Page 18 of Marry the Highland Villain
Conall noticed. “Brigid…”
She shook her head. “I feel tired. I think I will retire. I will come tomorrow to borrow some paper and ink to write to my sisters.”
She swallowed hard and turned away, walking toward the door and wishing very much she could sink into the floor and disappear, like one of the wayward spirits her mother used to tell tales of when she was a child.
Conall scowled at his brother, grabbing Brigid’s arm as she passed him. “Ye’ll apologize to my betrothed.”
Brigid winced again at the venomous look Oliver gave her.
“I’ll nae.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest to emphasize his words.
“Apologize,” Conall growled.
Oliver stepped back from his brother’s wrath. Brigid thought she saw fear flash in his eyes for just a moment before it melted into anger. Then, he turned to her.
“Apologies, My Lady,” he said stiffly. “I shouldnae question yer honor when ye are to be my brother’s wife.”
The faintly mocking undertone made her shiver. The apology was as insincere as it was forced. Still, she wasn’t inclined to press the matter.
“I understand,” she muttered, her eyes downcast.
She did understand. She was once again being judged for the crimes of her family—this time those of the grandfather she’d never met. At least, not that she could recall. She swallowed back tears of hurt and anger.
“Please excuse me.”
She stepped back from Conall, who dropped his hand, allowing her to hurry away before she could become the source of further contention between the brothers.
As she made her way toward her rooms, her mind kept returning to that moment—the moment Oliver had stepped backward as if afraid of his brother. And with it came the memory of her mother’s rule.
If his own brother was afraid of him, how could she ever bring herself to trust Conall, let alone consider giving her heart—or the rest of herself—to him?
CHAPTER 7
The sunlight filteringthrough the study window made Conall’s head ache. He’d consumed far more mead than he should have after Oliver’s departure from his study the night before. It was either that or striking someone. Or something.
The mead had also been necessary to ease the ache of thwarted arousal. The memory of Brigid’s soft, pliant body against his own was enough to make his blood heat anew. He shoved the thought aside, not daring to entertain it further.
The knock on his door was unwelcome, but he answered it anyway with a resigned sigh. “Aye. Come in.”
The door opened to reveal Brigid herself. Her demeanor was calm, with no sign of the passion from the night before. But it did nothing to calm his body or his racing thoughts.
“I beg yer pardon, My Laird,” she began, looking at him in a way that suggested she was not remotely sorry for the interruption. “Yer steward said I should come to ye for the quill and paper.”
“Aye.” Conall pulled some fresh paper, an inkpot, and a quill out of a drawer in his desk. “Ye can write yer letter, and I’ll have my messenger deliver it this afternoon.”
Brigid nodded and took the supplies.
“Can I use the table by the fire to write my letter? It will be easier, I think.”
Conall hesitated. It would be best for both of them if she wrote her letter elsewhere—somewhere he wouldn’t be forced to sit near her, and perhaps be tempted by her again, as he had the night before. And yet, as the memory jumped into his mind once again, he found he was disinclined to send her away.
“Aye.” He gestured to a chair. “Go ahead.”
“Thank ye.”
Brigid lowered herself into the chair and bent her head over the paper. Conall watched her out of the corner of his eye while he attempted to read some paperwork.
She’d borrowed another dress from Emily, if the tightness of the fabric across her burst and hips was any indication, and braided her hair back. Her face had a freshly washed, rosy tinge thataccentuated the glow of her sun-kissed skin and emerald-green eyes, and her demeanor was solemn as she wrote.
