Page 28 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
CHAPTER TWENTY
T he empty space beside her in the bed was cold when Erica woke, confirming what she'd already known—Lachlan hadn't returned to their chambers.
"Good," she said viciously to the empty room, sitting up and pushing her tangled hair from her face. "I pray ye never come back here again."
But even as the anger burned hot in her chest, another emotion clawed at her—one she didn't want to acknowledge. Her body still hummed with the memory of his hands on her skin, still ached from the desire he'd awakened before she'd come to her senses and pulled away.
"Damn ye Laird Lachlan Galloway for makin' me want ye this much," she muttered, pressing her palms against her heated cheeks.
She tried to banish the treacherous longing that his touch had stirred, but even now, hours later, she could feel the phantom caress of his fingers, could remember the way her body had responded despite every rational thought in her head.
"I'm stronger than this," she said aloud, as if speaking the words would make them true. "I have to be."
Rising from the bed with sharp, angry movements, she began to dress herself rather than wait for Ada. "If me husband is too much of a stubborn laird to listen to me, to treat me as an equal partner instead of some delicate flower, then I'll handle me clan's troubles on me own."
The McLaren raids, the need for more men, the precarious state of their defenses—all of it required immediate attention, with or without Lachlan's support.
The great hall buzzed with the usual morning activity when Erica entered for breakfast. Servants moved efficiently between tables, the smell of fresh bread and porridge filling the air. And there, at the high table, sat her husband.
Lachlan looked up as she approached, and she noted with savage satisfaction the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that spoke of a sleepless night, even though his clothes were fresh, his face clean-shaven.
Good. Suffer like I'm sufferin'.
"Good mornin', wife," he said, his voice carefully neutral as she took her seat beside him.
She caught the faint scent of whisky still clinging to him—evidence of how he'd spent the hours away from their bed.
So that is how ye drown yer marital problems?
"Mornin'," she replied curtly, not meeting his eyes as she reached for the bread.
"Did ye sleep well?"
"Aye."
She hoped her face was schooled sufficiently enough to hide the lie. After he'd slammed the door, she'd tossed and turned for hours, her body restless and aching, her mind churning with anger and unwanted desire.
"Erica—"
"The porridge is quite good this mornin'," she interrupted, taking a deliberate spoonful.
She felt his eyes on her profile, studying her with that intense gaze that usually made her stomach flutter. Today, it only fueled her fire.
"We need to discuss what happened," he said, his voice low enough that the servants wouldn't overhear.
"Do we?" She buttered her bread with excessive care. "I thought ye'd made yer position quite clear."
"Ye're bein' unreasonable?—"
"Am I?" She finally looked at him, her dark eyes flashing. "How refreshin' to hear yer thoughts on me behavior."
Lachlan's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, she was rising from her seat.
"If ye'll excuse me, I think I'll take a walk in the gardens. The fresh air will do me good."
"Sit down."
The command cracked through the hall like a whip, causing nearby servants to glance nervously in their direction. Erica felt every eye in the room turn toward their table, watching the drama unfold between their laird and his new wife.
"I beg yer pardon?" Her voice was dangerously quiet.
"I said sit down." Lachlan's blue eyes were ice-cold, his posture radiating the authority that had made grown warriors tremble. Without breaking eye contact with his wife, he raised his voice to carry across the hall. "Everyone else out. Now."
The effect was immediate. Servants dropped what they were doing and fled toward the exits, some still clutching platters and pitchers in their haste to obey. Within moments, the great hall was empty save for the laird and lady facing each other across the high table.
"Ye'll nae storm off like a child havin' a tantrum," he continued once they were alone, his voice deadly quiet now. "If ye have somethin' to say, ye'll say it here."
The way he spoke to her, like she was an unruly bairn rather than a woman with legitimate grievances, made her vision blur with rage.
"I'm nae havin' a tantrum," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent hall. "I'm takin' a walk. There's a difference, though I can see why ye might be confused about the distinction."
She threw his own cutting words from the day before back at him, watching with grim satisfaction as his face darkened.
But instead of sitting back down, she turned on her heel and walked toward the doors with measured, dignified steps.
She'd made it halfway across the courtyard when she heard his boots on the stones behind her.
"Erica!"
She quickened her pace, but his legs were longer, his strides more powerful. Within moments, his hand closed around her arm, spinning her to face him.
"Ye cannae treat me like this," he said, his voice low and furious. "I'm yer husband and yer laird. Ye'll show me the respect I'm due."
"Respect?" She jerked against his grip, but he held firm. "Like the respect ye showed me yesterday when ye wouldnae listen to me about Duncan? Like the respect ye're showin' me now by manhandlin' me in front of the entire castle?"
"I'm tryin' to have a conversation with me wife, somethin' that's apparently impossible when ye keep runnin' away."
"I'm nae runnin' away. I'm choosin' nae to waste me breath on a man who's already made up his mind about everythin'." Her eyes blazed with anger. "Ye want me to be a proper little wife who defers to yer superior wisdom in all things. Well, I have news for ye, husband—that's nae who I am."
"That's nae what I want in the least. Ye ken this."
"Isn't it?" She finally wrenched free of his grasp. "Yesterday, ye made it clear that protectin' the servants is 'between men' and nae me concern. Last night ye made it equally clear what ye really want from me. So, tell me, Lachlan, what exactly is me role in this marriage supposed to be?"
"Ye're me wife, Erica. Lady Kinnaird."
"And what does that mean? That I smile prettily and warm yer bed when summoned? That I ignore me own clan's troubles because they might inconvenience yer schedule?" The words poured out in a torrent of frustrated fury. "Because if that's yer idea of marriage, ye chose the wrong woman."
Lachlan's face went dangerously still. "What clan troubles?"
The question caught her off guard. In her anger, she'd revealed more than she'd intended.
"It doesnae matter now," she said, lifting her chin with stubborn pride. "I'll handle it meself, since that's clearly how ye prefer things."
"What. Clan. Troubles?" Each word was bitten off with barely controlled fury.
"Raiders on me border lands. Three farms hit in the past week.."
"Why dinnae ye tell me?"
"When exactly should I have done that? Between bein' dismissed about Duncan, or when ye were stormin' out of our chambers like an angry bear?"
They stood facing each other in the courtyard, both breathing hard, the air between them crackling with tension and unspoken accusations.
"This conversation isnae over," Lachlan said, his voice deadly quiet.
"Oh, but it is," Erica replied, matching his tone.
Before he could respond, she turned and walked away, her spine straight as a sword blade.
Half of her wished he would follow her, the other half prayed he didn't, but as Erica reached the heavy oak doors that led from the main hall to the gardens, a gentle voice stopped her.
"M'lady?"
She turned to find Mairi approaching with a small bouquet of wildflowers—purple heather, white roses, and sprigs of rosemary tied with a simple ribbon. The cook's round face was creased with concern.
"I thought ye might enjoy these," Mairi said softly, extending the flowers. "Fresh from the kitchen garden this mornin'."
Erica hesitated, her anger still burning hot in her chest. But there was something so genuine in the older woman's gesture that she found herself accepting the bouquet.
"Thank ye, Mairi. They're bonnie."
"Aye, they are." Mairi's eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief. "Ye ken, m'lady, sometimes the strongest flowers grow in the rockiest soil. Takes time for the roots to settle proper."
The words seemed layered with meaning, and Erica found herself studying the cook's weathered face.
"He's a brute with feelings, milady," Mairi continued quietly, glancing toward the closed doors of the great hall. "Sometimes they just need a wee nudge in the right direction."
Despite her fury, Erica felt something soften in her chest. The flowers were beautiful, their sweet scent rising in the morning air, and Mairi's kindness was a balm to her raw emotions.
"Perhaps," she said carefully. "But some brutes are too stubborn to see reason, even with nudgin'."
Mairi chuckled. "Aye, well. The best ones usually are."
Erica was still holding the flowers when she stepped onto the garden path, their fragrance mixing with the morning air. Mairi's words echoed in her mind, making her wonder if perhaps she was being too harsh, too unforgiving.
Should I go back? Try to talk to him without so much anger?
But before she could turn around, a sharp cry of pain cut through the morning quiet.
"Please, sir! I dinnae do anythin' wrong! Let me go!"
The voice was young, frightened, and achingly familiar. Hayden.
Erica dropped the flowers and ran toward the sound, her heart hammering as she rounded the corner of the kitchen gardens. What she saw made her blood freeze in her veins.