Page 8 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

“ G entlemen, we need tae talk.”

Ian’s voice cut through the crisp morning air as he strode into the castle’s solar, where his Council had gathered for their meeting.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the faces of the men who had served Clan Wallace for decades – men who remembered Douglas’s reign and the chaos that had followed.

Fergus looked up from the parchments spread across the massive oak table, his weathered face creased with concern. “Aye, me laird. There’s much that needs discussin’.”

“Aye, there is.” Ian took his place at the head of the table, his jaw set with grim determination.

The events of the previous night – the attack, Rhona’s escape attempt, the weight of decisions he’d never wanted to make – had crystallized something in his mind.

“In the week I’ve been in this castle, I’ve discovered things that are despicable. ”

Murmurs rippled through the assembled men.

At his right sat Fergus MacDougall, his most senior advisor, a man whose gray beard and keen eyes spoke of decades spent navigating clan politics.

Beside him, sat Duncan MacLeod, the clan’s treasurer, his thin face pinched with perpetual worry.

Across from them, sat Hamish Fraser, the master-at-arms, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

These were good men, Ian had come to realize, trapped in the legacy of a laird who had led them to ruin.

“I’ve heard about the battle that killed Douglas,” Ian continued, his voice carrying the authority he was still learning to wield.

“And I ken ‘twas the previous laird’s greed that caused it. His hunger for the MacAlpin lands, his willingness tae take by force what should’ve been negotiated in good faith. ”

Duncan cleared his throat nervously. “Me laird, the previous arrangements–”

“Were built on cruelty and ambition,” Ian cut him off, his green eyes flashing. “I willnae be a ruler who acts as Douglas did. That path leads only tae destruction.”

Hamish leaned forward, his scarred hands folded on the table. “Then what would ye have us dae, me laird? The clan’s position is…” he grimaced. “Precarious daesnae begin tae cover it.”

“Aye, which brings me tae last night.” Ian’s expression darkened. “MacPherson raiders, bold as brass on our lands. We’re vulnerable – too bloody vulnerable.”

“Our forces were decimated,” Fergus said grimly. “Lost near three-quarters of our fighting men.”

“Then we recruit new ones. Train the village lads, bring in mercenaries, we dae what we must to survive.” Ian’s fist struck the table. “But first – the lass. What dae we dae about her?”

The men exchanged glances, and Ian caught the weight of unspoken knowledge passing between them.

“About that, me laird…” Duncan’s voice was as careful as a man walking on cracking ice. “We ken who she is.”

Ian’s blood chilled. “Speak plainly.”

Duncan’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Rhona MacAlpin. Second daughter of Laird MacAlpin.”

The words hit Ian like a mace to the chest. A MacAlpin. The very clan Douglas had died trying to conquer, the family whose lands had been coveted for their size and strategic importance. He’d been harboring their daughter like some common prisoner.

“Curse it all,” he breathed. “How long have ye kent this?”

“Suspected from the start,” Hamish admitted, having the grace to look uncomfortable. “But with Douglas dead and everythin’ in chaos…”

“Ye thought ye’d wait fer me guidance.” Ian’s voice was deadly quiet. “How considerate.”

“Me laird–”

“Then we return her.” Ian’s decision was swift, decisive. “Send her back tae her clan with apologies. Might help bring peace.”

The Council erupted like a kicked anthill.

“Me laird, nay!” Duncan’s voice cracked with alarm. “They’ll use this an excuse tae attack! They’ll say we dishonored their daughter!”

“Which we have,” Ian pointed out.

“Aye, but they dinnae need tae have more ammunition against Clan Wallace,” Fergus said coolly. “Return her now, they’ll smell weakness. And we cannae–”

“Cannae defend ourselves,” Hamish finished. “They could sweep through here like wildfire.”

“So, I ask ye... what would ye have yer laird dae?” Ian demanded.

The men exchanged looks before Fergus spoke carefully “Bring the lass tae our side. Make her want tae stay.”

“And how precisely–”

“Marriage.” Duncan said it like he was ripping off a bandage. “Alliance through marriage. She becomes Lady Wallace, the MacAlpins cannae cry foul.”

Ian’s hands clenched, turning his knuckles white. “She’d never agree.”

“She wouldnae have a choice,” Hamish added quietly. “She’s our prisoner. ‘Tis common enough–”

“Forced marriage, ye mean.” Ian’s voice could’ve cut glass. “Is that what ye’re suggestin’?”

“I’m suggestin’ we save our clan,” Hamish shot back, color rising in his cheeks. “Sometimes hard choices–”

“She’s a bonnie lass,” Fergus interjected quickly, trying to smooth things over. “Got spirit. Could be good fer the clan, if given time tae… adjust.”

“Adjust tae captivity, ye mean.”

“Me laird.” Duncan leaned forward, earnest as a priest. “I ken it seems harsh. But if we return her and they attack, how many of our people will die? How many of our women and bairns will suffer fer our ‘honor’?”

“I’ll consider what ye’ve said,” Ian said finally, his voice like iron. “But I willnae force her intae marriage. If there’s tae be an alliance, ‘twill be with her consent.”

“Me laird?—”

“Final word.” Ian’s tone could’ve made granite crack. “Either that, or we find another way.”

The Council exchanged worried glances, but none dared press the point further. Ian dismissed them with a wave, then sat alone in the solar as morning light shifted across the stone walls.

Rhona MacAlpin. The name carried weight now, political implications that made his infuriating attraction to her even more complicated.

She wasn’t just a mysterious noble lass who’d awakened protective instincts he’d never known he possessed – she was the daughter of his clan’s enemy, a woman whose very presence could spark another war.

And yet, the thought of sending her away, of never seeing those fierce blue eyes again, left him feeling strangely hollow. After several minutes of brooding, Ian rose from his chair and made his way through the castle corridors toward Rhona’s chamber, needing answers.

The guards stationed outside her door snapped to attention as he approached.

“How is she?” Ian asked quietly.

“Quiet, me laird.” One of the guards replied. “The servant girl brought her fresh clothes and helped her wash, proper like. She’s been at the window most of the mornin’, just… watchin’.”

Ian nodded and knocked softly on the door. “Rhona? ‘Tis Ian. May I come in?”

There was a long pause, then: “Aye.”

He opened the door and stepped inside, then stopped short at the sight that greeted him. Gone was the bedraggled, dirt-stained woman he’d found in the dungeon. In her place stood a vison that hit him like a fist to the gut.

Rhona had been transformed by Moira’s ministrations.

Her long, dark ginger hair had been washed and braided with a simple leather cord, the morning light catching hints of auburn in the fire that made his fingers itch to touch those silky strands.

She wore a dress of deep blue wool that molded itself onto every curve of her slender figure – the gentle swell of her breasts, the narrow span of her waist, the feminine flare of her hips…

the clean clothes and proper grooming now revealed what the dungeons grime had hidden: she was genuinely beautiful, with the kind of natural grace that made his mouth go dry and his blood heat up.

Devil take me, Ian thought, his pulse quickening as she turned from the window to face him.

The dress hugged her body like a lover’s caress, and when she moved, he caught a glimpse of creamy skin at her throat that made him wonder what the rest of her would feel like beneath his hands.

Her blue eyes – Christ, those eyes – seemed to see straight through him, never mind the way her lips parted slightly when she noticed his stare, sending heat flooding straight to his groin.

“Ye clean up bonnie, lass,” he managed, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt. His hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching out to her.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips – those soft, tempting lips that had been haunting his thoughts far too often. “As dae ye, Laird Wallace.”

Ian glanced down at his own appearance – he’d changed into clean clothes after the council meeting, trading his everyday shirt for one of fine linen that Moira had pressed for him.

His dark hair was still slightly damp from his wash that morning.

He had taken more care with his appearance than usual, and he knew exactly why, for it had everything to do with the woman standing before him looking like temptation incarnate.

“I wanted tae talk with ye,” he said, moving further into the room, but keeping what he hoped was a respectful distance.

Being too close to her made it hard to think straight anyway.

It made him want to do things that would scandalize them both.

“About how ye came tae be here. About yer… situation.”

Rhona’s expression immediately grew guarded. “What of it?”

“If ye willnae talk tae me, I cannae help ye,” he said, letting some frustration show. “I’m tryin’ tae find a path that daesnae end in bloodshed, but I need yer help.”

Something in his tone must have hit its mark, because her rigid posture softened slightly.

“What dae ye want tae ken?” she asked quietly.

“Why ye left home, Rhona MacAlpin. What brought a laird’s daughter intae the borderlands where Douglas’s men could take ye.”

Rhona went very still, her face carefully composed though Ian could see the tension that suddenly coiled through her body. She’d been expecting that moment, he realized – had probably been dreading it since the day she’d been captured.