Page 52 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
The flowery language failed to disguise the underlying threat – or the suspicious timing of his request for a meeting. The man wanted to discuss ‘mutual concerns’ and ‘beneficialarrangements’, but Ian would wager his sword arm that the real purpose had more to do with testing Wallace defenses than any legitimate desire for peace.
The words themselves made Ian’s skin crawl as if tiny insects were marching across his flesh. Each carefully chosen phrase dripped with false courtesy, the kind of honeyed poison that ambitious men used when they wanted something they had no right to claim. Lachlan spoke of things like ‘recent developments’ and ‘changing circumstances’ – as if Rhona’s presence at Castle Wallace was some political windfall rather than the result of his predecessor’s cruelty.
“Listen tae this,” Ian said, his voice thick with disgust as he read the letter aloud. “‘It has come tae me attention that certain… arrangements… made by me late cousin Douglas may require reconsideration in light of recent developments.’ The bastard actually has the gall tae call her an ‘arrangement’.”
Tristan’s face darkened. “He speaks of her as if she were property tae be traded.”
“Och, aye, and that’s exactly what he thinks she is.” Ian’s fist clenched around the parchment, crumpling it further. “It gets better,” he cleared his throat dramatically before continuing, “‘Perhaps we might discuss how best tae honor the intentions of those who came before us, while adressin’ the concerns of those who remain.’ He’s makin’ it sound like there was some sort of formal arrangement when we both ken Douglas simply took her by force.”
The very thought of it made Ian’s stomach turn. Douglas Wallace had been exactly that callous – treating women as nothing more than political assets to be bartered and traded. But hearing Lachlan speak of Rhona in the same cold terms, pretending that Douglas’s kidnapping and imprisonment was some legitimate arrangement to be honored – it made Ian’s blood boil with a fury that surprised him with its intensity.
And Rhona was away from the castle, he realized with a stab of anxiety, sharp as a dirk between his ribs. Just as Lachlan sent word about a meetin’.
“What are yer orders, me laird?” Tristan asked, his face creased with concern.
Ian set the letter down and moved towards the window, gazing out over the courtyard where everything appeared peaceful. Guards walked their routes, servants went about their duties, and the afternoon seemed as tranquil as a Highland loch on a windless day. Yet, underneath that calm surface, Ian could feel the beginnings stirring of a danger that pulled at everything he’d worked to rebuild.
But even as he watched the normal rhythm of castle life pass by, Ian’s mind was calculating distances and timing. How long would it take riders to reach Kilcairn from MacPherson lands? How many men could Lachlan field without attracting notice? The questions multiplied like weeds in his mind, each one more troubling than the last.
“The timin’ of this message bothers me even more than its content,” he said slowly, his warrior’s instincts prickling with unease. “Lachlan kens our routines, our habits. He’d ken when our defenses might be stretched thin.”
Tristan’s eyes sharpened with understanding. “Ye suspect he’s been watchin’ us, me laird?”
“I dae.” Ian said bluntly. “I think he’s been watchin’her.” The words came out harsher than intended, but the truth of them settled in his gut like cold iron. “Every time she leaves the castle, I think it’s safe tae assume someone’s been takin’ note of that.”
Ian considered his next words with care, his fingers drumming idly against his desk. “Double the watch on all approaches,” he said finally. “And send word tae our allies. MacLeod, MacKenzie – anyone who might have intelligence about MacPherson movements. I want tae ken exactly what Lachlan’s been daein’ these past weeks.”
“Aye, me laird. And the meetin’ he’s requested?”
Ian’s hands tightened on the stone windowsill until his knuckles went white. “We’ll consider it. But nae alone, and nae on his terms. If he truly wants tae discuss peace, he can prove it by withdrawin’ his raiders from our borders.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him – here he stood, trying to protect his clan from external threats, while the woman who’d become his greatest internal complication was beyond his ability to shield. Rhona was out there in the village, vulnerable andunaware of the political undercurrents swirling around her like a riptide, ready to drag her under.
She should be here,where I can keep her safe.
But even as the thought formed, he knew it for the selfish desire it was. Rhona MacAlpin had been more alive this morning than he’d ever seen her – eyes bright with purpose, voice warm with pure enthusiasm for the healing work ahead. Keeping her locked away in the castle might protect her body, but it would surely slowly kill her spirit, and he’d rather face a dozen Lachlan MacPhersons than watch that light fade from her stunning blue eyes.
The memory of her that morning rose unbidden in his mind – the way she’d practically glowed with excitement as she’d packed her healing supplies, the gentle patience she’d show the nervous young soldiers, the quiet confidence that had transformed her from captive to healer. She’d been finding herself again, piece by piece, and he’d been privileged enough to witness that transformation.
“She was so eager tae help out today,” Ian murmured, more to himself than to Tristan. “Like a bird finally allowed tae spread its wings.”
“She’s got a special touch, ‘tis true, me laird.” Tristan agreed, his voice carrying approval. “The lads speak of her with naethin’ but respect. Says she treats her patients like they matter, nae just as bodies tae be patched up.”
Ian’s chest tightened with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Pride? Affection?No – this was something deeper and more dangerous than that. Rhona had won over his men not through political maneuvering or calculated charm, but through simple human kindness – the same quality that made him care for her despite every reason he shouldn’t.
“There’s somethin’ else, me laird.” Tristan’s voice interrupted his brooding. “The Council’s been askin’ when they might have another word with ye. About… clan matters.”
Ian’s stomach clenched like a fist. He knew exactly what ‘clan matters’ meant – marriage, alliance, the growing pressure to secure Rhona as his bride before political circumstances made such an arrangement impossible. The council members had been circling him like vultures for days, each one convinced they had the perfect solution to the clan’s problems if only he’d listen to reason…
As if there was anything reasonable about forcing a woman into marriage against her will, no matter how much sense it made politically.
“They’ve been meetin’ without me?” Ian’s voice carried a note of weary resignation.
Tristan’s silence was answer enough.
“Plottin’, schemin’ bastards. What are they sayin’ now, then?” Ian asked, though he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.
“That ye’re lettin’ sentiment cloud yer judgement, me laird. That the MacAlpin lass has bewitched ye somehow.” Tristan’s voice was carefully neutral, but Ian knew him well enough to catch the undercurrent of frustration. “They think ye should assert yer rights as laird and be done with it.”
