Page 10 of The Highlander’s Fake Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #4)

O livia felt like a child. Here she was, having allowed the enemy of her father’s clan to hold her like some simpering fool.

Worse, he offered to hold her bowl of pottage while she spooned out sustenance for herself–she’d shut that down immediately, having moved to the opposite side of the bed and shoveled angry bites of food in silence.

She’d purposefully turned her back to the laird, though Olivia could feel his one eye staring at her, judging her–or, was he ensuring she simply didn’t choke? Thank God she didn’t shed a tear in his presence; she was certain he’d never let her live it down.

Eventually, her bowl had been completely scraped clean.

She set it against the nightstand, arms crossing over her chest as she sat, shoulders hunched, her back still facing away.

She let out an irritated hiss as her foot began tapping against the ground–a nervous tic that was sure to paint her as further pathetic–and she craned her neck to snap at the laird’s throat once more.

“I cannae imagine what ye’ve gone through the last day or two, Olivia.”

Olivia froze at the laird’s subtle shift in tone. No longer the roaring ocean, but the calm, glass-like surface.

He rolled his neck and rubbed it afterwards, as if trying to shake off whatever tension had built between them.

“I expected ye to take in a lot at once–put a fair amount o’trust in someone that killed yer faither an’ braither–and…

” his expression soured, nose wrinkling as if he’d smelled something foul. “Maybe I teased ye a bit too much.”

“‘A bit’?” Olivia admonished. “I would’a thought yer entire life’s goal was to frustrate me, m’laird.”

His laughter warmed a small part of her chest. “Only a small part o’me life’s dedicated to that.”

Olivia allowed herself a small smile, shifting her body so as to face the laird a bit more properly. “I am sorry about the knife. I just–the instinct to protect meself was so strong, even after how kind yer kin.”

“Och, nay; daenae concern yerself with that,” Laird MacDonnell assured with a wave of his hand. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised ye didn’t try something like that earlier. Was a bit worried ye were a bit too naive; I genuinely began to wonder how ye made it this far in life.”

Olivia furrowed her brow, letting out a mocking gasp of indignation. “Ye really are an ugsome troll, ye know that?”

“And yer a wild wee sea beastie, selkie,” the laird teased back.

That got a bit more of an honest laugh out of Olivia.

She sighed lightly afterwards, swinging her legs over the bed as she walked around their posts, taking the opportunity to inspect the laird fully.

He really was wonderfully built, the muscle of his chest on full display beneath his shirt as he stretched his arms out behind him.

The biceps were hard to miss as well, and–Olivia was quick to sit and stare at her hands now folded in her lap, flushing at the noticeable bulge against his trousers.

Thoughts of her teasing Flora for her giant husband’s ‘appearance’ flittered back, and she couldn’t help but bite her lip.

What horrible retribution, and the laird’s sister wasn’t even the one behind it.

“Olivia?”

She blinked, turning her head to face the laird once more. It was difficult to stay focused, what with that glimmering green eye of his entirely pulling her into a fantasy of her own making. The pair of them, swimming in the waters together, himself bare-chested and she–

–Laird MacDonnell’s laughter broke the spell, a mischievous smile crossing his lips as he eyed her deviously.

“Ooh; or are ye too used to yer new pet name, wee selkie?”

“H-Hardly!” Olivia squeaked. “‘Least I get to start callin’ ye an, ‘ugsome troll’ from here on out.”

“I would think, ‘fachan’ would be more appropriate,” the laird chuckled, gesturing to his eyepatch. “Given how we both share the same count o’eyes.”

Olivia blinked furiously, her face flushing with a terrible heat. “I–I wouldnae compare ye to that.”

“Oh?” Laird MacDonnell inquired, leaning closer with that sly, foxish grin on his face. “‘Cause ye think I’m more handsome?”

“Cause ye still got an arm an’ leg intact,” Olivia responded dryly…

though, she didn’t lean away from his advance.

She didn’t know why she remained sitting, but…

something about his tone, the way he was looking at her; it was hypnotic to watch.

The laird drew closer, physically moving his body across the bedside so the pair were just about touching shoulders.

“What else would ye compare me to, selkie?” Laird MacDonnell…Arthur…asked in a soft, husky tone.

“An eejit,” Olivia said, though her voice didn’t have quite the same bite as before. “Maybe…a fair folk from to sea, trying to lure me in to diving deep into the depths alongside him.”

“And would ye, selkie?”

Olivia’s eyelashes fluttered, finding herself leaning closer this time. His beard brushed against the underside of her chin, and before she could fully formulate a reply, Arthur’s lips found her’s.

He’d grown so used to the taste of salt when kissing women.

Many of the ones who were all too willing to bed with him had lived in keeps across the shoreline as well, so it only stood to reason they’d take on its scent.

Salty, a touch of fishy undertone, and that sharp tang that lingered with him days after the woman had left his home.

But Olivia–as their kiss lingered between them, Arthur was surprised to find her scent unfamiliarly earthy, mixed with what he could only describe as the smell of sunshine. And it was surprisingly sweet, like fresh honey bitten directly from the comb itself.

Arthur wanted nothing more than to taste more of her, to throw her down into bed and press above her.

He settled for his hands around her face, gently cupping against as she leaned against them for support.

She was so soft, so…innocent. At least, partially so, until he felt her own hand began to snake around his waist. A sea goddess, indeed; one just as ravenous as he, a mere mortal man.

But her lips began to pull loose from his own and, reluctantly, he let her pull away.

She quickly jumped off the side of the bed, hand hovering over her mouth as a blushing scowl crossed her face.

“Wh-what happened to following me one rule?!” She squealed, voice high-pitched and tinged with shame.

Arthur chuckled lightly. “Yer the one who lingered as long as ye did. I was just following yer lead.” His hand lingered across her lower lips, a mere touch away once more, before he quickly lifted in mock surrender at her dark scowl.

It was entirely too easy to rile her up, and he watched as his selkie stomped back and forth for a bit, muttering and cursing unladylike things beneath her breath.

Eventually, her anger simmered to a seething growl, grabbing a nearby stool before pulling it across and dropping into it.

“This ‘betrothal’ o’ours cannae end any sooner,” she hissed under her breath.

“It’ll end when me council’s convinced of it,” Arthur reminded her.

“Aye, I remember.” His little selkie looked so precious, what with her cheeks all puffed up and lips pursed into a little pout. “Ye think they’ll be quick about it?”

Arthur chuckled once more, moving one hand to stroke his beard in mock-consideration. “Ye met them yerself; what do ye think?”

Another angry huff, another flush of red color across her cheeks. God, but she was infatuating when she was so hot and bothered like this. The desire to bed her pressed against Arthur’s trousers, and he moved to lean forward a touch, not wanting to necessarily show his interest fully just yet.

“Really, though,” Olivia’s voice sounded a touch softer now, genuinely holding a note of curiosity. “They seem awful impatient with ye to start a family.”

“They’re worried ‘bout the clan’s future, ‘tis all.” Arthur blinked, surprised to find himself agreeing with his mother so readily.

“Aye; who wouldn’t be worried of a future o’violence?” Olivia partially teased.

“Me.”

That seemed to take Olivia genuinely by surprise. “Come off it; ye really think o’nothin but fighting, do ye?”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “If it keeps me kinsfolk safe, I’d happily lay down me life.”

“Shut yer gob.”

Arthur blinked, surprised at the sharpness of her tone.

“Ye daenae really mean that,” Olivia began, nervously picking at the hem of her dress. “Do ye, m’laird?”

A cold ache welled inside Arthur’s chest, but he remained resolute. “‘Tis how me faither lived an’ died, and ‘tis how I shall as well. A laird’s life is to his people; no future to fear if I already ken what it is.”

But, that had been told to him since the day he could pick up a sword properly.

It was nothing new, and frankly, he was far more interested in picking up where the two had left off.

Though, judging by the sad, somber look on Olivia’s face, Arthur had a feeling the spark between them had already died off.

His mind raced, trying to find another path to steer the conversation down.

“I gotta say, though. If I had kenned about ye earlier, I woulda tried finding a more peaceful way to end the fighting between our clans.” Before the last words left his mouth, Arthur immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing.

Olivia’s eyes burned as she stood from her stool, nearly knocking it clean off its legs. “Is that so?”

He kicked himself internally, a slew of curses echoing off his mind as he, too, stood up. “Nay, that’s–I dinnae mean to say it like that. I just meant…”

“Aye, I ken what ye meant,” Olivia snapped. “If ye knew ye’d get a pretty lass out of the deal, ye would have considered nae killin’ me faither and braither. Is that about right?”

Oh, no. No, no, no. “I meant if I had taken a moment to think about people like ye–the innocents involved in this mess–”

“–So ye’d spare our lives if it meant ye got to play hero?” Olivia snapped. “Is that why ye decided to take me back with ye? See me as some naive, hapless lass too desperate to say no t’yer face?!”

This was very quickly spiraling out of control. “Olivia.”

Olivia huffed loudly, turning on her heel to stomp towards the door.

“I prefer ye refer to me as ‘selkie’. Least then, I know ye only see me as a wee pet, ye ugsome troll!” She flung the door open, then paused, craning her neck behind to shout one last thing.

“And ye better keep yer hands off me from here on out!”

Arthur flinched as the door slammed behind her, leaving him in the guest room by his lonesome. The feelings of desire still ran hot in his blood, even after it was obviously not going to happen, cock rock hard and chafing against his trousers.

He blew out a frustrated breath and started towards the door himself; as tempting as it was to break something inside the room, it would win him no favor with his selkie. So, Arthur elected to exit the room and make for the barracks, desperate to get a sword in his hand and do some damage.