Page 9 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
It was the briefest of moments, less than the span of a breath, but Emma thought she saw his eyes soften, and a star seemed to burst in her chest, showering her with dizzying, diamond-like sparks.
Then he looked away and Emma was sure she must have imagined it. She chided herself for being so foolish. And with nothing else for it, she tucked in. She could plot better on a full stomach.
Maybe I can still make it.
The food did revive her, but the longer she sat there, the more her body and heart ached. All that effort, all the running and plotting to get to the coast, and she was here instead.
Emma looked down as tears burned in her eyes and exhaustion washed over her.
When she looked back up, the man had taken her plate and put more food on it. Then, he poured her more ale and pushed it toward her. Emma, who preferred delicate teas, shook her head, and the man’s lips twitched.
“I couldnae believe it when Clyde said ye had a lass with ye, but here ye are, Me Laird.”
Emma froze, watching the Highlander watch her, his lips quirking up into a smile, and all she could feel was her heart drumming as rapidly in her chest as it had during her sprint through the woods. Part of her almost swore that he could feel it, too, and that he was savoring her reaction.
You are a laird?
He inclined his head, clearly reading the question in her eyes, and then turned to the curvy, matronly redhead, who was nearly as tall as him, beaming down at them.
“Mornin’, lass. I’m Morgana, and this is me place. ‘Tis nice to meet ye. Though ye are a bit disheveled, hm?” She winked. “Have yerself a night, then?”
“No, no,” Emma said, flushing at the woman’s implications. “Nothing of the sort.”
Meanwhile, the Laird raised an eyebrow.
“Och, Ronson, dinnae mock the poor thing.” The redheaded matron gently slapped his shoulder, then spoke in rapid Gaelic.
The Laird furrowed his brow and stood up, nodding once.
Someone called Morgana’s name, and she sighed and waved a hand before she hurried off, leaving them alone again.
Emma shoved back her chair and stood up too. “You are a laird?”
The Highlander dipped his head in a slow nod, and a different kind of smile spread across his face as he stepped closer. One that Emma didn’t like, for it was cold and shadowed by the glint in his eyes. Then it was gone, and he tilted his head to the side as though asking,Now, ye ken why I shall nae let ye run off again?
Emma almost nodded. Her vision seemed clearer now, and she wondered how she had not seen it before. For all the danger he exuded, all the wild, she saw it now. He held himself like a King.
“What—what do you want with me?” A harsh breath escaped her lips. “Do you mean to marry me, then?”
At that, he seemed slightly surprised and shook his head.
Laird Ronson released her, and she felt dazed, relieved and terrified. If he didn’t mean to marry her, then what did he intend to do with her?
Emma’s legs tensed up as though preparing to run. The Laird’s eyebrows flew up, and the green of his eyes began to dance with unholy amusement, as though daring her to.
Lifting her chin, Emma said, “What, do you need a pianoforte player, then?” She tossed her head. “I suppose you’ve heard that I am quite good.”
The man’s lips pressed together, and a dimple popped in one cheek, but he shook his head solemnly.
Emma felt a strong urge to kick him in the shin. “Tell me, then. For…”
What good am I to a laird?
At that moment, a wicked voice seemed to whisper in her mind,A wife.
She flinched and shook her head.
No, he’d shaken his head. He did not want to wed her—but he wanted something. So, Emma stepped forward, mustering what courage she had left. Reaching out, knowing she was crossing a line, she took Laird Ronson’s hand.
