Page 20 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
And I’m promised to another.
CHAPTER 9
Closingthe door to the room where Emma was resting, finally in his home, all Grant wanted was a stiff drink. His thoughts were interrupted by the rapid beat of heavy boots and looked up to see Reuben hurrying toward him.
Frustration and happiness clashed in his chest, and he offered Reuben a half-smile. Much as he was glad to see his younger brother seeking him out, he also did not want to deal with Reuben’s incessant questions. Moreover, he knew his brother would have some new scheme up his sleeve.
“Hail, me Laird,” Reuben called merrily, shaking back his fair hair. His pale green eyes glittered as he laughed. Grant’s smile widened, despite himself. “Glad to see ye finally home. And with a bride? Lady Elena?”
Grant placed a hand on the back of Reuben’s neck and tugged him along, shaking his head. He rubbed his throat and swallowed before he spoke.
“Nay.” The hoarseness of his voice seemed worse than usual in the stone corridors. “An errant lass by the name of Emma Wells.”
Reuben let out a surprised squawk and stopped in the hall, forcing Grant to look at him.
Grant expected a torrent of questions and confusion. Only, his brother looked delighted.
“Ye caught the Beast of Briorn’s runaway bride?”
A jolt went through Grant, a snarl of possessiveness in his heart, and his hand twitched as though Laird MacLarsen were at his gates, ready to snatch Emma away. Then, his blood ran cold, and a harsh breath escaped his lips.
What did it matter? Of course, she was promised to another.
Reuben, oblivious to his brother’s inner turmoil, continued.
“A man came here this morning, lookin’ for such a lass.” He grinned. “Emma Wells, the promised bride of the Beast of Briorn, who fled from her family home in the night, a few weeks ago.” He paused, and something flashed in his eyes. “But the Beast did wed—her twin sister. Kept in a convent, though I dinnae ken why. Apparently, she was a novice.” He burst into laughter. “Imagine that, the Beast marrying a holy woman.”
Grant scoffed even as profound relief washed over him, almost causing his knees to buckle. “Dinnae repeat such stories, Braither.”
“Who else would marry that masked monster?” Reuben sneered, but his gaze fell when Grant shot him a glare. “Why did ye bring her here?”
“Leverage,” Grant lied, knowing his brother would leave it at that.
But Reuben followed him down the hall, asking questions, needling at his waning patience until he was about to shout. As though sensing this, their mother appeared, and both men fell silent, inclining their heads.
The Beauty of Banrose had only grown more lovely, in Grant’s eyes, but his gut twisted every time he saw the scar that cut across one side of her mouth. Her beautiful hair had turned stark white, and her eyes were not the same, the green now shadowed.
Sadness constricted Grant’s throat, for he mourned and missed the mother he’d known. Both of them had changed to survive.
Not long after he’d returned home, Grant had once overheard his aunt talk about how Brenda’s beauty and demeanor had become star-like, distant and untouchable, yet enough to burn any man where he stood.
“I need to speak with ye, me son,” Brenda said softly. “Reuben, if ye would excuse us?”
“Of course,” Reuben said cheerily and retreated, whistling.
Though he was aching with exhaustion and even more desperate for a drink, Grant ushered his mother into his study and hastened to arrange the cushions on a chair for her.
She sat, but he remained standing, his hands folded behind his back.
Brenda raised an eyebrow at him, and a rare glimmer of amusement crossed her face. “Ye ken, I could use a draught. And I’d love for ye to join me.”
A rough laugh escaped Grant, and his posture relaxed, then he set about pouring two glasses of whiskey and sat across from his mother. He took a sip, near groaning as the liquor trickled down his dry throat and warmed his belly.
Limbs looser, he sprawled more and dipped his chin to his chest. He could almost enjoy this moment, almost wanted to tell his mother of the works of the road, almost offer her a smile.
Almost, if not for the shadow of old Ronson hovering in the corner, his gaze malevolent and hungry.
His mother seemed to be feeling the same way, a smile almost touching her lips. Since he’d returned, Grant had rarely seen hersmile or laugh. And for that, he wished his father had not died at sea so that he could tear him to shreds for taking away his mother’s radiance.
