Page 10

CHAPTER 10

Arms crossed over her chest, wearing the léine that swamped her smaller frame, still shivering from the loch’s frosty caress, Anna cursed herself for leaving the horrible picture out in the open. But she’d had nowhere else to put it, not unless she’d wanted to submerge it in the loch, letting it disintegrate and vanish into the icy water.

That’s exactly what I should have done. That’s exactly where it belongs.

But before she could say anything, Gordon was up on his feet, walking toward his horse.

“I trust ye can find yer way back without endin’ up in another bog,” he growled, hoisting himself up into the saddle with ease. “Dress properly before ye return. Wouldnae want anyone thinkin’ the worst if ye walk in wearin’ me shirt.”

He wheeled his horse around and, though he didn’t show it on his face and his gruff voice was barely different to its usual tone, she knew she’d hurt him. Or, perhaps, it was her guilt that she couldn’t bear. It wasn’t as if she’d drawn it on purpose but, foolishly, she hadn’t destroyed the thing while she’d had the chance.

She darted forward before he could hasten away from her on his mount, her hand shooting out to touch the only part of him she could reach, her palm settling on the powerful muscle of his thigh. “Dinnae, M’Laird.”

“Dinnae what?” he replied flatly, staring down at her as if she were an irritating insect that had landed on his leg. “I’m givin’ ye yer privacy.”

Her hand curled, holding part of his kilt hostage in case he still tried to leave. “Dinnae leave, M’Laird,” she said in earnest. “Dinnae leave in anger, anyway. I’m sorry that ye saw that drawin’. I’m sorry that ye?—”

“I’m nae angry,” he interrupted. “But aye, I am leavin’.”

She frowned, swallowing thickly. “The woods or the castle?”

“Lass, think what ye will of me, but I’m nae desperate,” he said in that cool, stony voice. “Ye got what ye wanted. I wish ye well with the horde of Lairds that are about to descend. Now, I’ll take me leave of ye.”

He clicked his tongue and the enormous war horse began to plod forward, sparking such alarm in Anna that her other hand flew out to grab the stallion’s reins. If the beast was offended by the gesture, it didn’t show it, though it did turn its head to stare at her with one large brown eye, as if to say, I daenae think ye want to do that, lass.

But Anna did, and she couldn’t explain why. It had been her objective to come up with a way to make Gordon surrender his position in the auction, so why was she trying to stop him from doing just that? Was it because he’d rescued her without hesitation? Was it because she’d thought she might die in the bog and, in that terrifying moment, there he’d been, reaching out to her? Was it because he’d made her laugh, and he'd danced with her even though he clearly hadn’t wanted to? Was it because of what Jackson had said last night about Gordon’s… unknown hunger?

Or was it because she was worried that she really had hurt him, and being mean-spirited had never been part of her plan? If she was going to chase him off, she wanted to do it fairly, in the spirit of a true tournament, not with unkind sketches.

“M’Laird, I never meant for ye to see that,” she told him, trembling from the cold, her teeth chattering. “I dinnae even mean to draw it.”

He raised an eyebrow, his silence so loud, so uncomfortable, that she leaped to fill it.

“I have this… habit, I suppose ye’d call it,” she explained, “where I sometimes draw without thinkin’. It clears me mind and puts everythin’ that’s botherin’ me onto paper instead of it stickin’ in me head. It’s like… takin’ a walk when ye’re angry or goin’ ridin’ when ye have a lot to consider, or– ”

“I daenae have time for this,” he said coldly, clicking his tongue again.

The stallion began to move forward, and Anna had no choice but to release Gordon’s kilt, or she’d end up undressing him by accident, adding insult to injury. But she wasn’t about to let him leave without hearing her out; she’d had more than enough of not being listened to, and she would be given that grace now.

Praying that she and the stallion had some manner of silent agreement, she made the potentially foolhardy decision to run around to the front of the giant horse, putting her hands up to stop the beast in its path.

“That drawin’ isnae even ye!” she cried out, eyes scrunched in case the stallion chose to trample her anyway. “It’s… It’s every Laird who is comin’ to this bloody auction to seek me hand in marriage! It’s every Laird who’s comin’ here to win me as a prize instead of a person! It’s every Laird who’s dreamin’ of me churnin’ out an army of bairns for ‘em, with no consideration for me at all! Lairds who daenae care what it costs me, so long as they get what they want!”

As she spoke, she realized it was the truth, as if she was once again drawing without thinking, but her words were the charcoal, sketching the truth onto the paper of the woods around her. The monster she had drawn was the auction itself. The broken, dead-eyed bride was her, choiceless and eaten alive by the weight of expectation and “ duty”. The cruel-faced children were all the bairns the Lairds were imagining, those men unbothered by the efforts and exertions required for childbearing—men who would save the unborn child instead of her, if it came to it.

The stallion’s nose nudged her in the chest, no doubt to push her aside.

“Ye daenae ken what it’s like, ye cannae possibly understand, because nay lass wants to marry ye for yer body!” she yelled, expelling all the frustration that had been fermenting inside her since her father had told her what was going to happen, without bothering to ask her opinion. No… it had been fizzing up for longer than that: since Elinor had been taken, or perhaps even earlier, when Moira was handed over to her husband as if she was nothing but an object, signed and paid for.

Her eyes flew wide as she realized what she’d said, undoubtedly making the situation ten times worse. She wasn’t making sense; she was too angry, too exasperated to put her words in the right order, but trying to explain what she meant would only make a greater mess.

She gasped as Gordon jumped down, striding toward her, his arm catching her across the stomach as it had the night before, when they’d danced. Instead of spinning her around and hoisting her up into the air, she felt the hard thud of a tree trunk against her back, knocking the rest of the breath from her lungs.

Standing before her, one hand braced against the tree, just above her head, the other hand pressing against her stomach, Gordon leaned in and growled, “I assure ye, there are enough lasses who’d want me for me body.” He lowered his voice to a throaty whisper. “Or for what I could do to theirs.”

Anna’s cheeks flooded with warmth, her breath still struggling to return as she caught the soap and woodsmoke scent of his hair, and felt the slight grip of his hand as his fingers curved around her waist.

“Ye… ken what I mean… what I meant,” she murmured in reply, her heart racing as his breath tickled the sensitive skin of her neck, as if he might graze his lips along that curve. As if she might let him.

“I do,” he said, pulling back, meeting her dazed eyes with his one gray eye, “and, like I said, I daenae have time for ye. I daenae need a lass that thinks me a monster. I need a lass ready to stand at me side and rule me clan with me. I doubt ye can be that lass.”

Her mouth fell open, not quite believing her ears as words evaded her. Was he merely saying what he thought she might want to hear? A trick? He hadn’t mentioned children, hadn’t mentioned solely what she could do for him, but surely he was there for the same reason as every other Laird.

Gordon’s fingertips rested beneath Anna’s chin, closing her mouth. “I bid ye farewell.”

He turned from her, the absence of him surging air into her lungs, allowing her to breathe. And with that breath, the ability to think straight.