Page 29 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
“’Tis because me faither promised me tae Laird Dougal MacPherson. I am supposed tae marry him,” she said. “These are his lands we’re passin’ through.”
Struan studied her face closely, searching for any hint of deception. But he saw none.
“I’m sorry I didnae tell ye sooner. I just… I dinnae want tae marry Laird MacPherson. Even his own people think he’s a cruel man. I’ve got nay desire tae learn what a life with a man like that would be like. I fear what he might dae tae me.”
Sincerity marked her voice, and he could see the genuine fear in her eyes. Any thought that she was leading him into a trap and to her father’s men quickly melted away. He knew she was telling him the truth of it all.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I was just desperate tae be away from me faither before he forced me tae marry Laird MacPherson. If he’d managed … well… I think I’d rather be dead than live life as that man’s wife.”
Hearing her say that broke Struan’s heart. In her place, he would have been just as desperate to run as she was. He knew MacPherson’s reputation all too well. He was more than just cruel. He was vicious. Barbaric. If even half the things he’d heard about the man were true, then Dougal MacPherson was well and truly a monster.
And not a suitable betrothed fer a woman as enchanting as Isolde. She needs a man who sees and wants her fer who she is and not as a pawn.
The crackle of anger that lingered in his veins was not only for MacPherson, but also for Laird Mackintosh. The man had not only murdered Rhona, he was sending his only daughter into a lion’s den and consigning her to a life of pain, fear, and misery.To a man who might decide one day to kill her just because she said something to displease him. Or for no reason at all.
As they walked along the path again, the air between them still tense and uneasy, Struan silently renewed his vow that he would kill Murdoch Mackintosh if it was the last thing he ever did. He would kill him for Rhona.
And now, he would kill him for Isolde too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Murdoch Mackintosh sat in a plush, comfortable chair in front of the oversized fireplace in Laird Dougal MacPherson’s salon at Cluny Castle. The room was silent save for the crackle and pop of the flames. He stared into the fire as he drank from his cup of wine, his mind spinning with a thousand different thoughts.
In one disastrous night, he had not only lost his most prized prisoner, Struan Cameron, he had lost his daughter as well. It was a double hit he had not yet recovered from and the mere thought of the incompetence of his men in letting them both get away still filled him with the darkest of anger.
The disgrace they have caused me…
The door to the chamber opened and closed heavily behind him. MacPherson’s hard bootsteps echoed through the chamber as he walked to the table on the far side of the room. Dougal MacPherson was a tall, severe looking man with high, sharp cheekbones, and a long, aquiline nose. A neatly trimmed beard,black that was shot through with gray, covered his strong, square jawline, and his hair, much the same color, fell to his broad shoulders.
He was much like Murdoch himself. Just five years his junior, Dougal had a hard-won reputation for his skill in battle as well as his equally hard demeanor outside of it. Some people thought him cruel. Vicious. But Murdoch knew the people who said that—many of them the same people who said that of him—simply did not know what it was to be a laird. They did not know the sacrifices one had to make, nor the decisions one was faced with every single day.
Yes, difficult choices often had to be made. To the people on the outside, those choices might seem cruel or callous. What they didn’t understand—would never understand—was that those choices were often necessary. Murdoch often had to make decisions that most people would never have the spine to make. He did not shy away from difficult choices. And neither did Dougal. It was one reason he respected the man.
“What news of yer daughter?” Dougal asked.
“None yet,” Murdoch replied. “I’ve got riders out scourin’ all the surroundin’ villages and abbeys, but as of yet, she’s nae been found.”
His hands balled into fists at his sides, Dougal paced the chamber. Murdoch watched him walk back and forth in repeat, completely silent, his face etched with frustration.
“She’s probably hidin’ in one of the nunneries out in the bleedin’ countryside.” Dougal snarled.
“I’ve got me men ridin’ out that way as we speak,” Murdoch said.
“Yer men cannae go stormin’ intae a nunnery?—”
“If they’re shelterin’ me wayward daughter, aye, they can,” he snapped. “And they will.”
Dougal sighed and took a swallow of his wine. Then immediately refilled his cup and drank that down too. His breathing slightly labored, he poured himself another cup then began to pace the chamber once more. His jaw flexed as he clenched his jaw and his hand tightened around his cup, squeezing it so hard his knuckles grew white.
“’Tis a problem fer us. Ye bungled it up and lost Struan. And if that is nae bad enough, ye’ve lost yer daughter too. And we’ve nay idea where either of them went,” Dougal growled. “Dae ye realize how weak that makes us look?”
“We’ll find them, Dougal. Calm yerself.”
“I look like a fool. Ye’ve made me look like a bleedin’ fool,” he growled. “She was tae be me wife and we suddenly cannae find her.”
Dougal punctuated his words by hurling his cup across the chamber. It hit the wall with a hollow thud, spraying wineeverywhere. Murdoch turned to the man and watched the flames cast flickering shadows across his face. He swallowed down the bitter words that sat on the tip of his tongue, not wanting to inflame the situation any further than it already was. Instead, he sat back in his chair and took a long swallow of his wine, giving himself a moment to calm himself.
“I didnae ken ye were so keen on marryin’ the lass,” Murdoch said evenly.
