Page 4 of Marry the Highland Villain
Conall scowled and refused to allow himself to show the pain the motion caused. No, there was nothing that Laird Auchter could offer that could possibly make up for the loss of his brother and the suffering it had wrought.
Still, he knew his reputation among the other Highland lairds. They hated and feared him. If he refused to even consider accepting a wergild, it might be the last straw needed to unite other clans against him. The wrong move could find him under siege from an alliance of lairds who considered him a threat—and that he could not risk.
It was little enough to permit Laird Auchter to play his game. Whatever paltry trick or token he tried, Conall was confident he could see through the old man’s machinations. Laird Auchter would make a mistake, and when he did, Conall would make sure to get rid of the old man, once and for all.
That would end the feud for good.
Or, at least, he hoped so.
A life for a life. The old man’s nae about to offer me his head on a platter, I ken—but nay matter what tricks he tries, I’ll find a way to tak’ it. For Devon.
A loud, booming knock on the doors to the Great Hall drew his attention. Conall straightened his cloak and his lairdship torc, then exchanged a quick look with his brother, Oliver. His brother’s hand was clenched around the hilt of his sword, his eyes hard with anger, but he nodded, nonetheless.
Conall gestured for the servants to open the doors, then folded his arms and fixed his sternest scowl on his face. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Auchter’s messengers—nor being insulted by what Laird Auchter thought was a proper payment for his brother’s life.
Six men entered the hall, disarmed as he had commanded. To his surprise, they were accompanied by a young woman—dark-haired, green-eyed, and clearly confused. She looked frightened and weary, her eyes wide as she looked around the hall.
The men came to a stop. Then, with a smirk, the leader of the soldiers reached back, seized the young woman roughly by the arm, and shoved her forward. The girl made a startled noise, staggering and then falling in a heap at Conall’s feet.
“What…? Where…?”
Conall had been prepared to be insulted, but he had not expected to be confused. And yet here he was, with a frightened woman stammering questions at him from the floor.
With a weary sigh, Conall turned to face the men, ignoring the woman for now.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice heavy with threat.
“This is the gift our Laird promised ye. A life for a life, to end the feud between the clans.”
The man’s cold smile widened, and the instant dislike Conall had felt when he walked in somehow deepened. He had not thought that was even possible.
“’Tis Laird Auchter’s granddaughter,” the soldier went on, clearly enjoying the effect the ‘gift’ was having. “He hopes she will be enough for ye to consider the matter over.”
Conall looked down at the girl with renewed interest. Laird Auchter’s granddaughter. Blood kin for blood kin. It was most likely a trap; he wasn’t stupid enough to consider the Laird’s giftgenuine. But even if it wasn’t a trap, the lass looked terrified, and judging by the bindings on her wrists, it was obvious that she had not come here willingly.
There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand. Conall had no love of things he didn’t understand—he didn’t have time for them. And with Laird Auchter involved, he was also deeply suspicious.
Whatever the old man intended by sending this girl to him, he had no intention of letting his schemes come to fruition.
“Nay,” he said in a tone that brooked no opposition. “I’ll nae consider the matter over just yet.”
He bent down to look the lass in the eye. She gasped and tried futilely to scramble away from him, making him sigh again in frustration.
“Now then, lass,” he said. “I have some questions for ye.”
Brigid couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so terrified—if, indeed, ever. She was bruised, battered, and bound, lying on the floor of an unfamiliar Great Hall and staring at the huge, imposing figure of a man. And that was only the latest terrifying thing to happen to her in the past day.
First, the men had tied her up. Then, they’d ridden for candlemarks upon candlemarks, barely stopping to rest or eat. Brigid, who was not used to riding such long distances, was sure her hips and thighs would never recover, nor her bruised and raw wrists.
None of the men had spoken to her, beyond a curt command to “Eat this, so ye dinnae faint” or “Drink” or, in one case, “Silence yerself, or we’ll gag ye.”
Then, they’d dragged her into this castle and dumped her in front of a man who was easily as imposing as her father’s pirate friends in a temper.
He was handsome in a way, she supposed. Tall, muscular, with hair almost the same shade as her own, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen on a man. His face was strong and stern, but his expressions were rendered cruel and vicious by the scar that stretched from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. The scar was pink and new-looking—obviously a recent wound. She did not dare imagine how he might have acquired it.
There was no warmth in his eyes, however, and his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword as if ready to use it at the slightest provocation. Menace radiated from every line of his impressive build, turning him into a statue of brooding fury that made her want to crawl away or curl into a ball to defend herself.
He was the most terrifying person Brigid had ever encountered, even considering some of the men who had worked with her father—and that was saying something. At least with the pirates,her father would have ensured that she and her sisters were safe—the men feared him too much to do them any harm. She had no such assurance here, however, and fear tangled in her gut until she feared she might be sick—which she had a feeling would not go down well with the man standing in front of her.
