Page 9 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
It was strange to him that he had never given Adam’s sister a second glance before, that he had not known that she was anything more than a wee mouse until now.
A tedious, wee thing.
Doughall urged his horse forward, his gaze narrowing as MacNiall Castle appeared before them. It was a fine castle, to be sure, but it seemed to pale in comparison to his own. He barely glanced down at the woman sitting stiffly in front of him; she was as silent as he’d ordered, her bound hands fisted on her lap.
Her silence was temporary, he knew, though he appreciated the few moments’ respite from her backtalk and whining.
“Ye can stop yer fussin’. We’re here,” he said flatly.
“I ken,” she muttered back, “since ye were kind enough nae to blindfold me too.”
He bent his head until they were practically cheek to cheek. “There’s still time.”
Her body stiffened, and she pulled herself forward, giving him a brief respite from the press of her body. But he knew the movement of the horse would only knock her back against him.
At the gates, Doughall dismounted, then reached up, grabbing her around the waist to lift her. Not so tenderly, he set her down. He did not look at her but couldfeelher eyes burning holes in his head.
“Me hands,” she snapped, holding out her arms.
“I dinnae take orders, lass. I give ‘em.”
He pulled her roughly to him, and without a second thought, he lifted her again and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her through the gates like the deserter that she was.
Try and make a fool out of me, would ye?
She did not beat her fists against his back this time, her embarrassed resignation obvious in her limp body. After all, these were her people; she would not want them to see her like this. She should have thought of that before she acted rashly.
“Please, can ye put me down,” she murmured quietly, a rasp of desperation in her voice.
Halfway across the near-empty courtyard, with most of the castle residents safely in their beds, Doughall set her down for the second time.
Without a word, he lifted her bound hands and rested them against his chest. Holding her gaze, he slowly fed the rope back through the central knot, taking care not to add to the redness that bloomed on her wrist. Her brother would take umbrage with any injury, and his point had been made—there was no reason to let her suffer further.
“Ye better hope that yer wee outin’ hasnae caused any lastin’ trouble,” he said, teasing the knot loose. “Did ye recognize yer attacker?”
She blinked, her brown eyes—the color of autumn leaves—turning suddenly wild behind her quaint spectacles. He could practically hear her heart beating out of her chest with terror.
Scared, wee mouse.
“Well?” he prompted coolly.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I’ll ask ye again tomorrow,” he said. “Ye better be ready to reply.”
If I dinnae ken the identity of the one who ran, I willnae ken whose head to chop off.
It was that wide, wild-eyed stare, so like the one he remembered before seeing it snuffed out forever. It stirred in him a murderous, vengeful rage that would not be sated until someone had paid the price with their blood. And hewouldcollect payment.
He was gentler than before as he eased the loops of rope over Freya’s hands, his fingertips skimming over the unblemished, smooth softness of her skin. Formerly unblemished, at least, for she now had cuts aplenty.
“Must ye be so rough?” she mumbled.
He shot her a dark look. Clearly, she had no idea how gentle he was being.
He pulled the last of the rope off her and draped it over his arm, before grasping her wrist to look at the red band that the friction had caused. With a smirk to himself, he wondered how loudly she would scream if he kissed it better.
“Ye’ll need a salve,” he said instead. “I trust ye’ll walk like a civilized lass to the healer?”
