Page 46 of Trapped By the Wicked Highlander
His heart clenched at the sight of his daughter, her small hands gripping Margaret’s sleeve as if afraid she’d disappear again. Heexhaled sharply through his nose, forcing down the fury that threatened to boil over.
“I’ll see ye in me meetin’ room after ye’ve had time with Elena,” he said, his voice cold, measured.
Margaret gave a slow nod, her expression unreadable. “Aye, we’ll talk soon, then.”
She smoothed Elena’s hair, murmuring something soft that Hunter couldn’t hear. Without another word, he turned on his heel, striding toward the castle like a storm rolling in.
As soon as he stepped inside, his boots echoed sharply against the stone floor. His muscles were taut with frustration, his mind a whirlwind of anger and unease. Margaret’s sudden reappearance was an insult, a slap to the life he had tried to rebuild.
For years, he had buried her in words and stories, made peace with the consequences of her choices—and now, like a ghost, she had returned to upend it all.
He shoved open the door to his meeting room and entered, his movements stiff with fury. He needed answers, but more than that, he needed control. The past had clawed its way back into his life, and he wasn’t sure if he could force it back into the grave he had made for it. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, trying to settle the fire burning in his chest.
A sudden knock at the door made his head snap up. Before he could respond, the door flew open, and Daniel burst in like a gust of wind, his face pale as death.
“Hunter—” Daniel’s voice was breathless, his chest rising and falling as though he had run the length of the castle. His eyes were wild, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to form words.
“She’s in the courtyard—Margaret—she—she’s alive!”
Hunter folded his arms, his expression dark. “Aye, I ken.”
Daniel gawked at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to process what he had just heard. “Ye kent this?” His voice cracked, disbelief plain in his tone. “How in the bloody hell could ye kent that? We all thought she was dead—ye told us she was dead!”
Hunter gestured to a chair. “Sit down, Daniel.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. When Daniel hesitated, still staring at him as if he had lost his mind, Hunter barked, “Now.”
With a wary glance, Daniel sank into the chair, though his hands still clenched at his sides. “Start explainin’,” he demanded. “Because I feel like I’m losin’ me damn mind.”
Hunter took a slow breath, forcing himself to keep his voice level.
“Years ago, when I told everyone she was dead, it was because she asked me to.” His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the memory a bitter taste on his tongue. “She was too ashamed of what she had done—ashamed of bein’ unfaithful—so she begged me to send her away. But she dinnae want anyone to ken the truth, so I told the clan she had perished.”
Daniel’s mouth fell open, his shock turning to something like outrage. “Ye mean to tell me that all this time—?” His voice was thick with disbelief, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “And ye let everyone grieve her, let Elena grow up thinkin’ her maither was dead?”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “What was I supposed to do, Daniel? Let the clan ken their lady had run off like a coward? Let Elena live with the shame that her maither had abandoned her willfully?” His voice was sharp, the weight of his decision pressing heavy against his chest.
Daniel exhaled, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “God above, Hunter,” he muttered. “I dinnae ken whether to call ye a fool or a martyr.” His gaze flicked up, searching Hunter’s face. “But why is she back now? What does she want?”
Hunter’s stomach twisted with the same question. “That,” he said darkly, “is what I mean to find out.”
Hunter poured the whiskey into his glass, the amber liquid sloshing gently with the tilt of his hand. He took a slow sip, the burn spreading through his throat as he leaned back in his chair. His thoughts were a swirl of frustration and confusion. He had never expected Margaret to show up again, and now that she was here, he wasn’t sure what to make of her return.
A few moments passed in silence, broken only by the clink of the glass as he set it back on the table. Then, there was a knock—lighter than before, almost tentative. Hunter’s gut tightened as he stood, setting his chair aside. With a swift motion, he crossed the room and opened the door, his scowl deepening when he saw Margaret standing there, her eyes softer now than when they had first met.
“Why, Margaret?” Hunter’s voice was thick with distrust, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I daenae trust ye. Nae after what ye’ve done.” He wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or the anger festering inside him, but he could feel the bitterness creeping into his tone.
Margaret’s eyes softened, and she stepped closer, her hand hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm. “Hunter,” she said in a voice far too sweet for the storm swirling between them. “Ye’re bein’ cold to me. I’ve come back to try and make things right.” Her fingers lingered on his arm, but Hunter stepped back, brushing her hand away as if it burned him.
“I cannae trust ye,” Hunter repeated, his voice low and hard. “Ye’ve lied to me, made a fool of me, and now ye show up here asif nothin’ happened. What is it ye want, Margaret? Why have ye come back after all this time?”
Margaret took a breath, steadying herself before speaking. “Gossipin’ tongues reached me ears, Hunter,” she said, her voice suddenly more serious. “I heard ye attacked a man in the village. And that man turned out to be me faither, Michael Couper.”
She paused, her expression pleading, a soft desperation creeping into her features. “Once I heard that, I kent that I had to come here. I cannae let ye hurt me faither.”
Hunter’s brow furrowed at her words, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I dinnae attack him, Margaret,” he snapped. “Michael attacked me first. He’s been lookin’ for a reason to blame me ever since ye disappeared. He thinks I killed ye, and he’s been holdin’ that grudge for years. If anyone should be askin’ for forgiveness, it’s him.”
His voice shook with barely contained anger, his fists clenching at his sides.
Margaret’s face paled at his words, and she stepped back slightly, her breath catching in her throat. “Ye’re tellin’ me... me faither thinks... ye killed me?” Her voice trembled, and for a moment, Hunter saw a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, the same eyes he had once loved, but now did not trust to be real emotions.
