Page 20 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Doughall sat on a stool across from the desk, leaning forward as he reached for one of the glasses. He took a sip, savoring the taste, then embraced the burn as it slid down his throat and into his belly. It tasted different from the last whiskey he had tried. Not bad, but different. There was a sweetness to it, something he could not quite place.
Flynn seemed to notice the look on his face. “A new recipe.”
“It’ll do well,” Doughall said, meaning it.
“Aye, as did ye. That lassie ye brought home… I wasnae expectin’ it. Och, she’s a bonny thing and nay mistake.” His uncle raised his glass. “To yer happiness, Doughall. It’s about bloody time.”
Doughall raised his glass but did not dare say a word about it. His mind reeled, thinking about last night in the study. He had been so close to overstepping, to losing a sliver of his rigid self-control.
She is nothin’ but trouble.
He would have to be more careful in the future, distancing himself in mind if not in body.
After polishing off his glass and listening to his uncle ramble on about the market north of Inverness, Doughall stepped outside. The morning was crisp, and there was the feel of rain in the air.
The distillery sat at the base of the hill, on the outskirts of the small village that sprawled at the foot of the castle. The scent of fresh earth and peat lingered in the breeze as he walked along the trodden path, his eyes scanning his surroundings with each step.
Once a week, he would go down for a sip of whiskey, and each time would seem much like the last time. The only difference now was that he was hosting Freya, and he was a suspicious creature by nature. Anything out of place, he would notice it. Any face he did not recognize, he would question.
As he passed the small stone cottages and wooden dwellings, the reaction was immediate and instinctual. The people scattered. Some bowed their heads in respect while others faded into the shadows of narrow alleys. It was always the same—an unspoken fear of the Devil that wandered among them.
Doughall had fed into it, allowed for such reactions to become the norm, and at times he welcomed it.
He looked up at MacGordon Castle, a seat held by the Laird for more than a century. It was in his blood, and it was one of the few things he truly loved. The castle was formidable. Built inthe early twelfth century, it had withstood sieges, rebellions, and storms that had torn through the Highlands like the wrath of God. It wore the scars on its weathered stone walls, a seasoned warrior ready to withstand whatever came next.
As he approached the gates, the guards stationed there straightened, their eyes never meeting his. He did not acknowledge them as he walked through, considering them part of the structure itself.
Ersie stood there, waiting for him. Her sharp eyes were hard as steel as she frowned, clearly upset. “Are ye nae concerned that he would come here?”
His eyes narrowed for a moment as he considered her question. “Aye, I have thought of it.”
“And yet ye’re rovin’ around with little more than yer dirk,” she huffed.
Her concern was noted, but not necessary. “It’s nae me he is after.”
That seemed to satisfy her, though her gaze flickered toward the castle walls as if searching for danger within the walkways and recesses where trouble could lurk. He could not blame her for being cautious—he felt it as well, but there was no point in waiting in fear.
“Is she awake?” he asked, changing the subject.
Ersie nodded. “Aye, she broke her fast in her chambers.”
There seemed to be more that his second-in-command wanted to say, but Ersie appeared to think better of it. Instead, she bowed her head. “I’ll be in the yard if ye need me.” Her voice was flat.
She hated the yard, hated to train.
Most did not take well to a woman being in such a position, especially some of the men she would instruct. They knew better than to voice their doubts or dislikes, but they were still there, persistent as Highland drizzle. Doughall had told her he would deal with whoever dared to speak ill of her, but she had insisted that let her handle it. And so she did, each morning in the yard.
She was a strong woman, formidable.Deadly. Unfortunately, it took some longer than others to realize it.
Doughall nodded before turning to leave, but her voice stalled him. “Are ye sure about this, Doughall? About this lass? I ken ye made a promise, but?—”
“Aye, I made a promise.”
And I should’ve kept me vow to never make a promise to anyone but meself.
With that, he left her there.
Freya had been avoiding her mother for most of the morning, but she soon found herself with nowhere else to go. Standing in the middle of a corridor was her mother, and she had no means of escape.
