Page 4 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)

4

K atie’s head hung low as the Laird led her through the gardens, tugging on her hand when she’d just settled into an even pace to throw her off balance. A walk designed to embarrass and humble her. Truly, her cheeks hadn’t been so hot since her last fever years ago.

“I assume this is yers, or yer braither would be runnin’ bare as a babe through those woods,” Hector said abruptly, his expression humorless as he tossed her belt at her.

She scrambled to catch it and hesitantly stooped to pick it up, hoping he wouldn’t pull her over for his stony amusement.

“Thank ye,” she grumbled, draping the belt around her neck.

She didn’t have both hands free to fasten it back around her waist, with Hector holding one hostage.

He didn’t acknowledge her words, or speak again, as they passed through the pretty gardens and returned to the drafty gloom of the castle. The guards who had pursued Katie and Lyall were standing at the corner of a torchlit hallway, their grizzled faces twisting into smirks as Hector pulled her past them.

“A good hunt then, M’Laird?” one asked.

Hector glanced at him. “Why are ye standin’ here, doin’ nothin’? If ye have time for this, ye have time to train in the yard.”

“Aye, M’Laird.” The soldier bowed his head. “Sorry, M’Laird.”

As Hector led Katie down the hallway, another soldier’s voice muttered, “I thought there was meant to be peace.”

“There is never true peace,” Hector snarled back over his shoulder. “Get yer arses to the yard, now!”

The guards scattered like rats, giving Katie the faintest sliver of satisfaction to soothe the roaring heat in her face.

It didn’t last. She hadn’t expected it to.

Hector radiated disgruntlement with each step they took through the castle, the very hallways seeming to darken along with his mood. They appeared to be heading downward, taking several narrow, spiraling staircases into the underbelly, which was not such an easy task with Hector pulling Katie along.

Where is he takin’ me? A torture chamber?

She had her answer a few minutes later. Through a heavy wooden door, Katie stepped hesitantly into a gloomy passage, her worried eyes landing on metal bars.

The dungeons.

However, they were not at all like the dungeons she had pictured in her mind whenever she had heard the word. She had expected oily rats scampering and squeaking across cells that were splattered with all manner of human excretions, with drawn-faced prisoners groaning and clamoring. These were… pristine, the air carrying no unpleasant scents, just the familiar notes of woodsmoke and sweet hay.

“Why are yer dungeons so clean?” she blurted out, peering into the nearest one.

There were two neat cots on either side, and the floor was recently scrubbed and scattered with fresh hay—a bucket at the back of the cell was the only sign that it was, in fact, a dungeon.

“Nay one stays here long enough to make a mess,” Hector replied, finally releasing her hand.

She rubbed her sore wrist, eyeing him hopefully. “Because ye dinnae believe in lockin’ people up, and ye have nay enemies?”

“I certainly dinnae after I catch them. So, aye, ye could say I dinnae believe in lockin’ people up,” he answered, drawing a key from a fold of his belted plaid. “I prefer to deal with ‘em quickly.”

She gulped, watching him slot the key into the lock of the nearest cell, her heart lurching as she heard the loud click . “M’Laird, I’m nae yer enemy.”

The door to the dungeons still stood open, causing her to wonder how far she’d get before he caught her again. About twenty steps up the staircase was her most optimistic guess.

“Ye dinnae need to treat me as a prisoner,” she continued urgently. “I apologize, M’Laird. I never wanted to… disrupt yer peace. If I had me way, I wouldnae have come to the castle again for as long as I lived, perfectly content to stay out of yer way.”

His hand stilled on the key, his broad shoulders tensing. “By that, ye mean ye never wanted to creep into me private quarters, lookin’ to steal from me?”

“Steal? Och, M’Laird, ye’re so very mistaken!” she gasped, terrified of what the punishment for theft might be. “I wasnae stealin’. Nor was me braither. Mercy, I ken me braither can be foolish at times, but neither one of us would do such a thing.”

Unless ye’re a baker sellin’ the good bread at the market for an extortionate price…

For obvious reasons, she neglected to add that part. She’d scolded Lyall enough for that, and, after today, she doubted he’d be so foolish in any regard ever again.

“What were ye doin’, then?” Hector growled, turning toward her.

He didn’t merely stand over her, though. He began to walk forward, closing the very small gap between them. Peering up into his eyes in alarm, Katie stumbled backward, matching his every step with one of her own until her spine hit the edge of the dungeon door.

His hand shot past her shoulder, and the door supporting her back gave way, slamming into the jamb with such force that a little cloud of dust cascaded down. Just about holding her balance, she continued stepping backward until there was nowhere left to go.

Hector stopped no more than half a pace away. “Well?”

Startled by his proximity, figuring this was what it must be like to be in the presence of a bear, she pressed her back into the wooden door. As if she might, by some miracle, melt through it.

“Me braither was missin’ this mornin’. I heard that he’d come to the castle, so I came after him to stop him from doin’ somethin’ stupid,” she began nervously, her throat tight.

“To kill me? To do somethin’ else to throw us back into a war?” Hector challenged, his gray eyes absent of warmth or mercy.

In all her two-and-twenty years, Katie had never been so close to a man, much less a laird. He was frightening, he was immense, he was a very real threat, and yet she marveled at the novelty of being so near such a powerful man. She admired the broad expanse of his chest, the cords of his neck, the swell of mighty arms pushing through his sleeves, and the suggestion of a ridged stomach showing through the linen of his shirt.

Ye’re supposed to be beggin’ for yer life!

She snapped out of it, concentrating on those emotionless gray eyes. Beautiful but shuttered, revealing nothing.

“Heavens, nay!” she blurted out, a cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck. “Me braither just… He cannae come to terms with Johnson’s death and everythin’ that preceded it. I was just tryin’ to prevent him from makin’ a lethal mistake. I guess I was too late.”

She sighed wearily, all of the fight leaving her as she slumped against the door. It was as if she’d been holding her family together with gritted teeth and clenched muscles, and she’d finally relaxed her grip.

When the Laird drew something else from the fold of his belted plaid, Katie feared the worst. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, waiting for him to deliver his retribution… and when something cold grazed her throat, she prayed for salvation. Prayed for him to make it quick, and hoped that Bonnie, Lyall, and Pipkin would survive without her.

The sensation grazed her throat again and again and again, not causing any pain other than a faint sting. Meanwhile, an odd scent filled her nostrils—an earthy aroma that she recognized. Elderberry and lavender, with the sweet undernote of honey.

She cracked a confused eye open. Hector was concentrating on her neck, brushing a handkerchief against her skin.

“And ye?” he asked. “How do ye feel about a traitor’s death?”

Katie’s throat clogged up, not helped by his surprisingly gentle touch. “Am I to answer honestly or say what ye want to hear?”

“The former.”

She took a deep breath. “Deep down, I agree with me braither—the younger one. I dinnae deny that Johnson willed harm against the new Lady Marsden and, by doing so, Laird Marsden. I ken he was guilty of that and of violatin’ the treaty.”

Her next words struggled to get past her lips like they knew they would get her into trouble. “But… Johnson wouldnae have hurt yer sister. They had been in love since they were bairns. He’d have fallen on his own sword before he spilled a single drop of her blood. He?—”

“He confessed to it,” Hector interrupted sharply, drawing the handkerchief away from her neck. “He told the new Lady Marsden himself, and she’s nay liar. She has nay reason to be.”

Katie didn’t quite agree with that, but she had already rankled Hector. It seemed idiotic to rile him further.

Who better to lie about than yer man-at-arms, M’Laird? Is it nae quite the coincidence that the story exonerates her husband of yer sister’s death—the whole reason for the most recent war between our clan and theirs?

She held her tongue and simply nodded.

“Ye should be glad he didnae confess it to me,” Hector groused, dabbing the corner of the handkerchief against a tiny vial. “He’d have suffered a far worse fate if he had. At least at Duncan’s hand, it was, by all accounts, swift.”

He wrapped his hand around Katie’s throat, high up so that the underside of her jaw rested on the top of his fingers. Her breath stalled in her lungs, and she was unable to swallow. Was he going to strangle her to death for daring to suggest that the truth he’d heard might not be the truth at all?

But he didn’t squeeze. Instead, he turned her head with some firm pressure from his thumb and continued to dab the handkerchief against a throbbing cut. One of the thorns in the woods must have scratched her without her realizing it.

With the sting of what appeared to be ointment—unless it was some nasty, little poison meant to seep into her blood and kill her slowly—her anger flared.

“How long did ye ken him, M’Laird?”

“Years,” he replied.

“And that’s how ye thank yer most loyal man, who ye kenned all that time? By slanderin’ his name without pausin’ to think that maybe ye were lied to? Ye said it yerself—he didnae confess to ye. He ‘confessed’ to someone whose life he was about to take, the wife of yer—until recently—sworn enemy,” she shot back, wincing at her own boldness.

He had warned her to be more careful with her words.

Hector took a step back, glowering at her. “If he was loyal, he wouldnae have killed me sister in her bed. Aye, he wanted her, and that made him plunge his blade into the heart he couldnae have,” he seethed. “Lady Marsden had nay reason to lie, as I’ve already told ye. So, dinnae think me some fool who has had the wool pulled over his eyes.”

“I didnae say that,” Katie protested. “I’m just sayin’ that… I dinnae see why ye’d believe it.”

“Because I’m nae a sheltered dolt like ye,” he remarked in a fierce growl. “I’ve seen what love can do to men. I’ve seen how it can twist ‘em and turn ‘em into monsters. Yer braither wouldnae be the first to strike his love down out of jealousy, nor will he be the last. So, dinnae assume ye ken better than I do about someone I kenned as well as ye.”

She made the mistake of glaring at him.

How could he be so certain? It didn’t make any sense to her.

“I never got the justice I sought,” he said coldly. “I had her killer by me side for years, and I never suspected him. Now, he’s gone to his grave still denyin’ me that justice. If ye were me, lass, how would ye take yer revenge?”

Katie swallowed thickly. “Revenge is fruitless. It aids nay one. It doesnae bring anyone back.”

She heard the tremor in her words, which meant Hector must have, too.

“I dinnae agree,” he said in a low whisper. “Maybe I can have me revenge. He took me sister, I take his.”

His hand pressed against the door behind her, his muscular arm so close to her cheek that she felt the caress of his sleeve, while his other hand cradled her neck. Only the handkerchief between her skin and his.

There was such danger in that touch, in the slight stroke of his thumb against her throat.

He could crush her windpipe with his bare hands, she had no doubts about that, but that was not what rendered her breathless. Indeed, if he was going to strangle her, she would have taken as many breaths as she could before she never took another again.

It was the closeness of him that stole her breath; the way he had leaned in with the husky rumble of his threat, the rough manner in which he had her pinned to the door, the way his fingers curled around the back of her neck, the firm pressure nudging her head forward.

She should have been begging him to show mercy, scared out of her mind. Instead, she wondered if she had lost her mind as her thoughts spun wildly, conjuring images of Hector pulling her sharply toward him, snaking an arm around her waist. She thought of herself in the woods, her legs wrapped around him. How hard her thighs had squeezed him, and how little he had reacted, his muscles fighting hers. And as his gray gaze flitted to her lips, she wondered…

What if he doesnae mean ‘death’ at all? Nae an eye for an eye, but… somethin’ else.

She shoved the thought away, hating that her mind could betray her like that. The idea of him ‘taking’ her should have been abhorrent—a terrible, awful thing—yet she was imagining it in half-formed daydreams like a silly village girl watching the soldiers train for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I didnae mean to upset ye. If ye believe in the confession, it’s nae me place to question it.”

His shoulders relaxed, a glimmer of something like disappointment in his eyes. “Ye do believe it, then?”

“It’s… It has… The truth is, it has been a lot for me to bear,” she croaked, desperately trying not to think of how his hand felt on her neck, or how another quarter step would bring him flush against her. “Me emotions are runnin’ wild, that’s all. I spoke out of turn. Me anger isnae directed at ye.”

“That’s nae the impression ye gave,” he remarked.

“I ken, but… ever since people found out what Johnson did, I… we were spurned, M’Laird. I couldnae count the friends we had before, and now I can count ‘em on just one finger,” Katie attempted to explain. “Even she has to be cautious, lest she become an exile too. So, she cannae give me the work she used to. Nay one offers me work now, people keep stealin’ me chickens and raidin’ me garden, and it’s gettin’ harder to feed me siblings.”

“If ye think ye can appeal to me sensibilities, ye’re mistaken,” Hector warned, though he did not move away. His eyes didn’t leave hers, listening closely.

She shook her head. “What I’m tryin’ to say is that when I saw what Lyall was doin’, perhaps I wanted him to find somethin’ that would fix this awful mess. Perhaps me hopes were as daft as his, wantin’ him to be right for our sakes. To put things back as they were, so we survive this… tragic ordeal.”

His hand drew back from the door, his linen sleeve grazing her cheek. But just as she thought he was stepping back, having felt some sympathy after all, he caught her by the chin. She didn’t resist as he tilted her head up, making her look into his eyes.

“Interestin’…” was all he said, those cold gray pools searching her face as if looking for any hint of deceit.

She steeled herself, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. “What will ye do to me now?”

Had she appealed to his sensibilities? Could he see that she wasn’t his enemy now? Or did he still want some manner of revenge, with her as the conduit? She remembered to breathe as she waited for his response.

He let his hand fall from her chin and grabbed her roughly by the arm instead, marching her to the nearest cell. “For tonight, ye’ll stay here. Behind bars is the only place to keep a lass with associations like yers.”

He kicked open the iron door and ushered her across the threshold, closing it again before she could protest.

“I told ye,” she pleaded. “I’m nae yer enemy.”

“And I dinnae ken ye, so yer word doesnae mean much at all,” he replied, sliding the key into the lock. “I’ll decide what to do with ye tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, she lunged, her hand shooting through the bars to grab him by the arm.

“But, M’Laird…”

With all her might, she tugged, but she didn’t manage to spin him around to face her.

Nevertheless, he looked down at her, with the expression of a man who had just about as much disruption as he could take for one day. “Sparin’ ye for the night is me bein’ generous, lass. Dinnae push me. Ye willnae like what it gains ye.”

He removed her hand like an earwig that had crept onto his sleeve and left without saying anything else, letting the slam of the dungeon door be his final word on the matter.