Page 33 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“As rare as findin’ a laird who is so predictable with his flirtin’,” she quipped back, feeling more brazen than she ever had in her life, her veins alight with a giddy fire.
Kaiden laughed heartily. “Och, I like ye, lass. I like ye very much. I cannae recall the last time a lass didnae even blush at me attempts at seduction. I must be losin’ me touch.”
“Nay, I believe it’s somewhere above me hip,” she replied with a mischievous smirk, looking at Kaiden’s face but wishing it was Doughall’s. Wishing she could somehow do the impossible and get him to smile like that, to jest with her like that.
Kaiden grinned. “Ye’re a more fascinatin’ bird than I thought ye were.”
“Aye, well, when this dance is over, I hope ye dinnae feel too disheartened when ye have to watch me flap away.”
He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing another flirtatious remark, when he seemed to catch sight of something over Freya’s shoulder. His warm eyes narrowed, a puzzled look etched on his face.
She understood a moment later when a hand closed over her still-tender wrist and another came between them to shove Kaiden backward, pulling her away from him and into a sturdy, oddly familiar chest.
“Touch me betrothed again and I’ll break each of yer fingers,” Doughall snarled at Kaiden. “Slowly. One by one.”
Kaiden paled, his jaw slack. The threat seemed to be enough, as he walked away, dusting off his chest as if Doughall’s firm shove had left a mark. A few guests whispered behind their hands, a few others mocked Kaiden openly for not realizing who he had swept up into a dance, and the rest continued watching the entertainment, relishing every dramatic second with eager eyes. Maybe they were hoping for blood to be spilled.
“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Doughall growled, taking up the stance that Kaiden had previously held.
But the dance that Doughall led Freya into wasn’t as lively as before. Either the musicians were tired from the jig or they did not dare to play the same tune, choosing something more sedate for their Laird.
“I was bein’ courteous to the guests that yer aunt invited,” Freya replied through clenched teeth, a smile fixed on her face. “Would ye have me refuse to dance with another Laird and risk insultin’ him? I might be mistaken, but I seem to remember that clan wars have been started over less.”
His lip twitched. “Do ye ken who that man was?”
“Laird MacMillen.”
“His reputation?”
She shrugged as they turned in slower circles, her feet welcoming the reprieve. “A terrible flirt, but an excellent dancer.”
Something dangerous flared in Doughall’s gray eyes, and Freya wished she had swallowed her words. Suddenly, she no longer felt quite as brazen. He did not wait for the music to end, looping her arm through his and pulling her out of the Great Hall.
A fiddle player caught the string wrong as they exited, a sharp note pursuing them out of the room, sounding exactly like the shrill jolt of concern that pierced through her chest.
She had taken it too far. He wasn’t jealous, he was just angry.
Ersie had too much confidence in me and him. He doesnae feel anythin’ butanger.
He dragged her down the hall, and when she tried to resist, he shot her a look that said,I’ll throw ye over me shoulder again if ye dinnae obey.
A cold gust of wind shocked her as Doughall opened a small doorway and led her out into a grassy courtyard, surrounded on three sides by ornate cloisters, the arches illuminated by candlelight. The beauty of it took her breath away for a moment. It was a shame she had to share such loveliness with a huffing, puffing bear.
“Ruse or nae, for one month, ye’re still me betrothed,” Doughall began, his hot breath pluming in the air. “Ye’ll do exactly as I say. Ye willnae just do as ye please. Ye’ll?—”
“Are ye jealous?” she interrupted, meeting his gaze with whatever lingering boldness she possessed.
She braced for angry surprise or angrier denial. She got neither. He stood there, breathing slowly, his eyes like two tiny, mirror-still lochs, as flinty as the shingle shore she had visited the day before.
Had he heard her? She felt like she had spoken loudly enough, but perhaps she had not.
“Is that why ye’re beratin’ me?” she said, a faint tremor in her voice. “Are ye jealous because Laird MacMillen asked me to dance and ye didnae? Or was it because he made me laugh? Because it wasnae… like squeezin’ blood from a stone with him?”
His deathly silence sent a shiver down her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself, pretending it was just the cold of the night that had her trembling so and not the anxious—and somewhat curious—anticipation that thrummed in her veins.
His boots crunched on the night-frosted grass, leaving imprints that twinkled beneath the moonlight that had crept out sometime between the library and the dancing. Stars hung like jewels on black velvet, winking a warning she had not cared to note.
“That tongue of yers has grown too wild,” he said quietly, but if he was aiming for menace, he had missed the mark and struck seduction instead. “Sounds to me like ye need disciplinin’, so ye’ll remember yer place. Remember who ye belong to while ye’re within these walls.” He lowered his head, his warm breath fanning her cheek. “I’ll give ye a hint—it’s nae Laird MacMillen. That bastard isnae fit to lick yer boots.”
