Page 38 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)
“Ye dinnae recall.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “Ye dinnae recall meltin’ in me arms? How about kissin’ me back like yer life depended on it?”
“Ye must be confusin’ me with someone else, me laird.” Her voice stayed steady, but he caught the telltale tremor in her fingers. “Perhaps ye’re thinkin’ of yer charmin’ guest?”
There it is.
Ian stepped closer, close enough to catch the quickening of her breath. “Olivia?”
“She seems quite taken with ye.”
“Is she?” He couldn’t suppress his smile at the note of forced casualness in her voice. “What makes ye think such a thing?”
“Please.” Rhona whirled to face him, blue eyes flashing with carefully controlled fire. “The way she hangs on yer every word? Touches yer arm when she laughs? Looks at he like ye hung the stars?” her face contorted into a combination of disgust and childish mocking.
“Ye’ve been watchin’ how Olivia looks at me.” Ian took another step closer, invading the careful space she’d tried to establish between them.
“I can be observant too, ye ken.” Rhona crossed her arms defensively, the gesture pulling the wool of her dress tighter across her chest. “Besides, ‘tis clear fer anyone with eyes tae see that she’s besotted with ye.”
Ian studied her face with the intensity of a scholar examining an ancient text. The flush still staining her cheeks, the way she avoided his direct gaze, the stubborn tilt of her chin that told him she was preparing for battle. “And that bothers ye because…?”
“It daesnae bother me.” The denial came too quickly, carrying the sharp edge of a lie. “I just thought ye should ken. Fer her sake.”
“How considerate of ye,” Another step brought him close enough to see her long, red lashes, and noticed her pupils dilate with awareness. “But ye’re wrong.”
“Wrong?” her brows shot up in disbelief. “Ian, the lass was practically purrin’ at ye. If that isnae a woman in love, I’m the Queen of France.”
“Well then, Yer Majesty, ” Ian’s smile widened into something that was part amusement, part challenge. “If ye’re truly that confident, let’s make a wager.”
“A wager?” She eyed him suspiciously, like a cat watching a particularly cunning mouse.
“If ye can provide proof of Olivia’s supposed love fer me – truly prove it – I owe ye a favor.” Ian’s voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Any favor ye choose.”
Rhona’s eyes narrowed as she considered the proposition. “And if I cannae?”
“Och, well, then ye owe me one.” His voice dropped to that low rumble that seemed to bypass her brain and speak directly to more primitive parts of her anatomy. “And I already have a few… interesting’ ideas.”
For a moment, she wavered. Ian could see the war playing out behind her eyes – caution battling with competitive fire, wisdom wrestling with the stubborn pride that wouldn’t let her back down from a challenge.
Then, her chin lifted again. “Fine. But dinnae come cryin’ when I prove ye wrong, Laird Wallace.”
“I wouldnae dream of it.” Ian extended his hand, palm up. “Shake on it?”
Rhona hesitated for just a heartbeat before placing her smaller hand in his. The contact sent a familiar shock racing up his arm, and he saw her eyes widen as if she felt the same jolt of awareness.
“Aye,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he echoed, his thumb tracing across her knuckles in a caress so light it might have been entirely accidental.
The charged moment was shattered by the sound of boots echoing in the corridor outside, followed by Athol’s voice bellowing Ian’s name with the enthusiasm of a man who’d discovered the castle’s wine stores.
“Braither? Where the blazes–”
Ian stepped back from Rhona with obvious reluctance, the spell between them shattering. “In here!”
Athol appeared in the doorway moments later, with Olivia in tow. Both looked slightly windblown from their extended visit to the stables, and Ian even caught the faintest scents of horse and hay clinging to their clothes.
“There ye are!” Athol’s eyes flitted curiously between Ian and Rhona, taking in the scattered herb fragments at their feet and the lingering tension that seemed to ebb in the air between them. “We thought ye’d fallen intae a dungeon.”
“Och, just helpin’ the lass with supplies,” Ian said smoothly, though he could feel a sliver of heat creep up his neck.
“What d’ye need?”
“Well, we’ve been talkin’,” Athol’s face lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that in Ian’s experience usually preceded terrible decisions. “Fer old time’s sake, we should go tae the village taenight. Find a proper tavern with decent ale, and a bit of music!”
Ian’s first instinct was immediate refusal.
He had reports from the border watches to review, correspondence with allied clans that couldn’t wait, and a dozen other pressing matters demanding his attention.
But then he caught sight of Rhona’s face and saw the sharp-edged interest with which she was studying Olivia’s every expression and gesture.
She means tae prove her point taenight.
The realization sent a cocktail of anticipation and dread coursing through his veins.
Whatever Rhona thought she’d observed about Olivia’s supposed feelings toward him, Ian was confident she was completely mistaken.
But, watching her try to prove it… now that promised to be an evening full of fun… and complications.
“I dinnae ken. The roads are dangerous after dark, and I’ve go–”
“Och, please Ian.” Olivia interrupted, her voice carrying that same gentle, pleading note he remembered so well from their youth.
“It would be so much fun. Like when we were bairns. We shall figure out a way to leave me chaperone at the castle, just like the ‘ole days. Surely ye can spare one evenin’?”
Ian noticed the way Rhona’s eyes sharpened at Olivia’s tone, her gaze flicking between them with calculating precision.
She’s already buildin’ her case .
“Come on, braither,” Athol added, swaying slightly on his feet. “When last did ye dae anything’ fer enjoyment? All work and nay play makes fer a very dull laird, ye ken.”
Ian found himself wavering. The truth of it was, he couldn’t remember when he’d last done anything purely for pleasure.
Every moment of every day since he’d taken on the title of Laird Wallace was consumed with the weight of leadership, the endless responsibilities that came with trying to rebuild a clan from the ashes of its own mistakes.
“Aye. I’ll go.” He said finally, surprising himself with the words. “But only if Rhona joins us.
“Me?” Rhona’s eyes suddenly went wide with what looked like genuine panic. “Nay, I couldnae–”
“Nonsense,” Athol waved her protests away with the casual dismissiveness of a man already well into his cups. “The more the merrier!”
“Aye.” Olivia added, though Ian caught something flickering across her features – a certain tightness around the eyes that spoke of less than complete enthusiasm at the suggestion. “Dinnae leave me alone with these two ruffians, please Rhona?”
Rhona looked trapped between politeness and legitimate reluctance. “I… I should stay. Baird might need–”
“Baird can manage just fine.” Ian’s voice carried the weight of a direct order. “Besides, how else will ye prove yer point about… chamomile?”
The reminder of their wager made Rhona’s competitive spirit flare like kindling touched by flame – clear for everyone to see. “Och, very well. I suppose one evenin’ wilnae hurt.”
“Excellent!” Athol clapped his hands together with enough force to make Olivia jump. “An hour? Daes that give the lasses enough time tae prepare?”
“An hour.” Ian agreed, though his eyes never left Rhona’s face. “This should be… illuminatin’.”
As Athol and Olivia departed, chattering about their evening plans with the enthusiasm of children planning an adventure, Ian lingered in the doorway.
“Cold feet?” Rhona asked, correctly interpreting his hesitation.
“Nay. Just wonderin’ if I’m about tae make a terrible mistake.”
“Och, ye definitely are, Ian Wallace.” Her smile was sharp and confident. “But dinnae ye worry. I promise I’ll be gentle with ye when I come tae collect me winnin’s.”
Ian grinned despite his growing misgivings. “Is that so? We’ll have tae see about that!”
As he made his way back toward his own chambers to prepare for whatever the evening might bring, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into something far more precarious than a simple night at the village tavern.
Between Rhona’s determination to prove her point, and whatever was happening with Olivia, the evening promised to be anything but the simple celebration Athol envisioned.
What on earth have I managed tae get meself dragged intae?
But even as the thought formed, he found himself looking forward to finding out. Whatever else was to happen tonight, one thing was certain – it would be anything but boring.
And perhaps that was exactly what he needed.