Page 6 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
Outside her tiny window, the last light of day faded into darkness, and Rhona MacAlpin settled in to wait for whatever dawn might bring.
CHAPTER TWO
Three months later, Castle Wallace
“How long has she been down here?”
The unfamiliar voice drifted through the stone walls like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Rhona stirred from her huddled position on the straw pallet, blinking against the sudden torchlight that spilled through the bars of her cell door. After all that time in that cursed dungeon, she’d grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of her captivity – thin gruel twice daily, emptying of the waste bucket once a week, and blessed silence between the guard’s infrequent visits.
But this voice was different. Deeper than the guard’s, with an authority that made her skin prickle with awareness.
“Three months, maybe more, me laird,” came the nervous reply the guard.
Me laird?
Rhona pressed herself against the cold stone wall, straining to hear more.
“And nay one thought to inform me that we were holdin’ a prisoner?”
The edge of displeasure in those words sent a strange flutter through Rhona’s chest. She’d heard variations of that tone from her father when he discovered incompetence among his men, but this voice carried something different – a quality that spoke of controlled power.
“We… we thought ye kent, Laird Wallace. The previous laird said she was important… fer negotiations.”
Laird Wallace.
Rhona’s heart pounded with confusion and fear. Previous laird? What had happened to Douglas? And who was this man who now commanded with such quiet authority?
“Open it.”
The command was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. Rhona heard the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted, then the creak of ancient hinges as her cell door swung wide.
Torchlight flooded the small space, forcing her to shield her eyes with one trembling hand. Through the brilliant haze, she made out a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway – broad shoulders that filled the frame, confident stance, and an indefinable presence that seemed to be on the verge of consuming all the air in the cramped cell.
“God’s blood,” the voice breathed, and now she could hear the shock in it. “What have they done tae ye, lass?”
Rhona lowered her hand slowly, squinting against the light as her vision adjusted. The man before her was nothing like Douglas Wallace. Where the former laird had been lean and cruel, this one possessed the powerful build of a Highland warrior in his prime – all corded muscle and masculine strength that made her suddenly acutely aware of her own fragility. Dark brown hair caught the light with hints of auburn, and when their eyes met, she found herself drowning in the greenest gaze she’d ever seen – like deep, mossy forest pools touched by summer sunlight, framed by thick, dark lashes that only enhanced his rugged appeal.
Saints preserve me, he is magnificent.
The treacherous thought slipped through her defenses before she could stop it. Even in her weakened state, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened at the sight of him, her treacherous body responding to pure masculine magnetism. He was perhaps her own age, with strong features carved by some divine sculptor – a straight nose, firm jaw darkened withstubble, and lips that were neither too full nor too thin, but perfectly shaped for…
Stop.
She forced her wayward thoughts back to safer ground. He was tall enough that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, his presence overwhelming in the small space. Battle scars decorated his thick forearms and hands like badges of honor – evidence of countless fights survived – while tattoos wound around his left bicep. But there was something in his expression that spoke of honor rather than brutality, a gentleness in those remarkable eyes that made her stomach flutter with dangerous awareness.
“Who are ye?” she whispered; her voice rough from disuse.
“Ian Wallace.” He stepped into the cell, his powerful frame making the space even smaller. His scent enveloped her – leather and pine mixed with something uniquely male that made her pulse race and her skin prickle with awareness. The way he moved spoke of a predator’s grace, all controlled strength and lethal capability, yet when those green eyes fixed on her, she saw only gentle concern. “I’m the new laird of this clan.”
“New?” The word escaped her before she could stop it. “What happened tae Douglas?”
Something flickered in those green eyes – pain, perhaps or regret. “He fell in battle. I’ve inherited… this mess.”
“Another Wallace.” Bitterness crept into her voice despite her weakness. “Come to gloat over yer predecessor’s prize?”
“I’ve come tae understand why a lass is wastin’ away in me dungeon that I never kenned existed.”
The gentle tone caught her off guard. In her three months of captivity, no one had spoken to her with anything approaching kindness.
