Page 12 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 12

Conall heard Brigid gasp, but it was a dim sound against the roaring of his blood in his ears. The world was hazed with red fury.

He’d gone for a walk to enjoy the cool evening air, and to contemplate his plans for the following day. It had not escaped his notice that the wedding was upon them and that his bride-to-be’s sisters had not yet arrived. However, Brigid had not asked him to delay the wedding as he’d thought she would.

He’d been pondering whether to order the delay anyway or wait to see if the women arrived in the morning when he’d heard Brigid’s voice, raised in fright and pain. He’d thought the castle was being attacked, perhaps by Laird Auchter or bandits of some kind.

Instead, he’d found his men—his own, trusted clansmen—threatening his bride. He’d even heard one of them say that his decision didn’t matter, that his bride was not welcome, regardless.

That alone would have infuriated him. But to arrive and find them threatening his betrothed… Conall could not recall ever having been so angry.

The man in his grasp tugged at his wrist and made a feeble choking sound. Conall flung him aside in disgust, then backhanded the second guard once again, sending them both crashing against the hard stone wall as he turned to look at Brigid.

She was rumpled, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with fear. On her arm, Conall could clearly see the imprint of the hand of the man who’d held her. It would most likely bruise—and badly.

He stepped closer to her. “Are ye wounded, Brigid?” he asked tenderly, kneeling down beside her.

Brigid drew in a shaky breath. “Startled,” she said, her voice weak. “Frightened, a wee bit. But otherwise fine.”

She tried to smile, but the unsteadiness of her voice, as well as the pallor of her face, belied her statement. He watched as she rubbed her aching arm, almost as if she didn’t realize she was doing it.

She was hurt. The realization stoked his anger anew.

“My Laird…” One of the guards pushed himself up. His face was contorted with fear. His companion was silent, white-faced, and gasping through a bruised throat. “My Laird… we were…”

“Ye were what? Plannin’ to harm someone I’d claimed as my own? Intending to disregard the decision of yer rightful Laird?” It was hard to get the words out through his tightly clenched jaw. “Ye think I’d permit any man to do either and live to tell the tale?”

Both guards gasped and shrank back against the wall. Conall felt his lip curl in disgust.

Brave enough to accost an unarmed and helpless lass, but nae brave enough to face me like the men and warriors they’re supposed to be.

“Well?” he demanded. “Have ye nothing to say for yerselves?”

“My Laird,” said one of the men, somehow finding the courage to speak. “She’s Auchter’s kin.”

“There’d be little enough point in her standin’ as a guarantee for peace were she nae,” Conall sneered, looking contemptuously at the two men.

He waited, but no other excuse was forthcoming—probably because there was none good enough to satisfy him, and well they knew it.

He snorted, bitter disappointment mingling with the rage that burned like hot coals under his skin. “Ye’re a disgrace to Clan MacKane, and I’d rather be stabbed in the gut than be served by such faithless cowards.”

“My Laird, ye cannae… We were just…”

Conall’s last thread of patience snapped like an overworn cord.

“Save yer last breaths for yer maker, for it’s clear ye’re eager to meet him.” The words came out in a snarl, and both men blanched with terror.

“My Laird…”

But Conall was in no mood to hear excuses. They had disregarded his decision and commands. He had killed men for far less, and he didn’t care about the scent of mead that suggested they were drunk.

The idea that they might be drunk enough to ignore their duties, as well as his commands, only angered him further.

“M-My Laird…”

With one swift, brutal movement, Conall drew two daggers and slashed each man’s throat. Both guards staggered forward, weapons falling from lax hands as they grasped futilely at their gaping wounds. Conall gently pushed Brigid back, keeping her clear of the blood as it spurted into the night air.

Brigid was staring at the men, her eyes wide in her pale face. “Ye… ye killed them,” she said in a whisper.

“Aye,” said Conall grimly. “I did. I’ve nay use for men I cannae trust with my kith and kin’s safety, and even less for those who would harm someone under my protection and care.”

The men lay there, bodies still on the ground, and Conall stooped to wipe his blades on their clothing before sheathing them and turning back to Brigid.

He reached for her, but she shrank back, making him frown as he followed the direction of her terrified gaze.

Brigid had avoided the spray of blood, but he hadn’t fared so well. His shirt, kilt, leggings, arms, and hands were stained red. Now that he had stopped to think about it, he was also aware of damp spots on his face. He swiped at one with a clean finger, and it came away crimson.

He must be a gruesome sight indeed, even to a lass raised by Magnus Blackwood.

Conall grimaced. “We should return to the castle,” he said. “I’ll send someone to tak’ care of… this.” He gave the bodies of the fallen men one last glance, then gestured for Brigid to precede him, not wanting to touch her with his bloodstained hands.

She did so with wide eyes and several backward glances, her steps hesitant as if she feared one wrong move would result in her death as well. The sight of her obvious fear made Conall’s gut clench, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think what else he might have done.

Those men had been his guards. They’d known him for years, certainly long enough to know how he would react to having someone under his protection threatened. He’d trained with them, fought with them, and given them shelter, wages, and weapons appropriate for their task. He’d sent them to the healer for injuries and sent mulled wine and spiced rum to the wall tops for them in the worst of winter watches.

He’d done all of this without question, and yet they’d chosen to throw it away in a fit of drunken stupidity. After hearing them openly state that his decision meant nothing, how could he trust them again? The offense was punishable by death or dismissal from the clan, and the latter option only made it far too likely that they’d return as bandits, or riding at the side of his enemies. It was his responsibility to reduce the threats to his clan as much as he could, not add to them.

He and Brigid approached the front doors of MacKane Castle. The guard took one look at him and stiffened, clearly ready to sound the alarm.

“My Laird…?”

Conall held up a hand, his words curt as he issued orders. “There was a situation at the garden gate. Have Oliver send some men to clean up the mess.”

Brigid stood watching just inside the door. As the young guard hurried to summon a serving boy, she spoke, her voice low and curiously expressionless, “A situation. Is that what ye call it when ye kill two of yer men and leave their bodies on the ground?”

“Aye.” Conall shook his head. His rage had receded, and now he felt bone-weary and far too drained to face the unspoken accusations in her words. “That’s what I call it when I’m forced to deal with traitors who’d harm my intended, despite all the years we’ve fought side-by-side.”

Brigid blinked. In the light of the torches that lined the hall, she looked far too pale, and there was a glazed look in her eyes that he recognized as battle-shock. The same wide-eyed uncertainty she’d displayed in the Great Hall that first night.

He sighed. “Go and get yer maid to draw ye a hot bath, then send her to Emily to get ye some more salve for yer arm and a soothing tea. In the morn, the reminders will be gone, and ye’ll feel more yerself.”

She blinked at him again, and he sighed again and gestured to the boy who had just returned with the guard. “Tak’ the lady to her chambers and see that she’s cared for, then run the other errand ye were given.”

The serving lad nodded and led Brigid away.

Conall watched them leave, then scowled down at the blood drying on his clothing and his skin.

He needed a bath to get rid of the gore and time to relax after the shock of killing two men. And perhaps if he soaked long enough, he’d be able to wash away the pang of guilt and regret he felt every time he saw fear in his bride-to-be’s eyes.

Brigid’s arm was bruised, but the mark was easily hidden by the sleeve of her robe. The hot bath the maid drew for her, and the soothing, sweet chamomile tea that Emily sent to her chamber shortly after, did much to clear her mind and set her mood to rights.

She was still horrified by what Conall had done, executing two of his men like that. However, once her fear and the shock of their deaths had passed, she began to feel slightly ashamed of the way she had reacted.

Conall had saved her life, and she’d treated him like another threat to be wary of. Yes, seeing him splattered with blood had been horrifying, but he’d shed that blood for her sake. And if he hadn’t done so, there was no telling what those guards might have done to her—or if she would have survived it.

Besides, as much as she wished otherwise, she understood the reason behind his decision. In the stories Valerie told of her escapades, their father had made similar decisions to protect his own. In fact, now that she was calmer, Brigid could recall her sister telling her, “Never trust a man or a woman who’d betray ye in word or deed, for a snake that bites ye once and gets away with it will bite ye again.”

At the time, her sister had been attempting to encourage her to be more decisive in dealing with the cruel townsfolk, but she knew full well that Valerie had gained that wisdom from their father after an attempted mutiny. Either way, it applied well enough to her current situation.

The guards, little as she wanted to consider them in that light, had been snakes—of that, there was no doubt. Conall had dealt with them swiftly and decisively, in a manner that was far more likely to guarantee her safety than harsh words, or even a beating, might have. He had done what was necessary, in other words, and the fact that watching those two men die had left her feeling sick to her stomach didn’t change that truth.

She should have thanked him for saving her, rather than staring at him like he was some demon from the darkness, or a monster from Underhill. She shouldn’t have acted as if she was accusing him of doing something wrong, the way she’d asked if a ‘situation’ was what he called dead bodies lying on his castle grounds.

He deserved her gratitude. And an apology for her thoughtless words and actions when she had not been in her right mind.

Her mind made up, Brigid slipped into an over-robe and slippers, then made her way to Conall’s chambers. She’d never been in them before, but Emily had shown her where they were, in preparation for the wedding night. She hesitated for a moment, then knocked firmly.

A stern voice answered her. “Leave me. I dinnae want aught.”

It was tempting to do as he asked and leave him well alone.

For a brief moment, Brigid wanted nothing more than to return to her rooms and the warm bed that was calling to her. Then, she steeled herself. She had come with a task to complete, and complete it she would. If Conall wished to be angry at her invasion of his chambers, then so be it.

She tested the handle, and it gave in her grasp—the door wasn’t locked, and a slight push showed it was not bolted against intrusion either. Emboldened by the discovery, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Conall…” she began, before freezing at the sight before her.

There was a large tub next to the fireplace, and within the tub was her betrothed. Naked. She could see every inch of his muscular chest, the strong, well-defined muscles of his abdomen…

Brigid flushed almost painfully scarlet when she realized just how little the gently steaming water concealed.

Conall raised an eyebrow. “I said I didnae want aught,” he said, his expression unreadable.

“I ken. I just…” Brigid swallowed, forgetting what she was about to say.

Her mouth and throat felt dry. She tried to keep her gaze fixed firmly on her betrothed’s face, but her eyes kept drifting downward, almost against her will.

He was scarred like any warrior, but not as much as she would have expected, especially given the wicked-looking mark on his face. His skin was almost the color of burnished copper, save that it was a few shades darker on his face and arms, and gleamed under the steam from the bath.

“Aye?” He quirked an eyebrow again, reminding her she’d yet to explain why she was here.

Brigid took a deep breath. She had come with a purpose, she reminded herself.

“I… apologize for disturbin’ ye,” she began, doing her best to keep her eyes on his face. “It’s just that I wish to apologize for my reaction earlier this evening. I was shocked and scared, but I understand that ye did what ye felt ye must. I understand, too, that ye took action as much for my benefit as for yer own… and if ye hadnae, I probably wouldnae be here now.” She paused. “Thank ye, Conall. Thank ye for savin’ me.”

“’Twas simply what needed to be done.” Conall shrugged, and Brigid tried not to watch the way his muscles moved smoothly under his damp skin. She could feel her cheeks growing hot as she looked at him. “I dinnae blame ye for reactin’ so. It’s nae every day that two men are killed afore ye.”

“It isnae,” Brigid agreed, nodding. “I dinnae ken ye very well, Conall, but even so, we’re to be married on the morrow. Since we’re goin’ to spend the rest of our lives together, trust is important. We need to learn to trust each other.”

Conall’s expression darkened. Then, he rose from the bath in a single, fluid motion. Brigid gasped and whirled around to face the door, her cheeks burning as if she stood too close to a flame, at risk of being scorched by the heat.

A firm hand caught her uninjured shoulder and turned her around. Brigid yelped and jerked her eyes upward to Conall’s face, before realizing that he’d wrapped a towel, kilt-like, around his hips.

“What are ye…?”

“Trust, ye say. Was it trust, then, that had ye wanderin’ so close to the walls of the castle? Or were ye plannin’ to run from me?”

Brigid glared at him, her mortification pushed aside by anger. “I gave ye my word, and I’ve nay intention of breakin’ it. I was only out walkin’ to get some fresh air. ’Twas happenstance I was so close to the wall. I was walkin’ the length of the garden path afore goin’ inside to get some milk.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Ye an’ yer milk…”

He tilted his head, his wet hair sliding across his bare shoulders and sending droplets of water gliding down the smooth, bronzed skin.

“Truly? I thought the guards accosted ye because ye were leavin’?”

“They accosted me because they hate who my mother’s sire is and because they’d imbibed too much mead,” Brigid retorted. “I’d never have gone closer to the gates than the garden path unless it was to look over the wall to see if my sisters were approaching. But nae even Megan would wish to be travelin’ strange roads in the dark.”

Conall studied her, his eyes dark and his face expressionless. Then, he shook his head. “I believe ye didnae wish to run, but nae that ye were out only for fresh air. There’s somethin’ on yer mind. Tell me what it is, Brigid. Mayhap I can be of some help to ye.”

Brigid bit her lip. “My sisters havenae arrived,” she said in a low voice that trembled slightly with emotion.

Conall listened carefully, then nodded.

“Aye, I ken,” he said. “There’s more concernin’ ye than that, though. Ye’ve been pensive since the night we agreed on the terms, and I would like to ken why.”

Should I tell him the truth?

It was tempting to try to prevaricate, but Brigid was reluctant to do so. To start a relationship with a lie, when she herself had spoken of trust, seemed wrong. However, she wasn’t sure how Conall would feel about her thoughts regarding him, or their marriage, and she wasn’t certain she should reveal her mother’s rule either. After all, her mother had insisted it was a rule for her alone.

In the end, she settled on a partial truth.

“I didnae expect to be the first of my sisters to wed. I’m the youngest of them, ye ken.” She looked away. “In truth, I didnae think I’d wed at all.”

Strong fingers caught her chin and turned her back to face her husband-to-be. “Why nae?”

Because my father’s reputation has stained every attempt I’ve ever made to even have friends, let alone suitors. Because I cannae even walk into the town I’ve lived nearest to all my life without bein’ jeered at and treated little better than a beggar or a beast. Because I’ve nay dowry, nay clan, and only three sisters, with a small estate guarded by agin’ pirates to call home. Because nay one outside of my father, mother, and sisters has ever wanted me, and I had nay reason to expect that to change.

But those were words that she couldn’t bring herself to say, so she simply shook her head.

“I just didnae expect to wed, Conall. And especially nae such a powerful and dangerous man?—”

She broke off, but it was too late.

Conall’s grip tightened, his eyes turning dark with some unspoken emotion. “Dangerous? Is that what ye think of me, Brigid Blackwood? Are ye frightened of yer husband-to-be?”

Brigid could find no response to that, staring wide-eyed like a kitten caught in a hunting dog’s gaze.

A small, almost predatory smirk tugged at the scarred lip in front of her. “Well? Are ye?”

“I…”

Brigid had no idea what she intended to say, but all words disappeared from her thoughts in the next instant as Conall dipped his head and kissed her firmly on the mouth.