Page 7 of The Highlander's Auctioned Hellion
“If I could,” she said vehemently, “I would leave London and never see any of them again.”
Those slim fingers tugged viciously at her dress; her jaw set in a line of rage and disappointment that made his chest ache.
Within three seconds, he had made his decision.
“Then it is settled, lassie. Ye belong to me now.”
CHAPTER 3
Before Lydia knewwhat was happening, the enormous man she had collided with was striding away from her toward her father.
His voice had had a strangely soporific effect on her, rumbling across her in waves, like a calm tide rolling into shore.
Stunned into silence and paralyzed for a moment, she saw he was ten yards away before she gathered herself enough to pursue him.
Lydia lifted her skirts and ran after him, calling futilely. His legs ate up the distance between the rose garden and the house in seconds, and Lydia struggled to reach him, stretching out an arm in desperation.
“Wait, wait! Sir, what did you say?”
Her fingers closed on his arm and tugged. His stride didn’t falter a jot, continuing as if she were not even there.
Does he even feel my hand? Is his skin made of iron?
Desperate, she dug her nails in, and he slowly came to a stop but did not turn around.
Releasing him, her eyes were drawn to his wide back, the breadth of his shoulders. She had thought his size might have merely been her mind playing tricks on her, but in the fading evening light, he looked like a giant.
If he chose to, he could probably kill every man in that room with a single punch.
“Laird Murray,” he murmured.
“What?”
“My name, lass. Be sure to remember it. I am nay ‘Sir’. From now on, I am yer Laird.”
Lydia didn’t know what he meant—Laird of where?
She had an urgent need to see his face again, something tugging at the back of her mind, a shadow she thought she had seen in the dappled light beneath the roses.
“I am goin’ to do as ye ask, lassie. Yer wish is granted. I shall take ye away from London, from all these daft auld carls once and for all.”
“And what must I do in return?” she demanded as he finally turned to face her.
Lydia saw his face in the light for the first time and forgot everything else she had been about to say.
The Laird was terribly scarred. His face was disfigured by two long cuts running down from his forehead to his jaw.
What could have caused those? They look almost deliberate.
A shudder ran down her back as thoughts galloped through her head, each one more terrible than the last.
It was a ghastly visage, and Lydia knew that many in the vacuous society she had been born into might have turned away or flinched back at the sight. But she had never been one to judge anyone on their looks. Her father had done that to her mother all his life, and she did not intend to do the same now.
Moreover, behind the scars, there was a masculine, strong-looking face. She found her eyes lingering on his lips—far plumper than she would have expected on a man.
Her gaze remained steady and certain as he stared down at her, his eyebrow rising in surprise.
“Ye will be me bride, of course. Ye’ll come to Scotland with me,” he replied.
