Page 10 of Wedded to the Heartless Highlander
Without another word, he turned and walked away, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration.
Erica exhaled, unsure whether to feel relieved or infuriated. She turned to Laird MacKinnon, her eyes flashing with a maelstrom of emotions. “That was rude,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “He wasnae doing anythin’ wrong.”
Laird MacKinnon raised an eyebrow, his expression as cool as ever. “To me, ye seemed like ye needed rescuin’. The way ye kept glancin’ at me while he prattled on, I thought ye were beggin’ for it.”
Erica’s mouth dropped open in indignation. “Beggin’? Ye think I wasbeggin’for yer help?” she snapped, her temper flaring. “I was perfectly fine,LairdMacKinnon. I didnae need ye to swoop in and pretend to save me. Ye are just—just?—”
“Just?” he prompted almost playfully, his lips curling into a devastating grin.
“A brute!”
Laird MacKinnon’s eyes darkened at the word. A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face, and he took a step closer to her. His tall frame towered over hers, and the air between them crackled with tension.
“A brute, am I?” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “Better a brute than a spoiled bampot who cannae keep his hands to himself.”
Erica’s heart pounded in her chest. His proximity made her skin tingle, every nerve alive with a confusing mix of anger and awareness.
She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “James isnae a fool. He might nae be… like ye, but that doesnae mean he would make a terrible husband.”
A slow, mocking smile spread across Laird MacKinnon’s lips. Erica’s eyes fell to his mouth as his teeth glinted in the low torchlight. “Aye, I’m sure he would bore ye to tears within the week.”
She glared back up at him, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I would rather be bored than married to someone like ye. Ye are an arrogant, overbearin’, entitled br?—”
“Brute?” His expression shifted. The mirth in his eyes flickered out and was replaced by something more intense.
Erica’s breath caught in her throat.
He reached out, his hand gently but firmly tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. His eyes fell to her mouth before slowly rising to meet her eyes.
“And yet,” he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, “Ye cannae seem to look away from me.”
Erica’s pulse quickened, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His touch was firm yet gentle. The heat of his hand, the smell of whiskey on his breath, and the fire in his eyes made her feel as though she were standing too close to a fire.
She hated the way her body responded to him, the way his presence seemed to stir something inside her that she didn’t understand. Silence fell between them as she wrestled with her conflicting emotions until, finally, she dared to take a step closer to him.
“Laird MacKinnon…” Her voice was surprisingly firm, and defiance flickered in her eyes.
“Me name is Hunter Buchanan. Feel free to use it, lass. I reckon that ye already do,” Laird MacKinnon interjected, a hint of playfulness in his dark eyes.
“I will never marry ye, Laird MacKinnon,” she said defiantly. “Nae if I have any say in it.”
His eyes bored into hers with a fierce reckoning, and his thumb brushed lightly against her smooth skin, sending sparks through her body.
“Aye, but that’s the thing, is it nae? Ye dinnae have a say in it, lass,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Tomorrow, Morris will lose, and ye will be mine, Erica Kilmartin. Whether ye want to be or nae.”
Before she could respond, before she could even find the words to fight back against his infuriating confidence, he released her and turned around, walking away with the calm authority that he always carried.
Erica stood frozen in place, her heart pounding, her skin still tingling from his touch. Anger, frustration, and an infuriatingly unsettling attraction swirled within her, leaving her breathless.
He cannae win tomorrow. There’s nay way I’ll marry that monster!
3
The crowd buzzed with excitement as villagers and clansmen alike gathered to watch the final round of the games. In the center of it all, the thick, knotted rope lay like a snake, waiting to strike.
This is absurd.
A game as simple as it was brutal, and one that was determining her fate—two men pulling with all their might and pride for her, as though she were a prize, not a person.
