Page 15 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ I need ye tae send these fer me.”
Rhona thrust three neatly folded letters toward Ian as he stepped into her chamber, her heart hammering against her ribs. She’d spent the morning hunched over parchment, weighing each word like a merchant counting the end-of-day coins, trying to craft reassurance from half-truths.
The letters represented hours of careful deliberation – what to say, how to sound alive without revealing too much. Each sheet bore the careful script she’d labored over in the grey hours after dawn, when the castle was still quiet and her thoughts were her own.
Ian’s emerald gaze flicked from her face to the letters, one dark eyebrow rising. “Good mornin tae ye too, lass. And what exactly am I supposed tae be sendin?”
“Letters. Tae me sisters.” She shook the papers when he made no move to take them, her hands trembling slightly despite her best efforts to appear calm. “They think me dead, Ian. Three months of silence – they’ve probably held funeral rites by now, wept over an empty grave while I-”
“Rhona–”
“Dinnae ‘Rhona’ me.” She stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of leather and pine that seemed to follow him everywhere. “These are simple letters. I’m nae revealin’ clan secrets or drawin’ maps tae yer weaknesses.”
“And what weaknesses would those be?” Ian asked, one dark eyebrow rising with curiosity.
Even in her anger, Rhona’s mouth twitched. “Besides yer apparent inability tae send a bloody letter? Och, where would I start? Yer obsession with that horse of yers, yer tendency tae brood like some Gothic hero, yer–”
“Ye’ve thought this through well enough lass.”
Rhona blinked, taken off guard by the dry humor in his tone.
“Gothic hero?” Ian’s smile broke free, transforming his entire face from stern laird to something dangerously appealing. “Is that what ye think of me?”
The sight of that grin sent an unwelcome fire spiraling through her abdomen, and Rhona silently cursed her body’s betrayal. “Dinnae let it go tae yer head.” She forced herself to focus. “The letters?”
His amusement faded like a candle flame in an open draft, and Rhona’s chest tightened even before he spoke. “I cannae. Nae yet.”
“Why?” The word cracked like a whip, all her carefully contained desperation spilling through.
“Because the minute those letters leave this castle, half the Highlands will ken exactly where ye are.” Ian moved closer, his voice dropping.
This time, she didn’t retreat, though every instinct screamed at her to maintain distance from this man who somehow managed to be both salvation and threat.
“Because yer faither will either come fer ye with an army, or he’ll assume the worst and declare war. Because–”
“Because I’m still yer prisoner, ye mean.” Rhona finished quietly. “Despite the comfortable room and the fine dresses and all yer talk of protection.”
The accusation hung between them like a blade drawn but not yet thrust. Ian’s expression shifted, something cracking in his carefully controlled facade.
Ian’s jaw clenched. “Ye want tae ken what the difference is between me and Douglas Wallace?” His voice roughened with frustration that seemed to come from somewhere deep and raw.
“He would’ve used those letters as kindling fer his fire.
But here I am, explainin’ meself tae a woman who’s determined tae see me as the villain nay matter what I dae. ”
Ian’s words hit their intended mark and heat crept up Rhona’s neck like spilled wine. She lifted her chin slowly, meeting his gaze directly. “Then prove me wrong.”
“How?” The question practically exploded from him, and Rhona glimpsed something that made her chest tight – the weight he carried, the impossible position he’d inherited.
She suddenly felt a pang of empathy, but she quickly shoved it back down.
“Tell me, Rhona, what grand gesture would convince ye I’m nae the monster ye’ve decided me tae be?
Because I’m runnin’ out of ways tae show ye, and I’m tired of bein’ condemned fer another man’s sins. ”
The vulnerability in his voice made her breath catch. For a moment, she saw past the laird, past the Wallace name, straight to the man who seemed as much a prisoner of his circumstances as she was
When she spoke, her voice was quieter, but no less determined. “Let me go outside.”
Ian blinked, clearly thrown. “What?”
“Outside. Really outside, nae just the garden with guards breathin’ down me neck like huntin’ hounds.
” She gestured toward the window where the sun and the rolling hills of the Highlands beckoned.
“Let me feel the sun on me face without stone walls around me. Let me remember what it’s like tae nae be caged. ”
The request was simple, yet profound. Freedom – not permanent escape, but a taste of what she’d lost. The chance to feel human again, rather than a pawn moved around on some political chess board.
Of all the things she could have asked for, this clearly wasn’t what Ian had expected.
Rhona watched surprise flicker across his features, followed by something that might have been understanding.
“Ye want tae go ridin’?”
“I want tae go anywhere that isnae here.” Her voice almost cracked on the words, and she bit her lip. “Just fer a few hours. Let me pretend I’m nae something’ tae be bartered, nae a problem tae be solved. Let me pretend I’m just Rhona. And maybe… maybe I can stop treatin’ ye like me enemy.”
Ian studied her face, and Rhona held her breath. The smart thing would be to refuse. His Council would call him mad. Rhona’s skin prickled under that intense green gaze, feeling as if he could peer past all her carefully constructed defenses to the longing she dared not acknowledge.
“Alright.”
Rhona’s eyes widened. “Alright?”
“But I have conditions.” Ian held up a hand before hope could bloom across her face. “Ye give me yer word ye willnae try tae escape. Not because I doubt yer courage, but because I need tae trust that this gesture willnae be the very thing that destroys what fragile understandin’ we’ve built.”
“Me word?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it, only the bitter sound of someone who’d learned that promises were often worth less than the parchment they were written on. “What’s tae stop me from lyin’? What’s tae stop me from promisin’ anything’ just tae taste freedom again?”
“Because if ye lie tae me now lass…” Ian’s voice went soft, almost dangerous. “Then ye really are just another MacAlpin who falsely thinks all Wallace honor is worth less than Highland mud.”
The barb hit its mark, and Rhona’s cheeks flamed. But along with the sting came something else – a grudging respect for a man who understood that honor was not a luxury to be cast aside when convenient, but the foundation upon which all trust must be built.
“Ye fight dirty.”
“I fight tae win.” Ian’s smile was sharp as winter wind. “Dae I have yer word or nae?”
Rhona weighted her options, her fingers twisting almost imperceptibly in her skirts as competing loyalties warred within her.
The smart play would be to lie, to promise anything for a chance at freedom.
But something in Ian’s eyes – hope, perhaps, or the fragile beginnings of trust – made the deception stick in her throat like ash.
She thought of her sisters, of the worry they must be feeling, of the empty chair at their father’s table.
The thought of the dreams that had haunted her sleep those past months – visions of clear sky and the wind against her skin, and the feeling of being truly alive.
She looked at the man standing before her, who somehow managed to be both captor and protector, enemy and…
something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on just yet.
“Ye have it,” she said finally, the words feeling heavier than they should. “I willnae try tae escape. Today.”
“Today,” Ian repeated, and Rhona saw warmth flicker in his expression. “Careful, lass. That almost sounds like ye might be willin’ tae spend more time in me company.”
“Dinnae flatter yerself.” Rhona said, despite not quite being able to hide her own smile.
Even as she spoke the words, she wondered about the truth of them.
When precisely had his presence stopped feeling like a threat and begun to feel like…
possibility? “I just want tae feel the wind in me hair again.”
“Then come on.” Ian gestured toward the door with something akin to eagerness. “Let’s get ye properly mounted before I can change me mind and remember all of the reasons this is complete madness.”
The moment Rhona stepped into the stables, her shoulders dropped and she drew in a deep breath that seemed to reach her very soul.
The familiar scents of hay and leather and horses filled her lungs like a benediction, bringing memories of happier times at her father’s keep, when her only concern was which mount to choose for an afternoon ride, rather than which words might seal her fate.
For the first time in months, she could breathe properly.
The warmth of the stable enveloped her like an embrace after eternal weeks of cold stone walls.
Here, surrounded by the gentle sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the soft fissile of hay, she felt something ease in her chest that she hadn’t even realized was clenched tight.
The earthy scents of well-tended animals and fresh straw reminded her of simpler times in MacAlpin lands.
The stable was bustling with quiet activity – grooms tending to their charges, the soft nickering of horses, the rustle of straw underfoot. It was a world she understood, one where politics mattered less than the bond between rider and mount.
“Saints above,” she breathed, stopping dead as she caught sight of the massive black stallion in the nearest stall. “That’s nae a horse, that’s a bloody giant.”