Page 71 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
The knowledge contracted his gut like poison. How could he even think about pursuing anything with her when she was still suffering because of the Wallace name he bore?
“About yesterday–”
“The village folk are wonderful,” she said, her voice bright and brittle. “They were so grateful.”
“That’s nae what I meant.”
She turned away, fussing with Baird’s perfectly organized herb collection.
Ian’s temper stirred like embers catching flame. “I’m talking about our kiss.”
Her hands stilled on the glass vials, her knuckles turning white as she gripped them. “I dinnae recall.”
“Ye dinnae recall.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “Ye dinnae recall meltin’ in me arms? How about kissin’ me back like yer life depended on it?”
“Ye must be confusin’ me with someone else, me laird.” Her voice stayed steady, but he caught the telltale tremor in her fingers. “Perhaps ye’re thinkin’ of yer charmin’ guest?”
There it is.
Ian stepped closer, close enough to catch the quickening of her breath. “Olivia?”
“She seems quite taken with ye.”
“Is she?” He couldn’t suppress his smile at the note of forced casualness in her voice. “What makes ye think such a thing?”
“Please.” Rhona whirled to face him, blue eyes flashing with carefully controlled fire. “The way she hangs on yer every word? Touches yer arm when she laughs? Looks at he like ye hung the stars?” her face contorted into a combination of disgust and childish mocking.
“Ye’ve been watchin’ how Olivia looks at me.” Ian took another step closer, invading the careful space she’d tried to establish between them.
“I can be observant too, ye ken.” Rhona crossed her arms defensively, the gesture pulling the wool of her dress tighter across her chest. “Besides, ‘tis clear fer anyone with eyes tae see that she’s besotted with ye.”
Ian studied her face with the intensity of a scholar examining an ancient text. The flush still staining her cheeks, the way she avoided his direct gaze, the stubborn tilt of her chin that told him she was preparing for battle. “And that bothers ye because…?”
“It daesnae bother me.” The denial came too quickly, carrying the sharp edge of a lie. “I just thought ye should ken. Fer her sake.”
“How considerate of ye,” Another step brought him close enough to see her long, red lashes, and noticed her pupils dilate with awareness. “But ye’re wrong.”
“Wrong?” her brows shot up in disbelief. “Ian, the lass was practically purrin’ at ye. If that isnae a woman in love, I’m the Queen of France.”
“Well then,Yer Majesty,” Ian’s smile widened into something that was part amusement, part challenge. “If ye’re truly that confident, let’s make a wager.”
“A wager?” She eyed him suspiciously, like a cat watching a particularly cunning mouse.
“If ye can provide proof of Olivia’s supposed love fer me – truly prove it – I owe ye a favor.” Ian’s voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Any favor ye choose.”
Rhona’s eyes narrowed as she considered the proposition. “And if I cannae?”
“Och, well, then ye owe me one.” His voice dropped to that low rumble that seemed to bypass her brain and speak directly to more primitive parts of her anatomy. “And I already have a few… interesting’ ideas.”
For a moment, she wavered. Ian could see the war playing out behind her eyes – caution battling with competitive fire, wisdom wrestling with the stubborn pride that wouldn’t let her back down from a challenge.
Then, her chin lifted again. “Fine. But dinnae come cryin’ when I prove ye wrong, Laird Wallace.”
“I wouldnae dream of it.” Ian extended his hand, palm up. “Shake on it?”
Rhona hesitated for just a heartbeat before placing her smaller hand in his. The contact sent a familiar shock racing up his arm, and he saw her eyes widen as if she felt the same jolt of awareness.
“Aye,” she whispered.
