Page 14 of Captured By the Cruel Highlander
By the time she entered the castle, she was soaked. The mud had already blackened her brown wedding dress, and now it was soaked with the rain, too.
As she looked around her, the castle’s interior surprised her. Wilkinson Castle was built from much darker stone and had a gloomy feel to it when the weather was bad. MacNiall Castle, on the other hand, was brighter. The MacNiall banners adorned the walls in the entryway, a pleasant mix of navy blue, yellow, and white. The crest in the center: a ship and a lion side by side.
“Can I help ye?” came a voice from behind her.
Emily turned around to find a tall man before her. He had graying hair, a long nose, and elegant features. He was tall but not as broad as Adam, and his gray eyes assessed her suspiciously.
“I am looking for Laird MacNiall.”
His eyebrows rose, and he tilted his head to the side. “And who might ye be to be searchin’ for him?”
“Emily Murray,” she said. “He kidnapped me durin’ me weddin’ this mornin’.”
Instantly, the man’s demeanor changed, and, to her astonishment, he gave her a low bow.
“Lady Emily,” he said. His gaze was much more friendly than Lady MacNiall’s had been. “I wasnae aware ye had arrived yet. Me name is Theodore Wells, the Laird’s man-at-arms.”
Emily looked over his lithe frame. He put her in mind of a dancer rather than a warrior, but she bowed in return.
“Do ye ken where he may be?”
“His study, I would presume. I can show ye the way,” he said and held out an arm for her to follow him.
The man moved with a grace that even she struggled to emulate. His gait was straight and sure, his head held high. Emily thought of the days in her youth when she learned etiquette, keeping her back straight as she walked with a book on her head. This man’s posture would rival that of many of the women she knew.
They walked together down long, pale corridors. There were tapestries and portraits everywhere, and Emily found herself quite overwhelmed with the finery on display. Wilkinson Castle was drab by comparison.
After a short walk, Theodore stopped and turned around, gesturing theatrically to a door to her right. He gave another bow.
“Shall I announce ye?” he asked carefully—Emily’s hand was already on the door handle.
“I can manage, thank ye,” she said, and he gave her a knowing smile before departing.
Once he was out of sight, Emily burst into the study without hesitation, slamming the door behind her and fixing Adam with a glare.
The Laird was sitting behind his desk, re-reading the letter from his sister. He glanced up as she entered, evidently uninterested in her presence.
“What exactly are ye plannin’?” she asked sharply.
Laird MacNiall’s only answer was to place the letter on the desk and fix her with a long, penetrating stare.
She wanted to demand that he answer, but shelost her nerve. Sitting at a desk, his form was even more imposing—the very picture of authority.
He had dispensed with the furs and sash about his shoulders, but his arms were still bare, exposed to the faint light of the dying fire, and his long hair cascaded over the leather tunic he wore. The tunic hugged his frame so tightly that it was almost indecent.
Emily wondered what his body looked like beneath all those layers. Considering the size of his arms, she suspected that the rest of his body was muscular. She already knew of his impossible strength from the way he had lifted her onto his horse.
Her mind shifted against her will to other scenarios where he might be inclined to toss her about. His large hand rested on the desk, and she could not shake the image of his fingers touching her skin.
She shuddered.
He still had not answered her, and she held back the urge to stomp her foot. Subdued by that steely, brooding gaze, she tried a different tactic.
“Ye have brought me to yer castle, but I still dinnae understand what it is ye want from me,” she said cautiously. “Will ye nae explain it to me, now that we are here?”
He stood up, straightening his tunic as he did so, and made his way over to the fireplace. Lifting the poker from its stand, he jabbed at the coals and threw on some more logs as the flames began to lick at the dry wood.
Straightening, Laird MacNiall remained where he was, his back to the fire. His eyes were glassy for a little while, and then, as he turned to her, they sharpened. It was like looking at a peregrine falcon before it dove from the sky to capture its prey.
