Page 20 of The Highlander's Auctioned Hellion
She stood her ground until he was within a foot of her, and then her courage failed, and she stepped back, her shoulders hitting the door again as the breath burst from her lungs.
His huge forearms were at eye level, his scarred face looking down at her expectantly. It struck her in that moment that his face was far from being ugly. The scars might have marred it, but beneath the frowning fury was a sharp jaw, long straight nose, and deep soulful eyes like a lake in the summer sun.
“I’m listenin’,” his voice had the same soporific quality it had had in the gardens. Lydia was unable to suppress a shiver as it rolled over her.
She clenched her fists tightly as she looked up at him, refusing to look away.
“Well… you promised me freedom, and I want it forever, not just the first few years. You can never send me back to my father against my will. And I want my mother and brother to be able to visit whenever they want. And I know you said you want no heirs…” she trailed off, wondering whether she had the courage to say it.
“Yes?”
“But that doesn’t give you the right to take other women to your bed if you change your mind.”
She stuck out her chin defiantly, nerves rising again as she considered what she was asking.
Even if he tells me he will not take other women to his bed, I have no proof that he will hold by that. My father said the same to my mother, and that was a lie, too.Those deep blue eyes stared down at her with an unreadable look, as if he were trying to decipher an interesting problem.
For some reason, the thought of this man lying with any woman disturbed her more than it should have on such a brief acquaintance.
She held his gaze, swallowing around the lump that formed in her throat.
The Laird had not moved for some time, the same odd expression on his face. The scars distorted the line of his eyebrows, making it look as if the one on the left was perpetually raised in surprise.
“Why would I choose to lie with other women if I change me mind?” he asked.
Slowly, his arms unfurled, and he placed them on either side of her head, leaning his body over her, until she was bent backward beneath him. The position did strange things to her insides.
“Have ye prohibited me from touchin’ ye and I dinnae remember?”
She shuddered, her fingers clutching at her skirts, willing herself to keep looking into his eyes.
This man wasn’t intimidated by anything—he dominated every space and conversation he was a part of, as if he had every right to control everything and anyone around him.
“No,” she attempted. “But some men are so desperate to have an heir that suddenly their wife isn’t enough anymore.”
A rush of emotion threatened to overwhelm her.
“My father was so desperate for a son that he discarded his wife without a second thought and took her lady’s maid to his bed. When my brother was born, he forced my mother to raise a boy she hadn’t birthed because he wanted a son so badly. Men do what they want, and they always will.”
Thinking of her mother, the scandal of Tommy’s birth, and her father’s indifference to her unhappiness made her furious all over again.
Tears built in her eyes, and finally she had to look away, humiliated to show such weakness in the face of her future husband—a man who had probably never cried in his life.
“I suppose it is wrong of me to assume, but…”
The Laird uncoiled from his bent position above her, his hands sliding down the wall to just above her shoulders, before he pulled away completely.
“Nay,” he whispered. “It is good to assume the worst. Even wise. But ye need have nay fear on that score, oh bride of mine. I dinnae care for heirs, and I certainly dinnae care for any woman.”
That response was almost worse.
Lydia certainly had not wished to be forced to bear a man’s heir if she could avoid it, but to be condemned to a loveless marriage just like her mother and father had experienced—becauseof her father—was a bitter blow.
But it must be better than staying in London and marrying a man twice my age.
She sighed, standing at her full height and nodding, pulling at her travel-creased clothes and smoothing her hair.
The Laird’s hand jerked forward in an aborted movement toward her, and then he clenched his massive fist and made a growling sound at the back of his throat.
