Page 2 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 2

Conall Barr, known to his enemies and associates as Laird MacKane, scowled at the doors to the Great Hall. He wanted to leave. More than that, he wished with all his heart that the events of the past moon had never happened at all.

He wished he’d never let his youngest brother, Devon, ride to the borders with the guards. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea—a great one, even. Devon had been itching to prove himself, and Oliver was newly married. The trip had seemed like a good compromise; Oliver could have a proper wedding night and time with his bride, and Devon could gain some experience. What could possibly go wrong?

He hadn’t expected the Auchter raiding party. Nor that Devon would choose to fight them, rather than return to report their appearance on MacKane lands.

Not anticipating those two things had cost him dearly. Because of his lack of foresight, he’d lost two brothers—one to the grave and another to the stony silence he’d maintained ever since Devon’s death. Just to make matters worse, his clan was on the brink of a blood feud. The only reason they weren’t already at the gates of Auchter Castle was that Laird Auchter had sent him a message requesting a truce and offering to pay a wergild.

Give me but a fortnight, Laird MacKane, and I shall send you a unique and precious gift in recompense for your brother’s blood.

There was nothing that could make up for the loss of Devon, as far as Conall was concerned. Nothing at all. But his clan was weary of war and in need of rest. The effort they’d made to save Devon—fruitless though it had been—had left many warriors wounded, including Conall himself.

The scar on his left cheek twinged as if to remind him of that day.

Conall scowled and refused to allow himself to show the pain the motion caused. No, there was nothing that Laird Auchter could offer that could possibly make up for the loss of his brother and the suffering it had wrought.

Still, he knew his reputation among the other Highland lairds. They hated and feared him. If he refused to even consider accepting a wergild, it might be the last straw needed to unite other clans against him. The wrong move could find him under siege from an alliance of lairds who considered him a threat—and that he could not risk.

It was little enough to permit Laird Auchter to play his game. Whatever paltry trick or token he tried, Conall was confident he could see through the old man’s machinations. Laird Auchter would make a mistake, and when he did, Conall would make sure to get rid of the old man, once and for all.

That would end the feud for good.

Or, at least, he hoped so.

A life for a life. The old man’s nae about to offer me his head on a platter, I ken—but nay matter what tricks he tries, I’ll find a way to tak’ it. For Devon.

A loud, booming knock on the doors to the Great Hall drew his attention. Conall straightened his cloak and his lairdship torc, then exchanged a quick look with his brother, Oliver. His brother’s hand was clenched around the hilt of his sword, his eyes hard with anger, but he nodded, nonetheless.

Conall gestured for the servants to open the doors, then folded his arms and fixed his sternest scowl on his face. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Auchter’s messengers—nor being insulted by what Laird Auchter thought was a proper payment for his brother’s life.

Six men entered the hall, disarmed as he had commanded. To his surprise, they were accompanied by a young woman—dark-haired, green-eyed, and clearly confused. She looked frightened and weary, her eyes wide as she looked around the hall.

The men came to a stop. Then, with a smirk, the leader of the soldiers reached back, seized the young woman roughly by the arm, and shoved her forward. The girl made a startled noise, staggering and then falling in a heap at Conall’s feet.

“What…? Where…?”

Conall had been prepared to be insulted, but he had not expected to be confused. And yet here he was, with a frightened woman stammering questions at him from the floor.

With a weary sigh, Conall turned to face the men, ignoring the woman for now.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice heavy with threat.

“This is the gift our Laird promised ye. A life for a life, to end the feud between the clans.”

The man’s cold smile widened, and the instant dislike Conall had felt when he walked in somehow deepened. He had not thought that was even possible.

“’Tis Laird Auchter’s granddaughter,” the soldier went on, clearly enjoying the effect the ‘gift’ was having. “He hopes she will be enough for ye to consider the matter over.”

Conall looked down at the girl with renewed interest. Laird Auchter’s granddaughter. Blood kin for blood kin. It was most likely a trap; he wasn’t stupid enough to consider the Laird’s gift genuine. But even if it wasn’t a trap, the lass looked terrified, and judging by the bindings on her wrists, it was obvious that she had not come here willingly.

There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand. Conall had no love of things he didn’t understand—he didn’t have time for them. And with Laird Auchter involved, he was also deeply suspicious.

Whatever the old man intended by sending this girl to him, he had no intention of letting his schemes come to fruition.

“Nay,” he said in a tone that brooked no opposition. “I’ll nae consider the matter over just yet.”

He bent down to look the lass in the eye. She gasped and tried futilely to scramble away from him, making him sigh again in frustration.

“Now then, lass,” he said. “I have some questions for ye.”

Brigid couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so terrified—if, indeed, ever. She was bruised, battered, and bound, lying on the floor of an unfamiliar Great Hall and staring at the huge, imposing figure of a man. And that was only the latest terrifying thing to happen to her in the past day.

First, the men had tied her up. Then, they’d ridden for candlemarks upon candlemarks, barely stopping to rest or eat. Brigid, who was not used to riding such long distances, was sure her hips and thighs would never recover, nor her bruised and raw wrists.

None of the men had spoken to her, beyond a curt command to “Eat this, so ye dinnae faint” or “Drink” or, in one case, “Silence yerself, or we’ll gag ye.”

Then, they’d dragged her into this castle and dumped her in front of a man who was easily as imposing as her father’s pirate friends in a temper.

He was handsome in a way, she supposed. Tall, muscular, with hair almost the same shade as her own, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen on a man. His face was strong and stern, but his expressions were rendered cruel and vicious by the scar that stretched from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. The scar was pink and new-looking—obviously a recent wound. She did not dare imagine how he might have acquired it.

There was no warmth in his eyes, however, and his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword as if ready to use it at the slightest provocation. Menace radiated from every line of his impressive build, turning him into a statue of brooding fury that made her want to crawl away or curl into a ball to defend herself.

He was the most terrifying person Brigid had ever encountered, even considering some of the men who had worked with her father—and that was saying something. At least with the pirates, her father would have ensured that she and her sisters were safe—the men feared him too much to do them any harm. She had no such assurance here, however, and fear tangled in her gut until she feared she might be sick—which she had a feeling would not go down well with the man standing in front of her.

The most important fact, as far as Brigid was concerned, was that he wasn’t someone she knew or had even heard of. That was unnerving. And when the soldier spoke of her as a promised gift to end the feud, her vague fear turned into terror, even though she had no idea of the meaning behind the words.

Then, the man stooped and met her gaze, his eyes sharp and cold. “I have some questions for ye.”

His voice was harsh, low, and rough like a blade scraped over stone. Exactly as she would have expected it to sound, going by his fearsome appearance.

Before she could even nod her acceptance, he continued. “First of all… who bound ye like that?”

That wasn’t the question she’d expected.

Brigid swallowed, trying to ease some of the dryness in her throat. “I dinnae ken his name, good s—” She caught sight of his torc and quickly corrected herself. “My Laird.”

“Point to him, then.”

His voice had somehow turned even colder. It made Brigid think of the sharp ice her father had sometimes mentioned in his stories, which could be used like knives.

Brigid gestured to the soldier who stood directly behind the leader. “That one. I believe it was that one,” she said, hardly daring to look at the man.

“And he’s the one who put those bruises on yer arm?” The Laird pointed to the rough handprints, where she’d been manhandled on and off her horse.

“That was… I cannae say for certain who did that.”

They’d taken turns handling her, and she had no idea whose hands might have caused the bruises. All of them, she supposed.

“Ye’re sure?”

“Aye.” She nodded.

“Alright.”

The Laird rose from his crouching position and then turned to face the warriors. He strode toward them, then, without warning, drew his sword and slashed it once across the throat of the man she’d indicated. Brigid gasped in shock as the man collapsed to the ground in a fountain of blood, dead before his knees hit the stones.

“What are ye…” The leader started forward, only to stumble to a halt as the blood-stained blade was leveled at his chest.

“A warning.” The Laird’s expression was hard. “A man who comes here with dishonorable intentions will get nothing from me, save the edge of my sword. And dinnae tell me that there’s any honor in what brings ye here. Dinnae even try. I’d gut ye all if I didnae need ye to deliver a message. Tell yer Laird that I dinnae accept humans as payment for his transgressions. Especially nae prisoners who look as if they’ve been kidnapped, rather than willin’ to serve yer Laird’s purposes.”

“A life for a life…”

“I dinnae accept such terms. Ever.” The Laird’s voice was hard like the steel of the blade still held in his hand.

To Brigid’s surprise, the leader of the soldiers had the audacity to sneer at him, apparently forgetting the fate of his companion. “So ye’d risk another war? And the life of yer other brother? Ye ken he might be the next one to die.”

The Laird moved like lightning. He lunged forward, slammed the man against the nearest wall, and put the sword to his throat. “Ye dare to threaten me in my own home?”

The rest of the soldiers shifted, but the clatter of weapons held by the guards around the room made them freeze, hands open and empty.

The man pinned against the wall struggled to take a breath, his words hoarse and barely audible. “’Tis a fair warning…”

“’Tis a threat, and we both ken it.” The Laird’s voice was a low, menacing rumble that made Brigid shiver, even though his ire wasn’t directed at her. “Tell yer Laird that his ‘gift’ isnae acceptable. And neither are yer threats.”

His sword pressed closer, and Brigid saw a thin line of blood trickle down the soldier’s throat.

Then, the Laird pulled back. “Get ye gone, and tell yer master what I said. If ye’re nae gone by the time I count to twenty, I’ll slit yer throats an’ send yer bodies back to deliver the message instead.”

The men wasted no time. The leader gestured, and all five of the remaining warriors were gone in the time it took for Brigid to take three breaths.

The Laird turned to the body on the ground, still leaking blood, the glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling of the large room. With a scowl of disgust, he wiped his blade on the man’s shirt, then sheathed it, before gesturing curtly to one of the maids. “Ye, over there. Get one of the men to help ye tak’ this and dump it outside the castle. Then come back and clean the floor. I dinnae need to see some fool’s blood when next I eat.”

“Yes, My Laird.”

The serving girl looked pleadingly at one of the guards, who went to the body of the slain man, lifted it, and slung it onto one shoulder, staggering slightly under its weight. The woman picked up the items that fell from the man’s belt and clothing.

Both of them, Brigid noticed, gave their Laird a wide berth. The maid looked afraid of him. Even the guard was wary.

Even his own people were frightened of him, then.

The knowledge made Brigid feel uneasy. What kind of man was feared by his own people? And what was to become of her, now that she’d been left in his care?

“An what am I to make of ye?” the Laird asked, turning his attention to her.

Brigid swallowed as she fought back her fears. “I… I dinnae ken, My Laird. I confess I’m fair confused. I thought I was bein’ taken to my grandfather. I dinnae think… I mean, I dinnae ken… May I ask who ye are?”

A brief, humorless smile touched the man’s features and tugged at the scar on his face.

“I’m Laird MacKane,” he said shortly. “And this is my home.”