.

So, if ye willnae heed me disapproval, at least heed this: be careful with her.

If ye dinnae do that, if ye hurt her, if ye cause her distress, ye ken Grace will ask me to make ye pay, and I dinnae want to have to turn on an old friend. ”

Obsession? He suppressed the urge to laugh at the mere notion.

He wasn’t obsessed with Maddie. The fact that he kept thinking of all the ways he might please her, and be pleased in return, was just the way his mind worked.

It wasn’t obsession. It couldn’t be. Obsession wasn’t a disease; there was no possible way it ran in his blood.

An unpleasant tremor beetled down his spine, pinching him between the ribs until his breath caught for a moment.

“Daenae concern yerself with duels that havenae happened yet,” he said tightly, his chest in a vise. “Ye willnae have to fight me, because ye have nothin’ to worry about in that regard.”

Hunter quirked an eyebrow. “Why, because she’s told ye she doesnae mind ye havin’ all the lovers ye desire?”

“How do ye ken that?”

“An educated guess,” Hunter replied. “A lass who hasnae made a secret of despisin’ men isnae goin’ to balk at the idea of delegatin’ certain duties to those who are actually keen.”

A frown creased Oscar’s brow as he thumped lightly on his chest, trying to dislodge the tight sensation.

“Nay, ye dinnae have to worry because I mean to be the perfect gentleman.” He filled his lungs with the earthy-scented air, yet felt as if he couldn’t draw a full breath. “I willnae even touch her.”

He stared at her out of the corner of his eye, his blood roaring in his ears as he watched the raindrops strafe downward, hitting the white of her billowing blouse. He didn’t know whether to grab a blanket to cover her or wait for a downpour, to see her figure unveiled by the rain.

The longer he stared, the more his imagination ran wild, picturing her bare among the drab winter display of the gardens, adding the sole spark of beauty and vitality to the otherwise dead landscape.

He imagined her slick-skinned by a deluge, that burnished hair dripping, her slender arms reaching out for him to join her.

His lips tingled as he saw himself kissing her, pulling her close, feeling her hands on him as she fumbled to strip him of his kilt and shirt.

They wouldn’t feel the cold, warmed by the heat of each other, burning with a passion powerful enough to make the blooms think it was summer. A passion strong enough to unravel him.

Stay away from her, his mind whispered, like the wind through the trees. Let her live. Dinnae be yer faither’s son.

The tightness in his chest began to suffocate him, the surging fire in his blood growing too hot to bear. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted anything before. He wanted to claim her, possess her, worship her, and it chilled him to his core.

“Excuse me,” he said thickly, his throat constricting. “I just remembered that I’m due in the trainin’ yard.”

He left while he still had a grip on his control, walking away from the gardens, away from her , before he lost the ability to breathe altogether. For no matter the color of his eyes or the resemblance in his features, he was not and never would be his father’s son.

“He can’t possibly still be at the training yard,” Maddie mumbled, checking the clock on the mantelpiece: it read half-past-seven, the sky already dark outside, the moon blotted out by heavy-laden rainclouds.

Betty-Ann had informed her that dinner was to be served promptly at seven o’clock. At Grace’s gleeful insistence, Maddie had even relented and worn a dress for the occasion.

“I’ll do it for you, not for him,” Maddie had conceded, allowing her friend and the silver-haired maid to tug her and pull her and restrain her in the chosen gown.

A reasonably simple redingote of dark green silk, the sleeves so tight she could never have picked any specimens from the garden in them, with three layers of petticoats, the thicker ivory of the top layer fully visible in that open robe style.

Yet, it was already half an hour after the time they were supposed to be eating.

“Are you certain that’s where he said he was going?” Maddie asked Hunter, who looked equally annoyed that the food was cold and he hadn’t yet had a bite.

She’d noticed Oscar’s abrupt departure earlier, having no reason to doubt Hunter’s explanation that the great Laird of Muir was supposed to be at the training yard. She wasn’t exactly sure where that place was, though she added a note to her mental list to find out for future reference.

Hunter nodded. “Aye, but ye’re right; he wouldnae still be there at such an hour. There’d be nay point in it, unless they were runnin’ night exercises.” He eyed the delicious feast, his brow furrowing. “Are ye certain he said seven o’clock?”

A little affronted by the suggestion that she had somehow made a mistake, Maddie flashed her friend’s husband a pointed look. “Yes, I’m certain. I wouldn’t have allowed Grace to rush with my dress and practically cut off my breathing if I’d thought we were dining later.”

“The maid did say seven o’clock,” Grace confirmed, leaning into her husband. “Goodness, I’m so hungry I could eat that entire pheasant without pausing to wipe my mouth.”

“If me stomach growls any louder, they’ll hear it in England,” Hunter agreed, glaring at the door to the modestly-sized hall that had been designated as their dining room. “If he doesnae show up in five minutes, I’m startin’ without him.”

Grace glanced nervously at the clock. “Yes, let’s give him five minutes more. I’m sure there’s a good reason for his delay.”

No, I’m not sure there is. Maddie cursed herself for thinking that everything would go smoothly.

It was her wedding tomorrow; she should have known that Oscar would do something like this, to either remind her that he was the one in charge, or to wrestle with his own doubts about the entire arrangement.

“Hunter?” she said, her appetite vanishing.

He paused in gazing at his beloved wife, raising his eyes to Maddie. “What’s wrong?”

“May I ask what you were speaking to Oscar about this afternoon, while Gracie and I were talking by the cherry blossom?”

Hunter draped an arm across the empty chair beside him, while his other arm brought his wife closer to his chest. “We didnae speak of much. Everythin’ ye’d expect, I suppose: the weddin’, the haste of the weddin’, if he was sure about it, that sort of thing.

I mentioned that I didnae think it was a good idea, but he didnae seem bothered. ”