Page 37 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“ I an, how is that magnificent destrier of yers – I am dyin’ tae see him.”

Olivia’s request pulled Ian back from his brooding thoughts. The solar felt suffocating after Rhona’s abrupt departure, the very air thick with unspoken tensions and his brother’s knowing looks.

“He’s well,” Ian began, already moving toward the door that Rhona had fled through.

“Och, come now, dinnae leave,” Athol stretched lazily in his chair, a satisfied grin playing across his features. “Take me and yer oldest and dearest friend tae see the famous Dubh. What manner of host are ye?”

Ian’s jaw tightened. Every fiber of his being wailed at him to follow Rhona, to corner her somewhere private and demand answers about the look that had crossed her face when she’d met Olivia. That flash of something before she’d schooled her features into polite indifference.

What the devil was that about?

The memory of her stricken expression ate at him like acid. One moment she’d been composed, if perhaps a bit wary, and the next she looked like someone had struck her.

“Ian,” Olivia’s voice carried gentle persistence. “I ken ye have other responsibilities, but I promise,” she batted her lashes slightly, “I willnae keep ye long.”

Ian caught the expectant look on this younger brother’s face, and the way Olivia’s eyes held that same patient warmth he remembered from their childhood. They’d come all this way to see him, and here he was, ready to abandon them the moment a certain red-haired lass decided to bolt from the room.

“Alright,” he said finally, though the word felt like swallowing stones. “But quickly, I have pressin’ matters tae attend tae.”

The walk to the stables felt endless. Ian’s boots rang against the cobblestones with each deliberately measured step, while his mind raced like a caged mother wolf who had witnessed one of her pups being harmed.

Olivia walked beside him, pointing out various features of the castle with the enthusiasm of someone genuinely impressed, but Ian barely heard her.

His thoughts were consumed with flashes of fiery red hair and icy blue eyes and the memory of a pair of succulently soft lips that had kissed him back with desperate hunger before their owner fled like he carried the plague.

Olivia cooed over Dubh while Athol spun tales that grew wilder by the minute. Ian nodded at the appropriate moments, but his mind was elsewhere.

He recalled a flash of something in Rhona’s eyes when she’d met Olivia and the way her spine had gone rigid when Athol made his jest about what ‘kind of guest’ she might be.

Surely she cannae think–”

“Such magnificent lines,” Olivia murmured, stroking Dubh’s neck with elegant hands. “Like Tàirneanach. D’ye remember yer grandfaither’s stallion?”

“Aye.” The single word came out rougher than intended.

Thunder had been a legend among horses – black as midnight except for a white blaze like lightning on his forehead, an impressive beast capable of outrunning even the fiercest Highland wind.

He’d also been dead for nearly a decade, another casualty of the violence that had destroyed everything Ian once called home.

“We rode him together as bairns.” Olivia’s voice turned wistful, carrying echoes of summers long past. “Simpler times, aye?”

Ian thought he caught something in her tone – a softness, a vulnerability that made him look at her more carefully. The way she watched him now, with those pale blue eyes of hers – so different from Rhona’s vivid sapphire.

Nay, it cannae be…

Olivia was like a sister to him. Always had been. They’d grown up together, shared childhood adventures and adolescent dreams. Whatever he was seeing in her expression had to be simple nostalgia, nothing more.

“Aye. Simpler.” He stepped back from Dubh’s stall, suddenly desperate to escape the weight of old memories and new complications. “Listen, I should–”

“I dinnae ken about ye, but I am craving some dram,” Athol declared, “What say we find ourselves some proper Highland whisky and toast tae old times?”

“Actually,” Ian seized the excuse like a drowning man grasping at driftwood, “somethin’ urgent has come up.”

“Urgent?” Athol’s brows shot up, and Ian noticed the sharp look his brother aimed at him. “Ye’ve been with us fer barely–”

“Nevertheless, unfortunately a laird’s duty never ends.” Ian was already moving toward the stable entrance, his long stride eating up the distance with ease. “Make yerselves comfortable, aye?”

He was gone before they could protest, crossing the courtyard with the focused intensity of a hunter tracking prey.

Baird’s apothecary . That’s where she’ll be.

Ian found her exactly where he’d expected – standing on a precarious wooden stool that looked like it had been crafted during the reign of Robert the Bruce himself, stretching toward the highest shelf in Baird’s cluttered workspace for a particular ceramic jar that sat just beyond her fingertips, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, completely oblivious to the way the ancient stool swayed beneath her weight.

The sight of her made something clench in his chest. She’d changed from the formal gown she’d worn to meet his guests into a simpler dress of deep blue wool that made her eyes look like the lochs under a summer sky.

Her red hair had been braided back with practical efficiency, though rebellious tendrils had already escaped to frame her face in copper fire.

Beautiful.

Not beautiful in Olivia’s gentle, refined way, but with the wild beauty of a Highland storm – fierce and untamed and utterly captivating.

“Need help?”

Rhona startled violently. The stool wobbled beneath her like a ship through rough seas. “Blessed saints! Ye nearly stopped me heart!”

“Sorry.” He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate finality. The click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. “Maybe ye should think twice before climbin’ on furniture older than the Bruce himself.”

“’Tis perfectly–”

Crack! The ancient wood gave way with a sound like bones breaking. Rhona pitched forward with a cry of alarm, ceramic tumbling from above.

Ian moved instinctually. Two strides carried him across the small room and he caught her against his chest just as the stool collapsed, the jar shattering behind them in a cloud of pungent valerian root that filled the air around them with the scent of earth.

For a single heartbeat that felt like it stretched into eternity, they simply stared at each other.

Rhona was pressed fully against him now, her hands splayed across his chest and her face tilted up toward his.

He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse through the wool of her dress, and he could clearly see his own reflection in those wide eyes.

This is what I want more than anythin’.

Not the careful politeness of his interactions with Olivia.

Not the calculated conversations with council members or the strategic planning with his warriors.

This – the titillating awareness that sparked between them like flint against steel, the way her presence seemed to fill all the empty spaces inside him he never even realized existed.

“That was…”

“Stupid.” Ian finished roughly, though he made no move to release her. “Ye could’ve been hurt, lass.”

“I’m fine.” But she didn’t step away either. Her hands remained pressed against his chest, and he wondered if she could feel the thundering of his heart beneath her palms. “Just embarrassed.”

“Just?” His lips twitched despite the tension thrumming between them. “Ye destroyed half of Baird’s stores!”

“I did nae!” Her cheeks flushed pink like roses blooming in snow. “That stool was clearly defective.”

“Och, clearly.” His arms were still around her waist, and he could feel her warmth seeping through the layers of wool and linen that separated them. “Nex time, ask fer help, aye?”

“I dinnae need any help.” That stubborn chin lifted in the same gesture that he was coming to know so well. “I’m perfectly capable–”

“Of destroyin’ things and nearly breakin’ yer own neck in the process?” He finally forced himself to step back, though every instinct urged him to pull her closer instead. “Aye, very capable indeed.”

The loss of contact changed the atmosphere between, and suddenly it felt cold and empty, charged with unspoken possibilities and dangerous desires.

Rhona flushed deeper, brushing at her skirts with unnecessary vigor. “Thank ye. Fer catchin’ me.”

“Always.” The promise slipped out before he could stop it, carrying more weight than he’d intended. Ian bent to gather the larger ceramic shards, using the mundane task as an excuse to study her face. “What was worth such… dramatic efforts?”

“Chamomile. Fer sleepin’ draughts.”

“Are ye still havin’ trouble sleepin’ then, lass?” He straightened, depositing the broken pieces on Baird’s worktable.

Something flickered across her features – too quick to identify but carrying shadows he recognized all too well. “Nae more than usual.”

He immediately recognized the lie. Ian had walked the halls of Castle Wallace late at night to hear the echoes of her distress, the broken words that escaped her dreams to haunt the castle corridors.

He knew she was still fighting battles he couldn’t protect her from, still reliving horrors that had nothing to do with him but everything to do with what his clan had put her through.

The knowledge contracted his gut like poison. How could he even think about pursuing anything with her when she was still suffering because of the Wallace name he bore?

“About yesterday–”

“The village folk are wonderful,” she said, her voice bright and brittle. “They were so grateful.”

“That’s nae what I meant.”

She turned away, fussing with Baird’s perfectly organized herb collection.

Ian’s temper stirred like embers catching flame. “I’m talking about our kiss.”

Her hands stilled on the glass vials, her knuckles turning white as she gripped them. “I dinnae recall.”