Page 67 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
Sweet, blessed, merciful saints… one kiss and I’m actin’ like a lovesick fool.
“I didnae mean tae interrupt,” she said quickly, already backing away toward the door. “I was just–”
“Nay, please.” Ian rose from his chair with that same fluid grace that always made her pulse flutter. “Come in. I’d like ye tae meet me braither.”
Rhona’s gaze shifted to the man beside Ian, and she could immediately see the family resemblance. Both men had the same mossy-green eyes, the same strong jaw – though this man carried himself with more lightness that spoke of fewer battles fought and fewer responsibilities shouldered.
“Well, well,” the brother said, rising with an impish grin. “Ian didnae mention he was entertainin’ such lovely company.”
“Athol,” Ian warned, though there was no genuine heat in his voice, only affection.
“What? I’m simply admirin’ yer… hospitality, braither.” Athol’s eyes danced with roguish playfulness as they flicked between Ian and Rhona. “Though, braither, I have tae admit, yer taste in guests has certainly bettered since we were lads.”
Heat flooded Rhona’s cheeks, and she was grateful when the third person in the room stepped forward with a gentle smile.
“Dinnae mind him,” she said, her voice carrying the cultured tones of nobility, “Athol forgets his manners when he’s excited. I’m Olivia.”
“Rhona Mac–” she caught herself just in time. “Rhona.”
But as Olivia smiled and moved closer to Ian, Rhona picked up on an undercurrent that made her stomach clench with an emotion she didn’t want to examine too closely. There was something in the way Olivia’s eyes softened only when they rested upon Ian’s face. They way she seemed to unconsciously lean toward him – like a flower turning toward sunlight, and the way her fingers brushed along his arm when she spoke to him.
Of course… she’s in love with him.
The realization hit Rhona like a physical bow, threatening to knock the wind right out of her. This beautiful, refined woman – who could only be a childhood friend who clearly knew Ian better than most people ever would – was completely and utterly besotted with him.
“So, tell me, braither,” Athol continued, settling back into his chair with obvious relish. “How daes it feel tae be laird of the same clan that threw us out like dogs all those years ago?”
Ian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “They’re good folk, Athol. The past is the past.”
“Good people?” Athol’s laugh held a sharp, bitter edge. “These are the same wretches who watched us starve when Grandfaither was cast out. The same ones who turned their backs when we needed help and–”
“That was Douglas’s daein’, nae theirs, and ye ken it well enough.” Ian’s voice carried the weight of conviction. “I’ve lived among them now, worked and fought beside them. They’re nae monsters, just… innocent folk who got caught up in their laird’s madness.”
Rhona studied Ian’s profile as he spoke, noting the earnest intensity of his expression. He truly believed what he was saying, she realized. Despite everything his family had suffered through at the hands of Clan Wallace, he’d managed to find forgiveness.
How daes he dae it?How daes he just… let go of all that hurt and anger?
“If ye say so,” Athol said, though his tone suggested he remained unconvinced. “But I still say–”
“Och, hush now,” Olivia interrupted smoothly, her gaze shifting to Rhona with polite courtesy. “Who is this lovely lass, Ian? Ye havenae introduced us properly.”
Ian’s eyes met Rhona’s, and she saw something flicker through them – uncertainty, perhaps, or caution. “Rhona is… a guest of Clan Wallace.”
The words hung in the air like morning mist, neither quite truth nor lie. Rhona felt her cheeks burn anew at the careful neutrality of it. A guest. As if she were here entirely by choice, as if she could leave whenever she pleased.
Well, what did ye expect the man tae say?‘Och, this here’s the lass I’m holdin’ prisoner – a captive bride-tae-be.’
“A guest,” Athol echoed, his grin widening with wicked delight. “How… fascinatin’. And what manner of guest are ye, bonnie Rhona? The kind who stays fer dinner? The kind who stays fer a week? Or perhaps…” his eyes danced with childish mischief, “are ye the kind who stays indefinitely?”
“Athol,” Ian’s voice carried a note of warning that his brother cheerfully ignored.
“What? I’m just curious.” Athol’s tone was innocent, but his meaning was crystal clear to everyone in the room.
Rhona felt mortification crawl up her spine like ivy on a wall. It was bad enough that she was trapped there against her will.
If his own braither thinks me tae be his… his paramour, what will others think?
“Perhaps,” Olivia said quickly, clearly sensing the awkward tension, “ye could tell us more about yerself, Rhona? Are ye from these parts?”
