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CHAPTER 2

Ava continued to study the warrior as he walked further into the kitchen. Her eyes swept over the tartan of his kilt and then snapped back at his face almost with intense urgency. If her heart could beat any faster, it would burst through her chest and land straight on the floor.

However, she noticed almost immediately that the warrior’s eyes had refused to leave Margaret. Not even once.

Ava cleared her throat once she felt her courage slowly return. She needed to gain control of this situation one way or the other.

“Might I help you, Sir?” she finally managed to ask, feeling her throat close up almost immediately.

Her eyes darted back to the tartan the man was wearing, and, for some reason, her fear grew.

He didn’t reply. Not even a nod or an acknowledgment of her question. His eyes, which were beginning to soften, remained solely on Margaret.

“I said, might I help you, Sir?” Ava repeated, frustration lacing her voice now.

“I heard ye the first time.” The warrior’s voice was curt and sharp.

“Oh, did you, now? I couldn’t tell,” Ava scoffed.

“Child,” the warrior called, his voice almost breaking as he continued to stare at Margaret.

For a second, Ava could’ve sworn she saw tears fill his eyes.

“Margaret, dear. Why don’t you go play with the other girls? I shall deal with this—this man.”

Ava felt Margaret’s grip slacken around her waist.

“Nay!” the warrior yelled, taking Ava aback for some reason and causing Margaret to flinch. Her arms tightened around Ava’s waist once again.

Ava’s head snapped up, and she glared at him. “I am not sure that I appreciate the tone you are taking with me in my house, Sir.”

“I will fully apologize once I am out of here. How about that?”

Ava frowned, realizing for the first time since this stranger barged into the kitchen that she hadn’t asked him the important questions.

“What do you want? Who are you?” The words practically rolled off her tongue like scalding rocks.

The warrior crouched down and craned his neck, leaning towards Margaret. “I have been searchin’ for ye for a long time, child.”

He tried to reach for her face, but she retreated even further, trying to hide her entire body behind Ava.

“Did I say you could touch her?” Ava turned again to look at Margaret, concern written all over her face. “Margaret, are you all right?”

The little girl nodded, but from the way she shivered violently against her, Ava could tell that was far from the truth.

“Margaret?” the warrior echoed, looking up at Ava, almost in what seemed to be disbelief. “Her name is Margaret?”

Ava didn’t answer. The man was beginning to scare her less and annoy her even more. “I shall ask again. Who are you, Sir, and what do you want?”

The warrior rose to his feet, his toned physique drawing her eye once again, almost causing her throat to run dry.

“For someone who is stuck with me, ye seem to have quite the effrontery.”

Ava’s eyes flashed. “I am not alone.”

“Well, I dinnae see anyone else in this kitchen. Do ye?”

“Do not underestimate the lengths I will go to in order to protect this child.”

The warrior nodded. “I suppose we do have that in common.”

There it was again, that tone. That cryptic language she couldn’t understand for some reason.

“Look, I dinnae want to cause trouble,” he continued, raising his hands slightly.

“Huh. I suppose you’ll have to forgive me if I think otherwise. You haven’t exactly given me a reason not to.”

“I’m only here for her.”

“Right. You must think me a fool. Or one of your warriors. You think because you broke into the kitchen like some raving lunatic, I will surrender the child to you?”

“Ye would be quite a fool nae to.”

Ava scoffed. “This is really unbelievable. I mean, the sheer insanity?—”

“Watch yer tone, woman.” The warrior’s voice was low. Low enough to have scared her, but for some reason, it didn’t. If anything, it only pushed her forward.

“Perhaps you should watch your tone too, Sir. You come in here, asking to take the girl. I do not know who you are or what sky you dropped from?—”

“Ye dinnae ken who I am?”

Ava frowned. “Why do you make it sound like I am supposed to?”

“Ye are, are ye nae? Since ye seem to ken everything.”

“There are approximately seventeen knives in this kitchen. I alone know where they are. I am certain you do not want me to use any of those knives on you, but believe me, Sir, if I have to, I will.”

“Oh, will ye, now?” the warrior drawled.

If Ava didn’t know better, she would swear that he was enjoying this.

“Why don’t you try me and find out?”

The warrior heaved a sigh of resignation. “Look, I am just here for me daughter. Let me have her, and I’ll be out of yer way.”

Ava froze. Daughter?

She could feel Margaret press even closer to her at the mention of that word.

“You will have to forgive me if I find that quite hard to believe.”

“Christ. Why are ye bein’ so impossible?”

“I am being impossible? You, Sir, are the one claiming that this child is yours. You, Sir, are the one expecting me to hand Margaret over to you just because you have declared that she is your daughter.”

The warrior laughed at the name again.

“I am sorry, is something amusing to you, Sir?” Ava hissed.

Her eyes darted to the broken door, and she begged—no, prayed—that someone, anyone, would walk in and save her from this moment. From this man, whose hazel eyes pierced right through her, causing her knees to tremble for some reason. From this man, whose chin was covered in the shadow of a beard that seemed to accentuate his jawline. From this man, whose skin continued to glisten in the sunlight streaming into the kitchen from the rafters above.

“You want me to hand the girl over to you, and yet you have managed to avoid every single question I have asked you. So, for the last time, Sir, who are you, and what do you want? Do you really expect me to just hand her over to a man covered in blood?”

The warrior lowered his hand to the pommel of his sword. “I am Brodrick Culloch, Laird of Clan MacDunn.”

Ava felt the color drain from her face. The warrior noticed it as well.

“So ye have heard of me,” he concluded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips when he noticed the complete change in her countenance.

Of course she had heard of him. She had heard of the dangerous man by that name. One known for burning down villages and attacking clans. Everyone knew about Laird MacDunn, the man who faced the fiercest of warriors and took down the hardest of men.

She may not know anything about the man standing before her, but she knew of his reputation, and if any of the news she had heard about him was true, then he was deadlier than she had thought.

“Again, I say to ye, miss, that I have come to take me daughter home with me.”

Ava looked down at Margaret, who shook her head vigorously, not letting go of her waist. Her eyes darted from Margaret to the warrior standing before her. The warrior who had claimed to be the girl’s father. She swallowed, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest, but she refused to let it show. This was not her first time dealing with a powerful man, and this would definitely not be her last. His steely hazel eyes continued to pierce through her and push her feelings in a way they had never been pushed before.

She finally swallowed, letting words come to her.

“You… You’re Margaret’s father?” She heard her voice falter slightly.

Laird MacDunn gave her a quick nod and waited—waited for her to register the information and make a decision, quickly. He shuffled his legs, drawing her attention to his tartan for the third time.

While she made sure to remain cool and collected in the eye of the storm, it was quickly dawning on her that if Laird MacDunn was who he said he was, and if he decided to take Margaret with him, there was almost little to nothing she could do. She was helpless, and she prayed desperately that he couldn’t see that.

That he couldn’t see through her. That he couldn’t tell that she would not be able to hold her own if he applied more pressure than he was doing now.

She wouldn’t be able to hold Margaret away from him even if she desperately wished to.

Ava swallowed one more time, deciding to lean into whatever remaining strength she had left. She was going to challenge this man, whoever he was, and whether he was Margaret’s father or not, she would find out the truth and be irreconcilably certain about it.