Page 35 of The Ruthless Highlander's Hellion
Something inside of her burst into an explosion as she felt her sweet juices ooze out of her.
Nicholas groaned louder and louder as she saw his back stiffen. She held onto his shoulder as tremors rocked through her.
Then he too released as his growl echoed in the chamber.
What have I done?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Tell me, Marcus,” he said, voice low. “How do the walls hold? Any weaknesses I should ken about if we’re put to siege?” Nicholas kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched, the wind catching the edge of his plaid.
Marcus blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Siege, me laird? Are we expectin’ attack?” His voice held a nervous chuckle, clearly hoping it was a jest. But one look at Nicholas’ stony face wiped the humor away.
Their boots struck the worn path along the inner wall, the clink of their swords filling the silence between them.
Nicholas halted and turned toward him, eyes sharp and voice clipped. “I’m the laird. It’s me duty to ken the state of me walls, siege or nae.” He said nothing more, just stared at the man until the color drained from Marcus’s face. The silence stretched, thick and cold as the northern wind.
“Aye, me laird. Beg pardon,” Marcus said quickly, his back straightening. “I dinnae mean to question ye.” He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the stonework beside them. “The main gate’s still the strongest point—double barred, reinforced last season with iron bands.”
Nicholas nodded once, though the muscle in his jaw ticked.
He walked forward again, slow and steady, his hands behind his back. “And the curtain wall? How’s it holdin’?” he asked, though his tone left no room for comfort.
“Northwest corner takes the worst of the storms,” Marcus answered, hurrying to match his pace. “That patch has some erosion at the base—nothin’ urgent, but it should be reinforced soon. The southern wall is sound, though the walkin’ path’s narrow from wear.” He glanced at Nicholas, then looked away again quickly.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. The land stretched wide and empty beyond the stone, but his thoughts were filled with other dangers.
“Get the masons on that northwest patch before the week’s end,” he muttered. “I’ll nae have it crackin’ if any clan decides to play bold.”
Marcus stiffened, “Understood, me laird. I’ll send word to the foreman before mid-day.”
Nicholas gave a curt nod, but his mind was elsewhere. He could still feel the ghost of Alexandra’s lips on his, the warmth of her pressed against him. And now the thought of Rankin—vile bastard—layin’ claim to her stirred rage deep in his gut. He needed every wall in place, every gate secure, for what might come.
The wind howled across the battlements, tugging at his cloak like the claws of old ghosts. He looked down over the edge of the wall, watching the fields beyond the outer bailey stretch into the hills.
“And the watchmen?” he asked without looking. “Are they keepin’ eyes westward, as I ordered?”
“Aye,” Marcus answered, his voice steadier now. “Rotations changed last night. We doubled the evenin’ watch—Connor leads the second shift. Nay word of movement near the borders.”
“Good,” Nicholas said flatly. His fists tightened behind his back.
Marcus only nodded, lips pressed tight.
Nicholas stopped once more at the far end of the wall walk, looking back at the length they’d covered. Stone, solid and high, strong as the men who bled to build it—but still not enough.
“Reinforce the supplies as well,” he added. “If a clan should lay siege, we’ll nae be starved into submission.”
“Aye, me laird,” Marcus murmured, bowing his head. “I’ll see to it all.”
Behind his sharp orders and clipped words burned something else. Not just anger. Not just duty. It was fear—not for himself, but for the dark-haired lass who haunted his mind like fire in the snow.
The courtyard below him bustled with soft chatter and the steady rhythm of boots on stone, but Nicholas’s eyes found only one thing—his son, Charles, darting about under the watchful eye of the nursemaid.
The boy’s laughter rose like birdsong, chasing away the heaviness in Nicholas’s chest. Without a word, he strode down the stairs and across the yard, and Charles turned at the sound of his boots, beaming. “Faither!” the lad cried, arms wide.
Nicholas scooped him up with a smirk, hoisting him onto his broad shoulders.
“There ye are, me wee hawk,” he said, raising him up high as Charles giggled above him. “High enough to see the whole kingdom now, aye?”
