Page 37 of The Ruthless Highlander's Hellion
“He is,” Nicholas said, watching him. “I want a better world for him. One where he doesnae have to fight the same battles I did.”
She nodded, folding her arms. “Then ye’ll have to be careful. The world doesnae forgive bold men who forget when to hold back.”
His gaze flicked to her. “And yet, I’ve never been good at holdin’ back.”
She looked away, a blush blooming on her cheeks. But she stayed beside him, close enough for their hands to brush.
Charlie turned toward them, still brushing the mare. “Will I get to teach me own bairn this one day?”
Nicholas smiled. “Aye, lad. That’s how ye pass on the good things.”
Charlie continued to play in the stables. Nicholas watched from afar as he stood beside Alexandra.
"How did she pass? Charlie's maither?" she asked.
"The same cursed way me own maither passed. In childbirth," he said.
"Oh, Nicholas I'm so sorry. I dinnae ken that," she said.
"We were paired together by the council. I cared for her but it was nae a true love. But like anythin’ I care for, it is taken from me," he said.
Nicholas swallowed hard, realizing he had said more aloud than he had ever done so before.
He stirred as he locked eyes with Alexandra and saw the compassion pooling in them.
"Look, Da! Look!" Charles ran to him with a toad in his hand, interrupting the moment, but it was too late. Nicholas had revealed much, and he regretted it.
Later that day, the corridor was quiet save for the soft tap of Nicholas’s boots against the stone. The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting golden lines across the walls. His thoughts were knotted, tangled between Alexandra’s flushed face in his arms and the weight of decisions yet to come. As he neared the door to his study, an old voice cleared behind him.
“Laird O'Donnell, a word if ye will,” came Alan’s familiar rasp.
Nicholas turned and found the elder councilman waiting, hands clasped, eyes lined with concern. He gave a brief nod and opened the heavy door, gesturing for the man to enter.
“This way, then.”
Alan stepped through, his gait slow but sure, as if even his bones understood the burden of council. Nicholas shut the door behind them and crossed to the hearth. He stood with his back to the flames, watching the older man with a sharp, unreadable gaze.
“Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”
Alan hesitated a beat, then folded his arms. “What is to be done with the lass? The men now ken who she is. The sister of Laird Caelan Sinclair. It willnae be long before he comes lookin’.”
Nicholas groaned and raked a hand through his hair. He turned and leaned a forearm on the mantel, staring into the flickering fire.
“I’ll take care of Caelan.”
Alan’s brows rose. “Aye? And how do ye mean to do that, then?”
Nicholas’s head snapped up, eyes glinting with warning. “I daenae need to explain me choices to ye, Alan. I’m the laird. Ye’d do well to remember that.”
The older man stiffened, but his voice stayed calm. “Aye, and I serve on yer council, which makes it me duty to speak when the clan’s safety is at risk. War’s nae a thing to be provoked lightly.”
Nicholas’s jaw clenched. The firelight threw his expression in shadow and flame, the anger etched plain across his face.
“I’ll nae be told how to run me own land,” he growled.
Alan took a slow breath, bowing his head slightly. “I mean nay disrespect, lad. But I’ve seen blood spill over less. If ye think Caelan’ll turn a blind eye to his sister vanishin’, ye’re daft.”
Nicholas turned away from him, muscles taut with fury and something else—guilt, perhaps. His fists curled at his sides, and for a moment, the study held only the soft hiss of the fire.
