Page 2 of The Highlander’s Hellion Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #1)

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“ W e didnae do anythin’ to her,” the man pleaded, peering past Duncan at the havoc his men were wreaking on his wife’s captors.

The man’s eyes darted down to Duncan’s hands, which were stained with the blood of the men who had tried to stop him from getting to the cabin.

“But ye would have,” Duncan hissed.

His hands tightened around the hilt of his battle axe, and he leveled it so that it was pointed directly at the man’s chest.

“Do ye think I dinnae ken what ye would have done to me wife? Do ye think I dinnae ken that ye took her to get to me?” he roared.

He opened his mouth, a blood-curdling battle cry tearing from his throat. He had expected more of a fight from the man standing before him, and from the men who had taken his wife and dared to deliver the ransom demand.

The man clutched the dagger in his hand, holding it out in front of him with shaking hands.

Duncan did a quick scan. The dagger appeared to be the only weapon the man had.

Fools . As if I wouldnae come to protect me wife! As if I would allow someone to take and harm what is mine! They will all learn what happens when they try to cross Duncan Forrester.

With a wild roar, Duncan swung his Lochaber axe. The axe’s hilt was long, and he twirled it around his head. The man dodged, rolling out of the way at the last second.

Duncan caught movement out of the corner of his eye, glancing that way as quickly as he dared. His eyes immediately landed on Alison, bound and blindfolded, sitting in a corner.

Her dress was dirty, and there was a small cut on her right cheek. A fresh trickle of blood ran down from it.

Duncan saw red.

“I thought ye said ye didnae harm her?” he growled.

Moments before, Duncan had yelled. He had been loud and roaring with anger. But not now. The anger that was coursing through his veins had become thick, potent, deadly and, most of all, calm.

He would kill these men. Every last one would be left bleeding out on the ground by the time he was finished with them. He would make sure they knew that, even as they called out to God, begging for Him to save them, he would show no mercy.

For the only mercy Duncan would show them was to send them to meet their maker.

“We didnae touch her,” the man argued back, puffing out his chest.

“Then why is there blood on her cheek?”

Duncan did not give him a chance to answer. Instead, he darted forward, throwing the axe like a spear. Its curved point immediately struck home, embedding itself in the man’s belly with a thud.

The man’s eyes widened with shock, and his face quickly drained of all color.

Duncan gave the axe another shove, the blade disappearing further into the man’s stomach.

The man opened his mouth to speak or scream—Duncan did not know which—but no sound came out. A pool of blood poured from between his lips, over his jaw, and onto his chest. He let out a few more heaving breaths before finally slumping forward.

Duncan lifted a booted foot, shoving it against the man’s body so that he tumbled to the ground with a thud. Then, he whirled around to find Alison still in the corner.

She was moving her shoulders back and forth violently, tugging at whatever it was that bound her hands behind her back. He began to walk toward her, noticing her movements becoming more ferocious as she heard him approach.

Be gentle, ye big brute. Ye shouldnae frighten the lass after everythin’ she’s been through.

The sounds of fighting were fading away outside the cabin. They both noticed it as his guards killed the last of Alison’s captors.

Duncan knelt before his wife, reaching out with hands gentler than he thought possible, and lifted the blindfold from her eyes.

Immediately, Alison’s eyes widened with fear, and her cheeks flushed. Her eyes locked onto his, and he watched as an array of emotions crossed her face.

Her expressionshifted into one of recognition and then immediately to one of anger.

The corners of Duncan’s lips turned up into a grin.

“Wife,” he said. “Nice to see ye again.”

Blue eyes. That was all Alison could see or focus on. Blue eyes were the only thing she could truly remember from her wedding day all those years ago. Blue eyes that had appeared in some of the worst of her dreams.

And the same blue eyes on Rosie’s face,the daughter she loved more than anything else, even if she had not been the one to give birth to her.

Duncan Forrester, the husband she had not seen in over five years, grinned at her. His teeth flashed white as one corner of his mouth ticked up.

“Wife,” he nearly purred. “Nice to see ye again.”

Alison could not help herself and snorted out a laugh. “Aye,” she said, her eyes darting around to take in the carnage behind him. “I guess I should thank ye.”

She nodded her head to indicate the pile of bodies he had left in his wake. From where she sat, Alison could see the slaughter through the cabin’s open door.

Outside, she could make out soldiers walking about, cleaning their swords and laughing with one another. Each one of them proudly wore the Marsden crest.

“I guess I should help ye out of yer restraints,” he murmured, moving her so that he could untie the ropes that bound her hands.

The moment she was freed, the tension that had built up in her shoulders over the last three days seemed to release all at once. She sighed, slumping forward with relief.

“Thank ye,” Alison murmured, realizing that she had not yet said the words.

Duncan took one of her hands in his, and his large fingers began to massage her wrists. She started at the touch. Aside from the kiss at their wedding, the Laird had never touched her.

Once the initial shock from the gesture wore off, she yanked her hand back. His eyes widened with astonishment; Alison imagined he was unaccustomed to people rejecting his advances.

She placed her hands on either side of her, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest, and pushed herself up. Aside from when her captors took her out to relieve herself, she had remained in the same position.

Not allowing herself to reveal any of her discomfort, she clambered up. Duncan also stood, towering over her as he brought himself to his full height.

I forgot how massive he is .

His beard was longer and almost entirely unkempt. Although the years had erased some of her memories, she had not yet forgotten the way his well-shaven stubble had brushed against her jaw during their kiss. Now, the wild tangle of hair obscured much of his face.

The Laird’s clothes were bloodied. A rip ran across one shoulder as though he had narrowly dodged a sword, although the skin beneath remained mark-free.

A few shallow cuts peppered his face and forearms, with only one of them looking a little deeper than a surface wound.

Overall, he looked exactly as he was—a dangerous, callous man who abandoned his wife and child.

Anger blazed fast and hot inside her. Turning up her nose at him despite their size difference, Alison brushed brusquely past him. Her shoulder struck his arm as she moved toward the door, and she felt a tinge of satisfaction when she heard his quick, shocked intake of breath.

“Again, thank ye for rescuin’ me, husband,” she said as she walked out the cabin door. “I expect I will see ye in another five years. Dinnae die in the next war, lest I need ye again.”