Page 9 of An English Rose for the Highlander
But the moment she walked further into the space, Rose stopped short, her entire being freezing up.
Lord Egerton.
There, at the bar, was her ex-fiancé, well into his cups, stumbling, and undoubtedly using the money stolen from her family to pay for the copious amounts of alcohol he’d already consumed, at least going by the number of empty glasses in front of him and the apparent annoyance of the barkeep.
Everything that he’d claimed from her dowry before he ran off, and the man was foxed in an inn, making passes at every woman who walked by him. Rose scoffed to herself, fury raging in her blood, and she stomped over to him, grabbing the cup out of his hand and throwing the remaining drink into the bastard’s face.
“How dare you. You steal from me and my family, leaving us so injured, and now you are drinking it all away in some inn!”
“Rose?” the Viscount stuttered, shaking droplets of the drink from his face as she gaped at her. Still, almost immediately after, his expression contorted with rage, only slightly held back by the fact that they were in public.
“Are you out of your mind? What right do you have to come up to me out of nowhere and treat me as if I were some common lout!”
The Viscount stood, the stool he’d been seated on scraping against the floor with a terrible groan. She had forgotten that the man was a fair bit taller than she, even if the Laird put him to shame. And strangely enough, as she looked at him now, she could not help but compare the two in her mind.
Ambrose Lockhart, Lord Egerton, the man who had stolen a great deal from Rose and her family, looked so much slimier and more off-putting now. Perhaps it was the drink that flowed in his system, but Rose could also see him better now, without the optimistic allure of a potential match.
He was almost thirty, with receding blonde hair. The years, though not terribly numerous, had not been kind to Ambrose, nor had he been kind to anyone else during that time. He was slender enough, but hunched ever so slightly, and his blue eyes were unfocused and mean as she faced off with him.
“Be gone, woman. Before I have you dispatched of directly.”
“I will go,” Rose quirked a brow, crossing her arms, “because standing in front of you is like being too close to a rubbish bin. But I will have you know,Viscount, you have achieved nothing of great importance by seeking to ruin me. I have still matched with a husband, and your fingers did not close upon everything in my dowry before you left like a thief in the night.”
That beady stare of his flared wider, his brows raising as the anger radiated off the man, hot and scratchy.
“What?” The word was a coarse snarl.
“I travel with my new husband to this very inn. Or did you think I’d come solely to find you?”
The tension between them hit an all-time high, and Rose watched as the man she’d once believed to be at the very least kind enough to wed reared his hand back, his stare wild and furious.
He means to strike me.
Rushing through her like lightning, the thought warned of the pain to come, but Rose did not flinch away or pull back. They stood in a dining hall in a public inn. If this man wished to hit her in front of all these people, he could face the consequences, and she would not make herself small to appease him.
“Hedge-born cat.”
Rose’s jaw dropped as the quickly whispered words struck her before the Viscount’s hand. She felt her pulse dance in her throat, preparing for the impact as the booming sound of footsteps hurried in her direction.
Him. The Laird is here.
She could tell it before she turned and looked over her shoulder at his hulking figure. Something about the power of the steps, the flash of intensity that escorted them, told her precisely who rushed in her direction. As Lord Egerton’s hand swung down, another shot out from over her shoulder, catching him at the wrist.
Heat filled her, and Rose looked back to find Laird MacKay standing right behind her.
“What in God’s name?—”
But before the Viscount could manage another word, the Laird stepped around Rose, putting her behind him as he seethed, the rage dwarfing the pitiful amount she’d seen from Ambrose. Were he not there to defend her, Rose honestly would have been terrified.
As it was, she stood behind her new husband at a loss for words, staring wide-eyed as he exchanged words with the Viscount.
“Only a very brave man, more likely, a monumentalfoolwould lay hands on anyone who isnae his, let alone the wife of a Scottish Laird.”
Lord Egerton blinked up at Laird MacKay, who genuinely towered over everyone, vainly attempting to free his hand from the man’s grip. His voice a low growl that shook her bones, her husband continued to berate the Viscount, stepping forward without releasing his hold.
“So, which is it? A brave man or a fool?”
Silence thickened around them, congealing like soup left out to go cold. It was clear Laird MacKay meant to hear Ambrose’s answer, not letting up, squeezing the man’s wrist bones so that he hissed, and raising his brows as he leaned into the Viscount’s face.
