Page 8 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER SEVEN

" T he solar is lovely," Erica said as she entered the chamber where Lachlan waited.

He'd changed from his training clothes into a clean shirt and dark wool vest, his hair still damp from washing. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows made his eyes appear almost silver, and she found herself staring before forcing her gaze away.

Stop gawkin' like a village lass who's never seen a handsome man.

"I thought ye might prefer it to the great hall," he said, rising to pull out her chair. "More private for conversation."

His hand brushed her shoulder as she sat, and she managed not to flinch—barely. The touch was brief, courteous, but it sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.

It's just politeness. Nothing more.

The table was set for two with fine plates and crystal goblets, laden with fresh bread, roasted fowl, and vegetables that smelled heavenly. But it was the small touches that caught her attention—wildflowers in a simple vase, her favorite wine that somehow, he'd known to serve.

"This is beautiful," she said, gesturing to the spread. "Ye dinnae have to go to such trouble."

"It's nay trouble." He settled across from her, and she noticed how his large hands handled the delicate glassware with surprising grace. "A man should treat his wife well."

His wife.

The words still felt strange, but less frightening than they had yesterday.

"Speakin’ of wives and... arrangements," she began carefully, cutting her meat into precise pieces. "I've been wonderin' about the practical aspects of our marriage."

"Such as?"

"When I'll return to McLaren lands. How often. Whether ye'll expect me to spend more time here than there." She kept her voice matter-of-fact, businesslike. "I need to ken so I can plan accordingly."

Something flickered across his expression—disappointment?—before his features smoothed back into neutrality.

"That depends," he said slowly.

"On what?"

"On whether I accompany ye or not."

The words were said flatly, matter-of-factly, but they hit her like a physical blow. She set down her fork, studying his face for any hint of negotiation room. She found none.

"What do ye mean?"

"I mean," he said, his voice taking on the cold authority she'd heard him use with his men, "that if I accompany ye to McLaren lands, we can spend equal time between both castles. Otherwise, if ye're travelin' alone, it would only be for a few days at most."

Her heart began to race, but this time it was definitely anger, not attraction. "A few days? How am I supposed to properly oversee me clan's affairs in a few days?"

"Ye're nae." His blue eyes were ice-cold now, all warmth gone. "Ye're supposed to trust yer council to handle day-to-day matters and make the important decisions from here, as Lady Kinnaird."

"That's ridiculous," she said, her voice rising despite her efforts to stay calm. "I have responsibilities?—"

"Aye, ye do. To me. To our future children. To the alliance between our clans." He cut her off with surgical precision. "Those responsibilities come first now."

"I willnae abandon me people to spend me days embroiderin’ by yer fireside like some decorative ornament. I am a lady, nae some lass brought to wed ye!"

"Ye'll do what's necessary for the good of both our clans." His tone brooked no argument. "And what's necessary is that the Lady Kinnaird remains at Castle Kinnaird, where she can properly fulfill her duties."

"And if I refuse?"

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Then ye'll find yerself with very limited opportunities to visit McLaren at all. The choice is yers, wife, but me word on this matter is final."

The possessive way he said 'wife' made her skin crawl and burn at the same time. This was the Highland laird she'd expected to marry—cold, controlling, inflexible.

"So, I'm to be a prisoner then?"

"Ye're to be me wife. There's a difference, though I can see why ye might be confused about the distinction."

His cutting words stung more than they should have. She pushed back from the table, her hands shaking with fury.

"I need to think about this."

"Think all ye like. The answer willnae change."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Erica stared down at her untouched food, her mind racing with the implications of his ultimatum.

"This marriage," she said finally, her voice carefully controlled. "Ye've given considerable thought to what ye expect from it."

"I have." His eyes met hers directly. "Havenae ye?"

More than I should. More than is wise.

"Some," she admitted quietly.

"And what conclusion did ye reach?"

She hesitated, torn between honesty and self-preservation. "That it would... complicate our original agreement. Me marriage to ye was supposed to be a business arrangement only.”

"Nothin' good is simple, Erica.”

The intensity in his gaze made her look away, focusing instead on her plate. But even that was dangerous—watching him eat, the efficient movement of his hands, the occasional glimpse of his tongue when he licked his lips clean.

What's wrong with me? I've never noticed such things about a man before.

"What would it mean?" she asked suddenly. "If I stayed, I mean. What would ye expect from me?"

"What any husband expects from his wife." At her sharp look, he held up a hand. "Companionship. Conversation. Eventually... intimacy. But only when ye're ready."

The word 'intimacy' made her cheeks burn. She'd pushed those thoughts aside during their wedding night, but now they came flooding back. The marriage would need to be consummated eventually if they wanted it to be more than just political theater.

The thought of Lachlan touching her—really touching her—sent conflicting waves of fear and curiosity through her body.

"I'm nae... I daenae..." She struggled for words, then forced herself to be direct. "Physical touch is difficult for me."

"I've noticed." His voice was gentle, understanding. "Somethin' happened to ye?"

"Aye." She couldn't meet his eyes. "But... I daenae want to talk about it."

"Aye." The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. "Nay one should have to endure anythin' that affects them so much."

"It's made me... wary. Of men. Of being touched."

"Understandably so." He was quiet for a moment, then: "But ye touched me hand durin’ our card game. And ye dinnae flinch when I helped ye with yer chair just now."

She looked up at him in surprise. "I... I hadnae realized."

"Maybe ye'll heal. Maybe the right person, the right touch, can help ye remember that nae all men are like yer brother."

The suggestion hung between them, loaded with possibility and promise. She found herself studying his hands again—strong but careful, scarred but gentle. What would it feel like to have those hands on her skin? Not in violence or domination, but in tenderness?

Stop it. Ye're bein' foolish.

"The clans would benefit from a closer alliance," she said, steering the conversation back to safer ground.

"They would. Joint ventures, shared resources, stronger defense." He seemed to understand her need to retreat from the personal. "But that's nae the only reason I want ye to stay."

"What other reason could there be?"

"Because I enjoy yer company." The simple admission made her breath catch. " Because ye're the first person in years who's looked at me and seen somethin' besides a monster or a title."

The first person in years.

How lonely he must have been. How isolated.

"Ye're nae a monster," she said softly. "A monster wouldnae ask permission before touchin' his wife. A monster wouldnae..." She gestured vaguely at the beautiful meal, the flowers, the care he'd taken for her comfort.

"Wouldnae what?"

"Wouldnae try so hard to make sure I felt safe."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, gratitude, something deeper. "Safety is nae somethin' to be taken lightly. Especially for someone who's had it stolen before."

The understanding in his voice made her chest ache.

"We'll continue this conversation," he repeated firmly, "About what this marriage could become, if we both want it."

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Because the truth was, she was beginning to want it. Beginning to imagine a life here, with him, that might actually make her happy.

But wanting something and being brave enough to reach for it are two different things. And she was not sure she had the courage to hope for anything with Lachlan when she was still so afraid of being touched by him.

As they finished their meal, she found herself watching him more boldly—the way he listened when she spoke, the careful way he moved so as not to startle her, the glimpses of humor that lightened his serious expression.

Maybe Ewan had been right. Maybe this arrangement could become something real.

"There," Lachlan snarled, stepping back to glare at the canvas. His father's face stared back at him—perfectly rendered, every cruel line and harsh angle captured with artistic precision. "There ye are, ye bastard."

The painting showed his father's study, shadows dancing across stone walls, but it was the man's face that dominated the scene. Cold eyes, sneering mouth, the same expression that had haunted Lachlan's dreams for years.

Look at ye, all finished and perfect. Just like ye always thought ye were.

Without warning, rage exploded through him. His hand shot out, grabbing the palette knife, and he slashed it across the painted face. Red paint—blood red—streaked across his father's cheek like an open wound.

"How do ye like that?" he growled, loading the knife with black paint and dragging it down again. "Nae so perfect now, are ye?"

Slash after slash, he attacked the image. Red for the blood his father had drawn from him. Black for the darkness the man had left in his soul. The colors mixed and ran, creating something that was both destruction and art—violence made beautiful through technique and fury.

"This is for every time ye raised yer hand to me," he muttered, adding another streak of crimson. "Every time ye told me I was worthless."

The knife moved like a weapon in his hands, but controlled, purposeful. Each mark was placed with the precision of a master artist, turning his rage into something that belonged in a gallery as much as it belonged to his nightmares.

"For every night I lay bleedin’ on that floor."

More red. More black. The paint built up in thick layers, creating texture that spoke of violence but with an elegance that could only come from skill and practice.

"For makin' a lad a murderer because of yer cruelty."

Why do I keep doin' this to meself?

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he was adding another slash of paint. Because this was how he bled now—onto canvas instead of onto stone floors. This was how he fought back against a dead man who still had the power to make his hands shake.

"Ye cannae hurt me anymore," he said aloud, his voice harsh in the empty room. "Ye're dead, and I'm the one with the knife now."

The painting had become something else entirely—abstract in places where the slashes destroyed the realistic rendering, but somehow more powerful for it. His father's face was still recognizable beneath the angry marks, but now it looked wounded, defeated.

Just like ye made me feel. But I'm still here, and ye're rottin' in the ground.

He loaded the knife with more red, this time spraying it across the canvas with a flick of his wrist. The droplets scattered like blood spatter, but arranged with the eye of an artist who understood composition even in his fury.

"That's for me maither," he growled. "For drivin' her away with yer cruelty."

Another spray of black, controlled and deliberate. "And that's for the boy I used to be. The one ye killed long before I ever laid a hand on ye."

The canvas was a mess of color and emotion now, but it was beautiful in its violence. Raw and honest and terrible and perfect.

But ye're more than just rage, aren't ye?

Without breaking his intense focus, Lachlan set down the palette knife and picked up a fine brush. His hand moved with the precision of a master, blending the angry slashes of red and black with just a few expert strokes. The colors merged and flowed, the violent marks transforming before his eyes.

What emerged from the chaos was breathtaking—a phoenix rising from flames. The red became fire, tongues of crimson licking upward. The black slashes formed wings, powerful and spread wide. Where his father's cruel face had been destroyed, now rose something magnificent and fierce.

"Aye," he murmured, adding delicate touches of gold to catch the light. "From the ashes of what ye made me, ye couldnae stop me from turnin' into somethin' stronger."

The phoenix's eyes—formed from the very spots where he'd slashed across his father's—burned with life and defiance. It was beautiful and terrible and triumphant all at once. A creature born from violence but soaring above it.

This is what ye could never break, old man. This is what survived.

A sound from the doorway made him pause, his brush hovering over the canvas. Someone was there—he could feel eyes on him, could sense the presence as clearly as if they'd spoken.