Page 26 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
Or maybe he could try. “Laird MacLarsen?—”
“The Beast of Briorn,” Emma cut in, with great bitterness. “Yes, I know the name.”
Grant put his other hand on her other shoulder, his temper flaring as he thought of the stern Laird MacLarsen, masked and terrifying to fools. But to anyone with sense and eyes, the man had a noble streak that spanned the world.
“Ye ken nothin’, lass. Ye prove that every time ye speak—and every time ye try to run.” He leaned down. “If ye ask me, ye shouldnae have run. Laird MacLarsen—the Beast of Briorn—isnae half as bad as I am, the Devil of Banrose.”
Emma shoved him back, and he let go of her. “I know enough,” she spat. “Why do you think I ran? And how can he be better if he married some poor novice, Lady or not, who grew up to be a holy woman?” She straightened. “I will not help you trick some poor Englishwoman.” Her eyes hardened. “Not that I think I can teach a brute to be a gentleman.”
“Careful, lass,” Grant snarled, his temper spiking even more. The spoiled, impertinent, ungrateful minx. “Maybe I shall take ye to MacLarsen and let him deal with ye.”
“Do it,” Emma scoffed. “I just saw you kill a man. How could I ever teach you not to intimidate a lady?”
Ye seem to be doin’ just fine.
“Ye ken that this isnae the way to thank me for savin’ yer hide, Emma,” he drawled instead.
She flinched at the mention of her name, and Grant felt it like a blade to the throat. But he pressed on.
“Ye dinnae have a choice. Nae when ye’re here, on me lands, at Banrose’s pleasure. Yewillhelp me.”
Emma’s eyes glittered like a frozen sea. “I willnot. And you will let me go tomorrow morning—send me back to England and stop this farce.”
Grant’s patience snapped, and he prowled forward, his hands twitching at his sides. He thought Emma would run, but this impossible creature also marched forward and glared up at him.
For a moment, they glared at each other, and Grant was not sure what he would do or say.
Then, in a smooth voice that surprised himself, still low but less hoarse than usual, he said, “Are ye offerin’ to take yer fellow Englishwoman’s place, then, Emma?”
She sucked in a breath and went to step back, but he caught her chin.
“How verra gracious of ye. I didnae realize the English could be so generous—even after ye declared ye wouldnae help me.”
For a wild moment, Grant thought she might say yes, and his blood roared with triumph. And when had they gotten so close? He could see the darker blue around her pupils, the sensual curve of her eyelashes?—
“No,” she gritted out, even though something in her expression seemed to falter. Grant let her go. “I suppose you are right. I apologize,My Laird.”
Suddenly, Grant felt as though he were standing on a ship, with a storm growling overhead and waves crashing against the bow. His stomach churned, and he almost wanted to take back his words, to apologize as well, but he swallowed them. At the same time, he felt a ripple of amusement at her impudent use of his title.
Offering her an exaggerated nod and putting a hand to his chest, he said, “I accept such a humble offer, Lady Emma Wells. Would ye join me for dinner at seven o’clock tomorrow evening to continue our discussion?”
She did not answer, but merely gave an exaggerated nod in return, and Grant struggled not to roll his eyes.
“Wear something else, lass, if ye please,” he added, just to needle her. “Dressing gowns are hardly appropriate for gently bred ladies, even in the barbaric wilds of the north.”
As expected, her shoulders rose to her ears, and she glared at him. “I—I do not have any clothes. Everything was stolen on the road.”
Grant swallowed hard, half-wishing she knew what her fiery spirit was doing to him.
“Dinnae tempt me, lass,” he growled, showing a hand in his hair. “Ye shall have yer fancy gowns tomorrow. And good night—get back to bed.”
He started to walk away, then glanced back to see her sticking out her tongue at him.
His jaw dropped. No one in their right mind had ever stuck their tongue out at him since he was a small boy—never mind when he was the Laird or MacCabe’s Blade. At the same time, he suppressed a burst of wild laughter.
Was this lass real? Was her sister the same? Should he write to MacLarsen and ask for advice?
Emma flushed when he did not speak and took a step backward.
