Page 6 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
That thought soured in his stomach, though, and shuddered against his bones like a blow from an iron blade.
Yet, neither of those was as bad as the sense that his very soul balked at the idea. His gaze followed her fleeing form, while his very blood hummed,Mine.
But it was all coincidence, was it not? Nothing but a diversion he should enjoy recounting to his men—the last thing he expected to happen in Fallenworth. He’d come here to hunt, to add another bloody mark in seeking revenge for his father.
And yet he could not stop recalling how the English lass had emerged from the crowd, taking the path to him like a slim and elegant ship. One cutting across a sea in the last path of crimson sunlight before it was swallowed up by a storm. Those unique eyes behind those pretty glasses, that hazel-green color that seemed to subtly shift with her every thought and motion, even though her focus had not…
A fearless woman, bold as brass, and twice as clever as every man in England,had been his first thought. Then, his next had been a jolt of grasping after memory, a sense of recognition that went deeper than an arrangement of features, and something in him had whispered,finally, there ye are, me lass.
“Shitestorm,” Damien muttered and dragged a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his beard.
Even that had not deterred her. If anything, she seemed to enjoy it.
Strange. I rather thought you enjoyed it.
Christ, but Damien had. Every moment with her, even as he knew that this was madness, that he should stay away from someone so clearly trailing trouble.
The trouble was, he’d never shied away from that in his life. And he loved a bold, bossy woman—he’d been raised among them. He loved a good debate, a rousing bit of banter, and a good jaw. When she’d said that, he’d almost gone down on his knees and admitted that he wanted the damn key to her mind—even as he wanted to put her over his knee and…
Or better, make her go down on her knees, put that wicked mouth to work.
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head, rubbing the back of his hair, his finger sliding across the string of his eyepatch. Och, he was losing his mind because he knew that he’d never get to have someone like that lass or the bonny, fearless women of Scotland. Nay. Thanks to the Queen’s Edict, he’d be lucky if he had an English lady who didn’t faint at the sight of him.
‘Twould nae be fun, but duty must come first.
And at least, he could now picture that long-legged, bright-eyed lass, with her sharp tongue and soft, full lips.
Christ, how unexpected that she’d taken such a hold of him. He’d always wondered at the way men lusted after certain women—and while he still had one good eye, no one had stirred his blood and loins with one glance like she had.
Perhaps I am keen on beauty and brains.
Damien sighed. Too bad he’d never know what it would take to make a lass like that come apart, to beg for his mercy and his touch. His jaw clenched, and he shook himself. How long had he been standing there, daydreaming of such things?
Was she a Fae? Had she cast a spell on him?
Again, Damien looked in the direction she’d gone, every instinct clamoring to go after her.
Instead, he set out to find those two men who’d frightened his fearless lass. If he could not have her, he’d at least do her this last favor.
After all, she was his first kiss since he’d become Laird.
It was easy enough to find the two men. They were slinking out of a tavern at the edge of Fallenworth, leaning against each other and complaining. One burped and tilted sideways, nearly crashing into a lass with a basket over her arm, and he leered at her.
She squeaked in fright and darted away, while the two laughed and said cruel things to her back, not noticing the shadow that stalked them. Night had fallen, with scant torchlight at this end of town, and yet Damien would never let himself be caught so unawares. Nor would any of his men.
He frowned to himself, wondering at their self-conceit, and then he heard their accents. He drew up short.
These are well-to-do men-at-arms.
His mind flashed back to his conversation with the Englishwoman. She’d also spoken flawlessly, he realized, only so bluntly and fearlessly that his focus had gone to that.
Cursing himself for overlooking that, though not sure why, he was about to seize hold of these brigands when they answered his question.
“Traipsing all over bloody England and now at the northern border for that uppity wench. I tell you, Lord Lovell does not pay us enough to mind his daughter.”
Damien’s blood froze in his veins.
Lord? Daughter?
