Page 8 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
The man hesitated, something flashing in his eyes, and Emma remembered then, as she’d made to run away from him the first time, how she’d sensed his inner conflict. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her; he didn’t want to do this—she’d known that in her bones. She even knew it now.
And yet…
Suddenly, he pulled back, standing in front of her. The rope vanished back into his bag, and his hand went to his sword. Emma opened her mouth to speak, but he held out a hand, his entire body radiating awareness as he stared around the woods. A tingle went up Emma’s spine, and then he turned, hauling her over his shoulder and sprinting through the woods.
She barely got out a breath, amazed by his strength and silence, before she heard a distant shout. The Scot tensed up and then began moving faster, and Emma felt a curious burst of fear. Eyes wide, she decided not to scream. Instead, she found herself searching the woods.
Some bandits or those same men who’d attacked him now hunted her as well. Was it those same men from before? Emma was suddenly glad that the Highlander, again, had found her first.
Still, when that feeling had faded and he had gone almost a mile down the coast, now hopelessly far from Helena and the cottage, Emma was seething again. When he put her down, she immediately tried to flee, but he swung her around and backed her up against a tree.
“Let me go,” Emma said, as a snarling leopard came to her mind, one she’d once seen as a girl in a menagerie in London. “Now, Highlander.”
The Highlander flashed his pearly white teeth—Emma could not tell whether it was his answering snarl or a grin. His eyes raked across her face and a strange burst of heat ran up her spine. He made a faint Scottish sound in the back of his throat, one that sounded satisfied.
Then, Emma found herself being forced to walk, with one of his big arms around her waist.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked now, even though she suspected it was yet another question she asked in vain.
Why won’t you speak?
And why was she so curious to hear his voice?
Again, the Scot did not answer. Emma swallowed hard. Perhaps hewastaking her somewhere to do something terrible.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, and he shot her a surprised look.
Something flashed in the man’s eyes, and his jaw clenched, and he jabbed his hand ahead of them. Emma’s eyes followed his finger, and she blinked several times. A large, rambling building stood on a small hill, a plume of smoke rising against the pink sky.
“A tavern? You think this is the time to break bread, Sir?”
The Highlander snorted and began walking again. His grip on her was slightly looser, so Emma could have wrenched herself free. But she did not.
Instead, Emma let this man bring her to the tavern. Inside, it was warm and well-lit, almost surreal after her panicked run through the woods. Meanwhile, the domestic scene seemed to heighten the wicked threat that hung around the Highlander like a heavy fur cloak on a king.
More than one patron bobbed their head in a nervous show of respect, and a heavyset man mopping at his forehead offered them a soft “Good morning. Welcome to Morgana’s Table and Tavern.”
The Highlander led Emma to a round table near a window that overlooked the rolling hills and rising sun. Then he pushed her gently toward a chair, and then took up his own, shoving it around so that his back faced the wall. Then, he made a gesture with his hand, and immediately, the tavern man, who’d been bobbing along in their wake, hurried off.
Emma watched him go, then looked at her Highlander. His gaze roved through the room until he noticed her staring. At that, he offered her another one of those slow and smoldering smiles, and then—of all things—a wink.
Outraged, Emma was about to rise from the table when two barmaids appeared next to them, setting plates of food and drink on the table. Emma, used as she was to the fine meals at her parents’ manor, gaped at the feast in front of them. Eggs, meats, breads, treats, and a tankard of ale.
A barmaid poured her coffee, then murmured, “Please let us know if you need anything else.”
Emma forced herself to nod as they hurried off, casting nervous looks over their shoulder. When Emma looked to the Highlander, she noted his face was serious, yet she also suspected he was fighting a smile.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering if perhaps she was the mad one.
Yet, some deeper instinct would not let her fear this man. Or—as her stomach growled then—perhaps she was just starving.
When she looked back, the two barmaids had fled.
Does he even notice how afraid people are of him? Is he pretending not to?Emma watched him prepare a plate of food.Or does he want them to?
Emma swallowed hard, as she suspected it was the latter. About to demand again that he tell her why she was here—and who on earth he was—he suddenly placed the plate of food in front of her.
“For—for me?” she blurted out, and he nodded. “Why?”
