Page 4 of A Wife for the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #3)

She kept writhing beneath him, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I ken ye’re angry,” he continued. “And ye have every right to be. I left. I left with naught but a note and didnae write again. I didnae say a word. And believe me, I have lived with the shame of that every day since. Do ye think it was easy for me to come after ye in the first place? Do ye think I didnae have to think about the best way to approach ye?”

“And ye managed to settle on this ?”

His eyes searched hers. “Lily, ye cannae let what happened keep ye from what matters now. There are people waiting for ye. People who will die without ye.”

Her breath caught, and she was certain he saw it.

“There are healers, aye,” he said, his voice softer now. “But they’re nae ye. They daenae have yer knowledge or yer heart. They daenae have the hands of a woman born to heal. But ye do.”

She stopped struggling, but her hands remained pinned above her head, her chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

“Me people need ye, Lily,” he said. “ I need ye.”

A long beat of silence passed between them.

She could see it in his eyes; he was being honest. His people really did need her. Her shoulders dropped.

“I’ll come with ye,” she eventually said. “And I willnae fight ye anymore.”

He blinked at her. “Nay more tricks?”

She sighed. “Nay more tricks. But it will only be for a month.”

He frowned. “What?”

“If I am to come with ye, I will only be staying for a month and that is it.”

“Lily—”

“I am nae negotiating this, Alasdair. If ye care about yer people as much as ye say ye do, ye will take the deal.”

A tense pause passed between them.

“Fine,” he responded, his voice firm. “One month.”

Alasdair pushed himself off her slowly, brushing the dirt from his trousers. Lily rose to her feet as well, her palms aching and her dress wet from the damp soil. She said nothing, and he did the same as they both climbed up the slope, breathing heavier than before.

“Where are yer men?” she asked once they stepped onto even ground.

“I told them to go ahead,” he responded, his tone as curt as it had been earlier.

She frowned. “And why would ye do that?”

“So I could catch ye,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing. “I daenae need their help when it comes to ye.”

“A bit arrogant, are ye nae?” Lily scoffed.

“Just honest. I’ve always handled ye on me own. Never needed a second hand. I didnae need one then. I most certainly daenae need one now.”

She looked away, ignoring the flush that crept into her cheeks. The path ahead was dotted with shadowy trees and thick shrubs. Her heart lurched.

“What if we’ve gone the wrong way?” she asked. “What if we cannae find yer horse again?”

Alasdair huffed. “Relax. I ken this forest like the back of me hand. We’re close.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but said nothing more, choosing instead to trail behind. Perhaps if she were alone on her own, she would be terrified to her core. But having him in front of her, even though he was limping, seemed to allay her fears.

The quiet was far from peaceful. It was filled with unspoken thoughts and tense movements. She wanted to speak, and she was certain from the way he moved that he wanted to do so as well. Her boots sank slightly in the damp soil.

He stumbled suddenly, tripping over a rock hidden in the dark. She caught him without thinking, her hand firm on his arm.

“Like the back of yer hand, aye?” she muttered.

He grumbled but nodded curtly.

When they reached the clearing, the moonlight poured through the trees, bathing the leaves in a silver glow. The horse stood tethered nearby, raising its head and whickering at the sight of its master.

Lily looked back at Alasdair. He was limping a little, and a small part of her felt guilty.

“That wound on yer leg needs tending,” she found herself saying.

He waved her off and stepped toward the saddle. “Trust me, lass, I have survived worse. Breaks. Fire. Blades the size of yer whole arm. I’ll live.”

Her eyes flicked over the scars on his forearms. While most of his scars were faint, some looked fresher than the others.

“I can tell,” she murmured.

He looked at her and then pointed to a long, jagged mark across his right arm. “That one there? Got it when I was captured by another laird. Bastard tried to peel the skin off me arm with a dagger. He thought pain might make me tell him what he wanted.”

She winced. “God.”

“Oh, ye daenae have to worry,” he said, grinning. “He is dead now. I killed him later that same day.”

Lily folded her arms. “Nonetheless, sit down. I’m treating yer leg.”

He studied her for a long moment, then sighed and lowered himself onto the base of a tree. “Fine. But only so ye’ll stop nagging me.”

She rolled her eyes and climbed onto the saddle, digging through her pack until she found the small glass bottle. Hopping down, she held it up.

He raised an eyebrow. “What is that? Wait, let me guess. Tears of a dolphin? Or maybe water from some forgotten stream in Camelot?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “‘Tis whisky,” she said. “I am nae certain, but ye must have heard of it.”

A smirk curved his lips as she knelt beside him, her fingers quick but steady. “Ye might want to bite something.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She shrugged, uncorked the bottle, and rolled his trousers up.

His thigh was practically riddled with scars; some were faded and long since healed, others looked fresher.

She paused, her eyes scanning the pattern, the slight rise of muscle beneath his skin and the light hairs on his leg. When she looked up at him, he only shrugged, his way of telling her that they meant nothing.

Without another word, she poured the whisky.

He cursed and bit back a groan.

“I warned ye,” she muttered.

He hissed through his teeth, gripping the grass.

Lily reached into her bag for bandages. Her eyes widened. There were none.

“Nay, nay, nay,” she whispered, turning the bag inside out.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brow damp with sweat.

“I am out,” she muttered. “Nay bandages left.”

She stood up, frustrated, and paced before him. Then, an idea came to her.

“Wait,” she muttered and moved closer to him.

Without speaking, she grabbed the bottom of his shirt and yanked hard, tearing a strip free. The fabric ripped, revealing the ridges of his stomach. Despite her concentration, her eyes trailed upward for a moment.

It was as if he were sculpted from clay by God Himself. She lingered for a beat too long, before she looked away and knelt again.

She tied the cloth tight around his thigh.

“There,” she said. “That’ll hold for now.”

He smirked again. “Out of all me injuries, this might be the one I treasure most.”

“Stop that.”

“What? ‘Tis a gift from me wife.”

“I am nae yer wife.”

He shrugged. “Close enough.”

She sat beside him in the grass. “Ye’ll have to wait for a while. Let the whisky do its work before ye move.”

They sat in silence. The breeze was soft now, the woods calmer. Deciding to break the tension once and for all, she turned to stare at him.

“How did ye ken I was a healer?”

He looked at her. “Yer reputation… Everyone in the Highlands speaks of ye now. I’ve heard tales from every corner. Villages ye’ve helped, children ye saved. Yer name travels farther than ye think. Ye’re kent as the lass with gifted hands. And I believe what I’ve heard.”

She pulled her knees up. “And what’s in it for me, if I do what ye ask?”

“Ye’ll be the lady of me keep, clearly.”

“I daenae wish to be yer lady. I want something that costs ye.”

He tilted his head. “What do ye want?”

No. She would definitely not make it that easy for him.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

He laughed. “Of course ye are.”

She stood up and brushed the dirt from her dress. “Come on, Laird MacRay. Let us keep moving before the forest eats us.”

He rose slowly, wincing but stronger than before. He reached for the reins.

“Aye,” he said. “Let us go, wife .”

She didn’t correct him this time. Not aloud, anyway.

Lily sat behind him this time, her arms wrapped lightly around his middle. Alasdair kept his focus on the winding path ahead, but he could feel her warmth pressed against his back. It wasn’t the same restless posture she’d had before when she insisted on sitting in front of him.

Something had changed, and he could feel it in her touch. There was a quiet in her now. The kind of stillness that came from someone who had finally decided not to run anymore—a stillness he’d only just begun to sense in himself.

She seemed to have accepted his presence this time around, and a part of him was grateful for that. He couldn’t run for long anymore, not with the bandage wound tightly round his leg and the whisky still stinging his wound.

He loosened his grip on the reins just a little, letting the horse slow down. The night air was cool and sweet, and the smell of pine and wet soil filled his nostrils. The moon still glowed above the trees, illuminating the path before them.

Her fingers brushed his side once, then shifted uncertainly. He felt her settle her palm on his stomach, the contact light, then she moved again, every motion restless and unsure.

He went still when her hands settled lightly on the first ridge below his chest. She withdrew them immediately.

“Me apologies,” she murmured.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Ye ken ye’re me wife, right? Ye can touch me anywhere ye want.”

Her breath caught.

With one hand still steady on the reins, he grabbed her hand and lifted it. “Here,” he said, pressing her palm to his throat. His voice dropped. “Here, too.” He brought it to rest on his chest. “Here.” Down to his belly. “And?—”

She shrieked and jerked her hand away before he could move it further, and his laughter echoed through the quiet night.

“Ye seem to be enjoying this, are ye nae?” she huffed.

“Very much, thank ye,” he said, grinning.

They rode on in silence for a while as the woods stretched wide around them, peaceful and dim. At one point, he felt her lean in and rest her cheek lightly on his back. Her breathing evened out, and he slowed the horse further. No need to rush now.

She had fallen asleep.

His heart skipped a beat; he didn’t know why. Maybe because it had been ten years since he last felt her like that. Maybe because something about her trust, the way she let herself rest against him, stirred something deeper than he could admit.

Whatever it was, he didn’t care. Instead, he kept the pace slow, careful not to jostle her awake. It would prolong the journey, yes, but he didn’t mind one bit. He’d ride all night, as long as she was safe with him.

As dawn crept into the sky, brushing it with soft gold and streaks of bright grey, he reached behind and touched her hand gently.

“We’re here, Lily.”

She stirred and lifted her head, blinking away sleep. Her gaze followed his and landed on the castle up ahead.

Its tall grey walls stood like stone giants in the soft morning light. Ivy clung to the outer fence, winding up the sides of the towers. A wide courtyard stretched before the gates, clean and orderly, and flags bearing the MacRay crest fluttered gently in the wind.

“This is truly yers?” she asked softly.

He gave her hand a small squeeze. “And yers as well.”

He felt her shift slightly. A pulse of something passed between them. Excitement, perhaps. Or maybe disbelief.

They passed through the gates and stopped near the stables. The stable boys rushed out, all wide eyes and eager bows. Alasdair nodded to them before turning to Lily.

A maid was already at her side, helping her down. Lily moved stiffly, still groggy from sleep.

“Lily,” Alasdair said, dismounting as well, “this is Sorcha. Her braither is me man-at-arms.”

Sorcha dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Me Lady,” she greeted with a smile. “His description doesnae do yer beauty justice.”

Lily turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Ye talked about me?”

Alasdair shrugged. “Ye’ll have to forgive me if I wasnae exactly right about some things. It’s been ten years, after all.”

Sorcha laughed gently. “Aye. I drew ye a bath, and Cook has prepared some food?—”

“Nay,” Lily cut in. “I want to see the wounded first.”

Sorcha blinked, her smile faltering. “Are ye certain?”

“Aye,” Lily said. “‘Tis why I came.”

Sorcha glanced at Alasdair for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Come with me.”

They made their way across the courtyard, their footsteps muffled by the grass. Alasdair walked beside Lily, but he didn’t touch her. Instead, he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Her back had straightened. Her shoulders were now squared, and her lips were pursed. The sleep was gone, replaced by a healer’s focus. The thoughtful stare and intense contemplation he’d heard so much about.

They stopped in front of the castle, and Sorcha pushed open the door. The scent of blood mixed with sweat and herbs hit them immediately. Alasdair watched carefully as Lily stepped inside. He noticed the instant her face contorted.

She froze in the doorway, taking in the sight before her.

“God,” she whispered.