Page 6 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 6

Conall stalked out of the Great Hall, his mood sour. Brigid was an intriguing lass, but for her to challenge him like that, in front of his clan, left him feeling torn between admiring her courage and being angered by her audacity.

“Conall.” The sound of her voice made him suppress a snarl.

Has she really followed me out of the room to continue the argument? She’s far braver than I’ve given her credit for, if so.

“Aye?” He turned to face his betrothed, his anger written all over his handsome face. “If ye’re here to ask me to reconsider, then I’ll nae be doin’ any such thing. I’d think carefully before speakin’ if I were ye.”

Brigid’s face darkened, and her green eyes flashed dangerously. “So this is how ’tis goin’ to be? Ye’ll make me a prisoner in yer castle, trapped behind the walls and unable to do anything against yer express orders?”

“I am the Laird. That is how things work.”

Conall was in no mood to have his betrothed questioning him, not after dealing with Oliver’s earlier accusations.

“An’ ye asked me to be yer wife—the lady of yer clan—nae yer prisoner. Should that nae mean I have some freedom to speak my mind?”

“Nae on this matter.” He scowled at her.

Brigid scowled right back, her expression matching his in fierceness. “And here I was, thinkin’ ye werenae plannin’ to hold me prisoner if I agreed to be yer wife.”

She had a ready wit, now that she’d recovered enough of herself to use it. A pity she seemed determined to antagonize him with her words.

Conall’s lip curled. He almost snarled back, before he recalled that they were in the corridor.

He had no desire to argue with his betrothed where the whole clan could hear them. That was the very last thing he needed after the scandal of the betrothal itself.

He turned and pulled the door to his study open. “If ye want to discuss this further, then join me.”

Many folks would have hesitated, scared to be alone with the fearsome Laird Mackane. Brigid, however, simply marched past him and into the room.

Conall followed after her and shut the door behind him.

“I’m nae treatin’ ye like a prisoner,” he began, turning to face her.

Brigid was standing by the fire, its flickering light illuminating the dark wooden panels that lined every wall of the room. A large wooden desk occupied the center of the room, its surface scarred from many years of use, and a comfortable leather chair sat behind it, the seat sagging slightly from the many generations of MacKanes who’d sat in it.

But Brigid wasn’t looking at the decor. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides as she stood there, her eyes shining with the force of her emotions.

“Are ye sure about that? I cannae leave without yer permission, ye said. I cannae return home—a home from which I was taken at swordpoint—to reassure my kin that I’m well. I cannae collect my belongings. How, then, am I nae a prisoner?”

Conall snorted, torn between derision and admiration for her spirit. She was more outspoken than he’d expected, especially after he’d seen her huddled on the floor of the Great Hall a few candlemarks ago. He would have admired her more, however, had she not seemed so determined to argue with him.

“I’d nae be lettin’ a prisoner write a letter. And out of the dungeons, come to that. Ye have proper rooms—the very best in the castle, in fact—and my clan will provide anything ye need.”

“And what of the things I cherish, the things and the family I was forced to leave behind, which ye now tell me I cannae return to?”

He had to acknowledge, at least in his mind, that she did have a valid point. Auchter’s men had evidently dragged her out of her home with nothing but the clothes on her back. And he knew, even if she hadn’t considered it yet, that there would be mutterings in the council about a bride who had less than even the lowest farmer’s widow.

Even so…

“’Tis nae my fault that ye were forced out of yer home in such a manner. I certainly didnae bring ye here. Yer anger toward me is misplaced in that regard.”

He refused to be held responsible for Laird Auchter’s discourtesy toward his own kin, no matter the events that had brought her to his home.

“But ye will keep me here, like a bird in a cage.” Her eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms, inadvertently pushing up her breasts and setting a different kind of fire in his blood.

If she raises her arms just a little bit, her breasts will likely spill out of her bodice. I cannae say I’d mind that much, but she might. However, if she truly wants to win this argument… I shouldn’t be thinking about any of this now.

Conall forced his thoughts away from the crude fantasy, and the burgeoning ache in his midsection, grimacing at his wayward thoughts. A moment later, he realized how his expression must appear to Brigid and winced for an entirely different reason.

He must be looking at her as if he were about to rip her head off. And yet Brigid never flinched, despite his actions only candlemarks ago.

Normally, no one would dare provoke his temper this far, and Conall found his anger fading into admiration for her courage. He’d scarcely believed he would ever find a woman who would consent to wed him—he’d never thought he’d find one with the courage to stand up to him as well. And she did it without seeming like a harridan, which was even more impressive.

He’d thought her pretty enough when she had sat quietly and politely at his side. Engaging with her when her eyes flashed with that inner fire was almost mesmerizing. However, it wasn’t enough to sway him from his initial decision.

“Aye. For yer own safety as well as my clan’s. As I told ye earlier. Please dinnae make me repeat myself.”

He wouldn’t trust Auchter not to set an ambush on the road, on the off chance that he could have her killed, and claim that Clan MacKane had acted in bad faith. And, of course, there were always bandits and other dangers on the road.

Whether he trusted the lass or not—and he scarcely knew her well enough to trust her—he wouldn’t risk any chance that she might not be what she seemed, or that circumstances might conspire against him.

“Ye can send guards with me if ye are so concerned about my safety. I’m sure yer men will be quite capable of makin’ sure that I remain unharmed and that my destination is one ye approve of.”

Her voice was sharp, almost bitterly angry, and underneath the anger, he heard pain. It wasn’t the sort of tone that could be feigned, and he would have expected more tears and pleading, rather than anger, if it had been. His chest ached with the slightest pang of unexpected sympathy.

To have been ripped from her home, with nothing but the clothes she stood in… ’Tis unthinkable. Nay wonder the lass is upset.

But it still wasn’t enough to change his mind. He couldn’t allow a lass’s hurt feelings to sway him.

“Mayhap,” he said, his jaw set with resolve. “But nothing says I need to tak’ the chance, when a letter will serve yer needs just as well.”

“But—”

“A letter will tell yer kin ye’re safe, and when they come for the wedding they’ll see it for themselves.” Conall cut her off, tired of arguing the matter, and unwilling to keep debating his decision when she ought to have realized by now that nothing would change it.

“They can bring whatever ye desire from home.” His lip curled. “My clan has been at war, lass, and I’ve nay guarantee that Laird Auchter will keep his word. I’ll nae risk the lives of several men when one messenger will suffice.”

Brigid tossed her head, the motion sending firelight rippling along the silken strands of her hair. “And what of my sisters? Who will ensure their safety on the road? Or is that nae a consideration for ye?”

“I’m sure they can manage. I cannae picture Blackwood leavin’ his kin helpless.”

Especially not if her sisters were as hot-tempered as she seemed to be.

Brigid’s eyes flashed with anger and hurt, and he knew then that his words had struck a chord. “Ye have nay idea how my father left us, nor in what conditions my sisters and I have lived since his passing.”

Conall’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “He didnae leave ye starvin’ or without spirit, that’s for certain.”

Seeing the hurt on her face, he made an effort to soften his voice. It was hard—he’d scarcely had any cause to make such an effort, especially not since Devon had died. Soft words did not come easily to him.

“I understand ye are angry, lass,” he said. “But how ye came here wasnae of my doin’, and ye had better direct yer anger at Laird Auchter for that matter.”

“I ken that well enough. I’m nae a fool.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, her green eyes shining in the firelight and the heat of her unhappiness. As much anger as grief and frustration, he thought, and as much directed at her grandfather as at him.

“’Tis the way ye treat me now that I’m angry about.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I ken that, too. Doesnae mean I wish to have my future husband confinin’ me to a building like a prisoner.”

Conall huffed. “I said I’d give ye everything ye need—food, clothing, yer own quarters, and freedom to roam the grounds. I’m nae so kind to my actual prisoners.”

“Care of my general needs doesnae make me any less of a prisoner.” Her gaze was steady and compelling.

Conall felt his stomach tighten, heat rising in his blood.

“Then let me give ye something I’d never give to any prisoner within my walls.”

He took two steps forward, cupped her chin in one hand with as much gentleness as he was capable of, and kissed her.

One moment Conall was looming over her, his voice a low snarl of anger, the next one hand cupped her chin, firm but gentle, and he was kissing her, his lips claiming hers in a manner that suggested she was a cup of water and he a man dying of thirst.

The scent of leather and smoke enveloped her, the heat of his body wrapping around her like a warm blanket after being caught in a winter storm. Brigid gasped, and the taste of heather mead filled her mouth.

It was terrifying. And it was intoxicating. She’d never even considered being kissed by anyone, let alone a man like Conall Barr.

She found herself clutching at his arms, her knees weak as his hands slid to her shoulders, then her waist, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss until she could hardly think.

Through the layers of clothing that separated them, she felt something hard pressing against her belly. She could guess what it was—she’d heard stories in the village, and sometimes from Valerie—and heat pooled in her chest, then lower still, the unfamiliar sensations destroying any anger and indeed, any thoughts she might still harbor.

Conall’s tongue traced the seam of her lips, teasing, tasting, and she melted just a little bit more, her stomach fluttering as if butterflies had taken flight inside it.

Part of her wanted to pull back and slap him for daring to kiss her when they’d not even spent a candlemark in each other’s presence.

Another part of her, however, wanted to melt into his arms and enjoy the first taste of acceptance—of desire—that she’d ever experienced.

She leaned into him, struggling with these unfamiliar feelings, until they were suddenly interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

Brigid dropped her arms to her sides and pulled back, her heart racing and her mind dazed, as the door opened to reveal the man she’d seen in the Great Hall with Conall when she arrived. His eyes were dark with anger, which cooled her blood as quickly as a bucket of ice water.

Conall’s expression was so stern that his face might have been carved from stone.

“Oliver. What brings ye here?”

“Ye left dinner abruptly. I was concerned, especially when she followed ye.”

The words were harsh, and the younger man—he must be Conall’s brother and Emily’s husband—gave Brigid a look that cut her like a blade.

“Nothing to be concerned about. My future wife wanted to speak to me about havin’ her sisters at the wedding.”

Conall’s voice was as stern as his expression, and Brigid swallowed, her earlier trepidation returning.

“Aye. I can tell ye were discussin’ the matter with the lass. The same way ye discussed a winter night with a willing tavern maid.”

The words hit Brigid like a slap in the face. It wasn’t just the accusation, but it was the realization of how she must have appeared to Oliver.

Her face burned with sudden mortification that he might think she was a wanton woman.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Conall, however, stiffened, his face darkening with fury. “Watch yer mouth, Brother. Brigid is my betrothed.”

“For all ye ken about her, that’s nae sayin’ much. ’Tis a marriage made for spite and peace .” Oliver spat the word. “An’ with a man like Holdenson, there’s as little promise to the virtue of the lass as there is to the peace.”

Brigid felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. She was used to being insulted, hated, and shamed for the actions of her family, but this attack was far harsher and cut more deeply than she’d expected. She flinched away from the cruel words.

Conall noticed. “Brigid…”

She shook her head. “I feel tired. I think I will retire. I will come tomorrow to borrow some paper and ink to write to my sisters.”

She swallowed hard and turned away, walking toward the door and wishing very much she could sink into the floor and disappear, like one of the wayward spirits her mother used to tell tales of when she was a child.

Conall scowled at his brother, grabbing Brigid’s arm as she passed him. “Ye’ll apologize to my betrothed.”

Brigid winced again at the venomous look Oliver gave her.

“I’ll nae.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest to emphasize his words.

“Apologize,” Conall growled.

Oliver stepped back from his brother’s wrath. Brigid thought she saw fear flash in his eyes for just a moment before it melted into anger. Then, he turned to her.

“Apologies, My Lady,” he said stiffly. “I shouldnae question yer honor when ye are to be my brother’s wife.”

The faintly mocking undertone made her shiver. The apology was as insincere as it was forced. Still, she wasn’t inclined to press the matter.

“I understand,” she muttered, her eyes downcast.

She did understand. She was once again being judged for the crimes of her family—this time those of the grandfather she’d never met. At least, not that she could recall. She swallowed back tears of hurt and anger.

“Please excuse me.”

She stepped back from Conall, who dropped his hand, allowing her to hurry away before she could become the source of further contention between the brothers.

As she made her way toward her rooms, her mind kept returning to that moment—the moment Oliver had stepped backward as if afraid of his brother. And with it came the memory of her mother’s rule.

If his own brother was afraid of him, how could she ever bring herself to trust Conall, let alone consider giving her heart—or the rest of herself—to him?