Page 2 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

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“M e! What do ye mean?”

Keith’s grip on the blade had barely loosened before the woman opened her mouth again. Brave, fierce, and loud. She was the type that didn’t know when to stop. He respected it but found it maddening too.

She had gotten in the way of his business, and it irritated him to no end. Never before had a woman been bold— or perhaps she’s just daft —enough to challenge him the way this woman had.

There were warriors, and then there were fools. And then there was her —something else entirely.

She was fire and flint, sharp of tongue and faster of blade, and the way she’d stepped between him and his purpose made his blood boil. Not with rage. No, not just that.

She was fascinating.

She should have known better.

And yet a part of him wondered if she knew exactly what she was doing and did it anyway.

The woman blinked up at him, suspicion etched plainly on her flushed face.

Instead of answering, Keith stepped forward with decisive swiftness, hooking an arm beneath her thighs and another at her back. With one great heave, he lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of barley.

“Oi!” she shrieked, slamming her fists into his back. “Put me down, ye mad bastard!”

He barely registered the blows. Her fists landed like kitten paws on the solid steel of his back. Amusing. And yet her scent—clean sweat, wild heather, and steel—filled his nose and distracted his thoughts.

“What do ye want to do with me? Put me down!” she demanded, her fists still battering his back.

What wouldn’t I want to do with ye… Christ!

He replied, his voice cool as ever, “Didnae ye hear? I’m the Mad One . The Mad Laird to some as well.”

She went stock-still, as if finally understanding who held her in his grasp. He felt her breath hitch and the tremble that rolled through her limbs.

Aye, she kens me—just needed remindin’.

“I see ye recognize the name, but ye kenned it before I said it just now. Didnae ye?”

“Aye,” she said, defiance dripping from the word.

Mmm… I wonder what that tastes like—Come on, man! Get it together!

“And ye ken who I am, then. So, why did ye ask?”

“Do ye wish to start a war?”

“War? I’m never one to shy away from battle, but war ?”

“Aye, war !”

What is she on about?

Clearly frustrated by his silence, she continued, “I am Laird MacAitken’s sister and second-in-command. Ye dinnae wish to?—”

“Ach! I ken who ye are, Ersie Barcley. Or do ye prefer Ersen Byrne?”

“How did ye?—”

“I’m nae the only one here with a reputation, lass. Which is just as well, since I tracked that man into MacAitken lands.”

Ersie let out a frustrated groan.

Keith continued to carry her over his shoulder easily as he navigated the forest back to his horse.

“What do ye want from me, then?”

“I’m nae going to kill ye—I doubt Ciaran Barcley would start a war over his sister nae makin’ mornin’ tea.”

“Then what?” she growled in frustration, a sound that felt like a feather gliding down his spine.

“To interrogate ye… at least to start.”

They reached the place where his black destrier, Brannoc, waited, reins looped over a low branch. He pulled her over his shoulder and set her on her feet with controlled force, as though any sudden motion might make her bolt.

She adjusted her tunic, her cheeks flushed, her hair falling wildly around her jaw as she glared at him. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, but she made no move to run.

Stubborn lassie.

Keith reached for her elbow to lift her onto the horse.

She slapped his hand. “I have me own horse.”

He didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow. “I’ll return ye to fetch it.”

“Cannae ye let me get it and follow ye?”

He crossed his arms, his gaze cool and unwavering.

She huffed, her lip curling in frustration. “Fine, but I will remember this.”

Keith said nothing. He was remembering too.

He’d heard of the female warrior—MacGordon’s right hand then MacAitken’s. Whispers of a lass who fought like the devil himself, sharp-tongued and sharper-bladed. He hadn’t expected her to look like this. Strong, aye. Beautiful, damnably so. And fire behind those dark eyes.

He had to admit, she intrigued him. He’d spent years surrounded by flatterers, weak-willed men too afraid to look him in the eye, and women who fawned over him and flitted like moths to flames.

But her ? She was more flame than moth. Too bold for her own good. Yet, somehow, her reckless courage didn’t irritate him as it should have—it thrilled him.

Ciaran’s sister—I’ll need to write to him to let him ken.

Ersie lifted herself onto his horse without help, her legs swinging up with practiced grace. Keith mounted behind her, the warmth of her against him almost enough to make him forget the idiot he’d let escape.

He’d let her keep thinking that she stopped him, though.

He leaned in slightly, his chest brushing her back, his voice low near her ear. “Ye always get in the way of men like me, lass?”

“Only when men like ye think they’re above answerin’ questions.”

“Careful,” he muttered. “That temper of yers might earn ye a place in me dungeons soon.”

She tilted her head back to glance at him with a smirk. “Thought that was where I was headed anyway.”

“Aye, but I was considerin’ being civil about it.”

She snorted. “Could have fooled me, with the way ye were tossin’ me about like a sack of oats.”

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle—brief, low, fleeting—and inhaled her scent.

And so they rode, the silence between them thickening. Every hoofbeat echoed louder in his mind than the last. She shifted occasionally in the saddle, and each time she did, her hips brushed his thighs, her scent wrapping tighter around his thoughts.

“Ye arenae what I expected,” he said, careful to shift his head opposite hers should she be inclined to snap back and catch his nose by surprise.

“Good,” she said without turning. “I dinnae care what ye expected if I’m being honest.”

“Aye, so ye arenae honest most of the time then?”

“What?” He felt her body tense.

She doesnae like her honor being challenged. Noted.

“Easy, lass,” he said, amused. “Just testin’ how quick ye are to swing that tongue of yers.”

“Quicker than ye would like, I reckon.”

“Bold too. I like that.”

“I’m nae here to be liked,” she snapped.

“So, where are ye, then?” he challenged.

Her silence was loaded with all the curses he knew she wished to hurl at him.

Keith needed to know more about the MacAitken lands if he was going to catch the treacherous man again.

“Why are ye here? Why risk crossin’ blades with me?”

“Because I dinnae like bullies,” she said plainly. “And ye looked like one.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“So can tongues. But I’d wager yer blade tells the truth.”

He grinned into the back of her head. “It does, as I’m sure yers does as well. MacGordon trained ye, aye?”

She gave him a wary look over her shoulder. “Aye. How did ye ken that?”

“I’ve seen his fighting style. Ye carry it in yer stance. Fierce, steady, with a touch of arrogance. Also, yer reputation.”

“Touch of arrogance, ye say? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Ye should. Doughall is a bastard but a skilled one. His guards are kenned throughout Scotland.”

“ Doughall is also me friend. So, ye’ll be careful to watch yer tongue.”

Laird MacGordon, a friend?

“So, ye trained yer whole life with the MacGordons, served Doughall, and now yer braither—MacAitken.”

“Aye.”

“And Lady MacAitken is of Clan MacNiall.”

“Ye have done yer homework.”

“Ye think I’d ride blind into another clan’s territory without kennin’ the key players?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

“Bit of a scandal, that was, was it nae?” he mused, leaning back just as she turned toward him with a glare hot enough to burn the heather.

She jabbed an elbow toward him, and he caught it with a chuckle, though her fury was plain. Her eyes snapped to his with righteous fire.

“Ye will mind yer barbaric tongue, Laird , or I’ll mind it for ye,” she snapped. “Laura is ten times the woman half of the noble wives in yer court pretend to be, and ye will show her the respect she has earned. ”

Keith quirked an eyebrow. She was fierce when it came to her kin. Fiercer than he’d expected. He filed it away, deep in the vault of his mind, where useful truths about people tended to go.

Loyal. Protective. Unrelenting. Traits he’d come to value more than silk-tongued diplomacy or sharpened steel.

“Duly noted,” he murmured. “Seems I’ve touched a nerve.”

“Is that all part of yer wee scheme then? Get me talkin’ while ye sort out what I’m about so ye can use it against me, eh?” she asked, suspicion flashing in her gaze.

Brannoc had come to a stop—as had the entire world, it seemed.

“Aye,” Keith said, not even bothering to lie. “That, and I like seein’ how deep yer claws can dig.”

“Ye will find I bite harder than I claw.”

Nay doubt she bites .

Images of her perfect teeth dragging across the skin of his shoulder while he balanced his weight on top of her flashed across his mind.

Keith smirked at that, then let the moment stretch a heartbeat longer before returning to the matter at hand, urging Brannoc forward. “Tell me about yer villages.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why would ye care about our villages?”

“I’m the kind of man who likes to ken the lay of the land when a storm brews. And somethin’ tells me there’s always a storm brewin’ around ye.”

Ersie’s eyes darted to the horizon, considering.

I need to ken the lands to find the bastard.

Finally, she sighed, as if she knew his true intent and yet still knew she would need to give him the information anyway.

“Kilbray is the closest village, nestled between glens, mostly farmers. Braemore raises our cattle—fiercely loyal folk. Inverwick’s got fine warriors and healers—though the best healer is our Lady and Mrs. Morrigan in Kilbray. Caerbraoch is where weavers work, and Strathlorne is where our iron mines are.”

“The trade routes set with MacLeod?”

“Aye,” she said, and he mentally cataloged the lay of the land.

MacLeod was situated between MacAitken and MacNiall. They were traveling in the opposite direction. The air was thick with bovine stench. As they did not travel by the main road, it was a telltale sign that they had just recently passed Braemore.

MacAuley Keep was about a half-day journey. Through the sliver of Airdhollow lands, which might prove to be more dynamic than he would like.

“We willnae be stopping, lass—I hope ye arenae lookin’ forward to breakfast.”

“I ken we’re a half-day from yer lands and even more so from the keep. Would have been faster if I had me mare.”

“Aye,” Keith said, finally convinced that she was who she claimed to be and ignoring her blatant jab. “Efficient. Direct. So, ye really are the fabled second-in-command. Nae posin’.”

“Maybe yer title is the one that is more for show.”

“Careful…” he warned, but there was no heat in his voice now, just intrigue.

“What say ye, then? How do I ken ye are who ye say ye are?”

Keith studied her expression, the narrowed gaze and tight mouth, the tension coiling in her body. She wished to fight, but what she wasn’t expecting was the truth.

The silence between them urged her to twist around and face him.

He reached for the collar of his tunic, yanked the fabric aside, and revealed the scar that jagged down his chest—pale and stark, shaped like a twisted crescent, raw even now after all these years. It was a wound he’d inflicted on himself years ago, on the night he’d found out that his son was murdered.

Her eyes widened.

“Aye,” he said grimly. “Ye heard the tales. The Mad Laird who carved out his grief as he found his son floating, bloated, and blue in the loch. Vowing to exact revenge on the person who committed such a heinous crime.”

Ersie stared, unblinking.

“There’s the proof. I carry it always.” He let the tunic fall back into place. “Satisfied? Or shall I bleed again, just to make a stronger impression?”

Her eyes fell to his bloodstained hands and then crawled back up to meet his eyes, before she turned back in silence. This woman was too damn tempting for someone who had just squandered his very reason for entering MacAitken lands. His only lead.

“Any more of yer blood on me blade will be earned , nae freely given,” she said defiantly, venom punctuating each word.

“That tongue of yers will get ye into trouble, lass.”

“Then maybe ye should have let me be.”

“Too late for that,” he said, urging Brannoc forward at a slightly faster pace as they crested the ridge.

“So,” she asked, her voice low, “are ye really takin’ me to the Mad Laird’s Keep?”

“Aye,” he said, a smile lacing his tone. “Specifically to me dungeons.”