Page 2 of Bound to a Highland Beast
With a huff, Isabeau snatched his hand and quickly applied the ointment over the cut, making sure to coat it evenly. The entire time, Tiernan didn’t move, but he stared at her so intently that Isabeau was just about ready to jump out of her skin with all the tension hanging in the air around them. Only once she was done did she realize just how close they were once more—close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his body, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek.
Her heart skipped beat after beat and for what seemed like a small eternity, the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes as if under a spell—a spell that was only broken when the fire crackled and Isabeau jumped back, startled by the sudden sound.
What am I doin’? I must get out o’ here!
She couldn’t understand her own mind anymore. She couldn’t understand her own body, how it seemed to have a will of its own, ignoring her desire to leave and getting so close to a man so dangerous. Slowly backtracking, she huffed out an awkward chuckle, wishing Tiernan could just vanish on his own.
“Well… thank ye,” she said. “I look forward tae seein’ the daggers.”
“Wait—”
Tiernan called out to her, but Isabeau was already fleeing the forge, her legs carrying her out of there as fast as they could without breaking into a sprint.
Foolish… so foolish!
It was only when she was back in the keep that she slowed down, for the first time realizing that she was heaving, gasping for breath. For a moment, she rested against the wall, waving a guard away when he came over to see if she needed any help.
She didn’t need any help—she only needed a minute.
And she needed to forget those grey-blue eyes, that piercing gaze that seemed to see right through her.
CHAPTER ONE
The flames blazed in the kiln, heat pouring out of the fire in waves that suffused the air around them. Smoke, black and thick like storm clouds, erupted from the coals that burned bright, settling heavy in Tiernan’s lungs. Though he wore nothing but a thin undershirt and trews, sweat coated his skin, drops of it dripping from his brow and nose as he labored over the steel, bringing the mallet down again and again to harden the blade in his hand.
He had always known he would go to hell; he simply didn’t think he would be getting a taste of its flames in this lifetime.
Cannae complain. Better than stealin’.
It was good, honest work. It was physically demanding, too, and Tiernan enjoyed both the ache in his muscles which spoke of a job well done and the mind-numbing simplicity and repetition of hitting the steel repeatedly until it morphed into the shape in his head. He could lose himself to the rhythm of the mallet against the steel, the continuous, flowing movement of his arm,the clanging sounds and the steady drip of sweat. Everything else melted away, leaving his mind peacefully blank, at least for the hours he spent in the forge.
He was in the middle of a swing when he noticed a presence behind him. Years of being continuously alert had left him with what he could only describe as a sixth sense, a way of knowing when he was not alone. Though he didn’t turn to look, he was certain of the identity of the intruder, just by her steps and the energy she seemed to exude.
He wanted to see what she would do. A part of him thought that maybe she would turn around and leave, too timid to approach him herself, while another couldn’t help but believe that, stubborn as she often was, she would stay by the door until he finally acknowledged her.
Isabeau did neither. In the end, she walked towards him and though she was a little hesitant, her fingers tugging at the fabric of her dress and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, she came close, ignoring the flames and the heat that licked at her skin.
Had someone asked Tiernan what colors someone around him was wearing, he would be unable to answer them. But he knew Isabeau’s dress was a deep forest green that complimented her green eyes, a nice contrast to her pale, freckled skin. He knew that her hair, pulled up in an elegant updo, was the color of ink, dark and lustrous, and that when she let it down, it was almost long enough to reach her waist.
He didn’t dwell long on his knowledge of such facts or on what this knowledge said about him. Isabeau MacGregor was not the kind of woman he could ever have—the laird’s sister, raised with silver spoons by gentle hands, a being so pure Tiernan feared being too close to her in case he sullied her with his own questionable character.
He knew Isabeau feared him, and though he had no intention of hurting her—or anyone else ever again—he figured it was better that way. The more she feared him, the farther away from him she would stay, and the farther away from him she stayed, the smaller the temptation would be.
When Tiernan finally turned around to face her, Isabeau stopped dead in her tracks, freezing like a deer that had taken notice of a predator. She was a slender young woman, taller than most Tiernan had ever met, but there was a doll-like quality to her features that afforded her a sense of innocence. Nervously, she adjusted her dress once more, wringing the fabric between her fingers.
Her nervousness, however, did not show on her face. Her expression was blank, almost resolute, as though she had made the decision to be near Tiernan despite her fear and was determined to stick to it. Tiernan couldn’t take offence at any of this; he knew what he looked like, with the battle scars that covered his face and arms, his height, and the nose that had been crooked ever since he had broken it in a particularly vicious altercation. If that wasn’t enough, Isabeau knew of his past. A brigand, a mercenary. Who wouldn’t fear him, especially when they had been raised away from violence and crime?
Still, it was fun to tease her and Tiernan couldn’t help himself. When she took a deep breath and approached once more, he shifted his stance, standing up a little straighter, with his shoulders back, as he stared down at her. It was the kind of look that was enough to make a man flee, and indeed, Isabeau hesitated again, her breath hitching ever so slightly. But then, a determined look passed over her face and she approached, jamming an accusatory finger against his chest.
“Ye’re nae a brigand anymore,” she said. “Dinnae look at me like that. I’m nae afraid o’ ye.”
A lie, but one Tiernan could appreciate. Though Isabeau was afraid of him, she did her best to not let it show and to conquer her fear, stubbornness winning over everything else, and Tiernan couldn’t help but be impressed by her tenacity.
Laughing softly, Tiernan stepped aside to let her get closer to the workbench, where he had laid out the daggers Isabeau had commissioned from him—one for each of her brothers as a gift. Isabeau shot him an unimpressed look, clearly annoyed by his antics, but she said nothing as she examined the daggers, eyes gleaming under the light of the flames.
Tiernan had put all of his mastery into those daggers. The blades were short but sharp, curving ever so slightly at the ends, and the hilts were lavishly decorated with nature motifs. Each dagger had a jewel embedded in the grip, blue for the laird, Evan, and green for her other brother, Alaric, as per her request.
Isabeau’s hand hovered right over the blades, as though she was fearful to touch them. “They’re so bonnie,” she said. “I cannae believe ye managed tae dae this.”
