Page 4 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER TWO

T hree months later, Castle Wallace

“How long has she been down here?”

The unfamiliar voice drifted through the stone walls like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.

Rhona stirred from her huddled position on the straw pallet, blinking against the sudden torchlight that spilled through the bars of her cell door.

After all that time in that cursed dungeon, she’d grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of her captivity – thin gruel twice daily, emptying of the waste bucket once a week, and blessed silence between the guard’s infrequent visits.

But this voice was different. Deeper than the guard’s, with an authority that made her skin prickle with awareness.

“Three months, maybe more, me laird,” came the nervous reply the guard.

Me laird?

Rhona pressed herself against the cold stone wall, straining to hear more.

“And nay one thought to inform me that we were holdin’ a prisoner?”

The edge of displeasure in those words sent a strange flutter through Rhona’s chest. She’d heard variations of that tone from her father when he discovered incompetence among his men, but this voice carried something different – a quality that spoke of controlled power.

“We… we thought ye kent, Laird Wallace. The previous laird said she was important… fer negotiations.”

Laird Wallace.

Rhona’s heart pounded with confusion and fear. Previous laird? What had happened to Douglas? And who was this man who now commanded with such quiet authority?

“Open it.”

The command was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. Rhona heard the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted, then the creak of ancient hinges as her cell door swung wide.

Torchlight flooded the small space, forcing her to shield her eyes with one trembling hand.

Through the brilliant haze, she made out a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway – broad shoulders that filled the frame, confident stance, and an indefinable presence that seemed to be on the verge of consuming all the air in the cramped cell.

“God’s blood,” the voice breathed, and now she could hear the shock in it. “What have they done tae ye, lass?”

Rhona lowered her hand slowly, squinting against the light as her vision adjusted.

The man before her was nothing like Douglas Wallace.

Where the former laird had been lean and cruel, this one possessed the powerful build of a Highland warrior in his prime – all corded muscle and masculine strength that made her suddenly acutely aware of her own fragility.

Dark brown hair caught the light with hints of auburn, and when their eyes met, she found herself drowning in the greenest gaze she’d ever seen – like deep, mossy forest pools touched by summer sunlight, framed by thick, dark lashes that only enhanced his rugged appeal.

Saints preserve me, he is magnificent.

The treacherous thought slipped through her defenses before she could stop it.

Even in her weakened state, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened at the sight of him, her treacherous body responding to pure masculine magnetism.

He was perhaps her own age, with strong features carved by some divine sculptor – a straight nose, firm jaw darkened with stubble, and lips that were neither too full nor too thin, but perfectly shaped for…

Stop.

She forced her wayward thoughts back to safer ground.

He was tall enough that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, his presence overwhelming in the small space.

Battle scars decorated his thick forearms and hands like badges of honor – evidence of countless fights survived – while tattoos wound around his left bicep.

But there was something in his expression that spoke of honor rather than brutality, a gentleness in those remarkable eyes that made her stomach flutter with dangerous awareness.

“Who are ye?” she whispered; her voice rough from disuse.

“Ian Wallace.” He stepped into the cell, his powerful frame making the space even smaller.

His scent enveloped her – leather and pine mixed with something uniquely male that made her pulse race and her skin prickle with awareness.

The way he moved spoke of a predator’s grace, all controlled strength and lethal capability, yet when those green eyes fixed on her, she saw only gentle concern. “I’m the new laird of this clan.”

“New?” The word escaped her before she could stop it. “What happened tae Douglas?”

Something flickered in those green eyes – pain, perhaps or regret. “He fell in battle. I’ve inherited… this mess.”

“Another Wallace.” Bitterness crept into her voice despite her weakness. “Come to gloat over yer predecessor’s prize?”

“I’ve come tae understand why a lass is wastin’ away in me dungeon that I never kenned existed.”

The gentle tone caught her off guard. In her three months of captivity, no one had spoken to her with anything approaching kindness.

“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked softly, crouching down to her level.

Rhona hesitated, but something in his manner made her want to trust him.

“Rhona.”

“Just Rhona?” His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Nay clan name?”

She said nothing, watching him warily. Douglas Wallace had known exactly who she was and why she was valuable. This new laird’s ignorance might be her only advantage.

Ian seemed to sense her reluctance. This close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes that spoke of a man who’d spent his life squinting against sun and wind.

A small scar bisected his left eyebrow, and his shirt stretched taut across his broad chest with each breath.

Heat radiated from his body, and she found herself fighting the insane urge to lean closer, to seek the warmth and strength he represented.

“Fair enough. Can ye tell me why ye were imprisoned?”

“Ask yer men. I’m sure they’ll spin ye a fine tale.”

“I’m asking ye.”

The simple statement, delivered without threat or demand, nearly undid her, but she did not answer him.

“Christ.” Ian scrubbed a hand through his thick hair.

She noticed that his fingers were strong and capable – a swordsman’s hands, yet gentle when they’d gestured toward her.

The urge to reach out and touch him, to verify that such masculine perfection was real, shocked her with its intensity. “Ye’re highborn?”

It wasn’t a question. Her manner of speech, despite months of deprivation, still carried the refined cadence of noble upbringings.

“Daes it matter?”

“Aye. It matters.” He stood abruptly and the full effect of his height and breadth hit her anew – he had to be at least six feet of solid muscle and masculine appeal.

When he turned slightly, she caught a glimpse of more tattoos snaking down his back beneath the white shirt.

Her mouth went dry at the thought of tracing those patterns with her fingertips.

“Though, high born or nae, nay one deserves tae be treated like this.”

For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her mouth dry.

“Tristan!”

Ian’s most trusted advisor and council member materialized suddenly, clearly having stayed within earshot. “Aye, me laird.”

“Send word tae the kitchens – I want a proper meal served immediately. Hot food, fresh bread, and clean water fer a bath.”

Rhona’s stomach clenched at the mention of food. Three months of thin gruel had left her considerably thinner than her already petite frame could afford.

As he hurried off, Ian turned back to her. “We’ll get ye cleaned up and fed, then we’ll decide what’s tae be done.”

Once they reached the servant’s stairs, Ian turned to a young servant girl who had appeared as if summoned. “Moira, help the lass wash up proper. See that she has everythin’ she needs.”

“Aye, me laird.” Moira bobbed a quick curtsy. “Right away.”

As Ian departed, Rhona found herself led to a chamber she’d never expected to see – guest quarters with a proper bed, clean linens, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The transformation from the dungeon felt like stepping into another world.

“I’ll prepare a nice hot bath fer ye, miss.” Moira said cheerfully, bustling about the room. “Ye’ll feel much better once ye’re properly clean. Let me just fetch the soap and towels from the stores.”

The moment Moira’s footsteps had faded down the corridor leaving her alone, Rhona moved. This might be her only chance at freedom. Her heart hammered as she slipped from the chamber, bare feet silent on the cold stone floors.

She remembered the way from her arrival – down the wide corridor, past the great hall, through the courtyard. The castle seemed different now, less oppressive, but she pushed such thoughts aside and focused only on escape.

’Tis now or never!

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped from the chamber, every instinct screaming at her to move quickly before someone discovered her absence.

The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight.

Each step felt like a thunderclap in silence, though her bare feet made barely no sound on the cold stone floors.

Dinnae look back, Just keep movin’. Get tae the forest.

She fled through the corridors like a wraith, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she navigated the maze of passages.

Past tapestries that seemed to track her escape, past doorways that might hide guards, past everything that represented her captivity.

The night air hit her face as she burst through a side entrance, cool and sharp with the promise of freedom.

The courtyard stretched ahead in the gathering dusk, torches flickering in their sconces. The main gates were impossible, but beside them she spotted a smaller postern door. She threw herself against it – and miraculously, it opened. Someone had left it unbarred.

In the distance, the dark line of forest called, promising concealment.

“Rhona!”