Page 81 of Taken By the Ruthless Highlander
Troubled by his thoughts, he paced back and forth. He didn’t know what to do about his wife. Now that he had her, he couldn’t just let her go.
She had become a need, something he couldn’t live without. Even trying to go one day without seeing her lovely smile or stunning figure drove him mad. It was impossible, and with her scent lingering in his nostrils, there was no escaping her.
A sharp knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.
Ryder straightened to his full height and cleared his throat.
“Enter,” he called, his voice raspy.
He was in no mood for company at the moment—least of all Cohen’s company.
If he had crossed paths with the man any other time, ire and venom would have spouted from his lips. But Ryder wasn’t in his right mind at the moment. He was too busy coming to grips with the consequences of what he had done with his wife. Would she become clingy? Or would he become so needy that he’d start stalking her?
“My Laird, there is a matter I would like to discuss with ye,” Cohen said, stepping into the study. His nasal voice grated on Ryder’s nerves.
Ryder rounded his desk and plopped down in his leather chair. It moaned under his weight as he leaned back against the firm cushion.
“I’ve come as a council member to negotiate?—”
“If ye’ve come to talk about Nathan, save yer breath. I dinnae want to hear one word about it,” Ryder hissed as he watched Cohen inch closer to his desk. “Ye let him out. Ye released a man against my wishes. That’s treason.”
“Ye want to talk to me about treason?” Cohen sneered as he traced a finger across the aged oak desk.
Ryder remembered the first time he had seen that desk. The surface had been shinier and smoother, without the scratches and dents in it now. In his youth, he used to sneak into the study and pretend to work behind that desk like his father—likethe Laird. But now that he was older, he realized it was never the desk that people respected, but the one who sat behind it.
“By all accounts, ye shouldnae even be behind that desk,” Cohen growled. “Ye were banished. Cast out like the garbage ye are.”
“Aye, ye dinnae have to give me a history lesson,” Ryder drawled as he steepled his fingers.
His hatred for the man simmered beneath his skin. He was twitching like a predator lurking in the bushes, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The only problem was that Ryder wasn’t the only hunter in the area. Cohen was clever. He would never have become his father’s man-at-arms if he was a coward or weak man.
But if there was one thing Ryder had learned, it was to never underestimate the man.
“Good, because I would hate to have ye repeat it,” Cohen said, his eyes narrowing. “Ye may hold the title, but I hold the power. The men ye think are loyal to ye bend the knee tome. Now, I’m goin’ to make this clear and use simple words so that ye can understand. Nathan wasnae the one who went against the clan;yewere. And if ye continue to put yer wants above the needs of the clan, dinnae think for a second that the council willnae knock ye off yer high horse.”
“That sounds like a threat…”
Ryder took a moment to remember where he had put his weapons. If Cohen decided to strike, he would have to quickly dart for the dirk under the side table. Or maybe he would lunge for the swords above the mantelpiece. Either way, his mind was racing with various ways this exchange could end.
“Well, ye would certainly ken when ye hear one.” Cohen fiddled with the paperweight on the desk for a brief moment. “And it’s one that will only get louder. But mark my words, boy—the only reason ye’re still breathin’ is because I allow it.”
“Is that so? Then why nae dispose of me then, Ye wanted to, and daenae say ye dinnae. So. Get it over with. I’d rather die on my feet than drag this out a moment longer,” Ryder bit out, his body tensing, bracing for a fight. “And let me remind ye that I never asked to be Laird. If I had my way, this whole lot of land would be burned and salted so that nothin’ could ever grow out of it. The soil has been tainted with the blood of my maither, and it is as barren as my grave.”
“Because yer faither saw somethin’ in ye.” Cohen looked him up and down. “He saw in ye the makings of a great leader. I followed him till the day he died and swore that I’d serve the next Laird with the same loyalty.”
“Aye, but ye dinnae, do ye? Ye cannae stand the fact that I’m the Laird, that it was me the title went to. Or were ye hopin’ to assume the lairdship while I was in exile? Is that why ye’re spittin’ yer venom on me?”
“Ye tried to murder yer faither,” Cohen snapped.
In that instant, the man Ryder had known disappeared, only to be replaced by a demon. His face contorted with pure rage as he slammed his fist on the desk.
“He deserved it, and I would have succeeded if it hadnae been for ye,” Ryder replied with just as much vitriol.
Cohen’s thin, wrinkled lips curled at the corners as malice flashed in his eyes. “There it is,” he jeered. “Yer true nature comin’ out for all to see. It’s a pity Morgana isnae here to see it for herself. Then, maybe ye’d fall from that pedestal she has put ye on.”
“Leave her out of this,” Ryder hissed.
