Page 21 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
But his mind kept drifting back to the garden, to the fierceness in Rhona’s beautiful blue eyes when he’d mentioned marriage, to the way her voice had cracked when she’d accused him of treating her like a broodmare.
Maybe she’s right,maybe I am just as bad as other men.
The thought sat poorly with him. He had been raised to believe that honor meant protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves, not manipulating them for personal gain. Yet here he was, contemplating exactly the kind of manipulation required, because it served his clan’s interests.
A sharp rap on the solar door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, expecting one of his men with another report that needed his immediate attention.
Instead, one of Rhona’s guards burst through the door, his young face flushed with exertion and worry. “Me laird! Ye need tae come. Now.”
Ian was on his feet instantly, his hand moving instinctively toward his sword hilt. “What’s happened?”
“I dinnae ken, me laird. The lady… she screamed. Loud enough tae wake half the castle.” The guard’s words tumbled over each other in his haste. “But her door’s locked from the inside, and she willnae answer when we call tae her.”
Ice flooded his veins. “How long ago?”
“Just now, me laird. I came straight tae ye.”
Ian was already moving, pushing past the guard and striding rapidly through the castle corridors toward Rhona’s chamber. His mind raced with possibilities – each worse than the last – as his boots clicked in a desperate rhythm against the stone floors. Could someone have gotten into her room? Was she hurt? Sick?
He reached her chamber to find two guards standing uncertainly outside the heavy wooden door, their faces creased with concern.
“Anythin’ since ye sent fer me?” Ian asked quietly.
“Naethin’, me laird. Silent as the grave.” The older guard shifted nervously. “Should we break down the door? She could be hurt, or–”
“Step back,” Ian commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. The guards immediately moved away from the door, giving him space.
Ian pressed his ear against the wood, listening intently. Nothing. No sound of movement, no indication that anyone was awake inside. The silence felt ominous.
He knocked firmly on the door. “Rhona? ‘Tis Ian. Are ye all right?”
Nothing.
“Rhona, I need ye tae answer me.” His voice grew more urgent. “The guards heard ye scream. I need tae ken ye’re safe.”
Still nothing. Ian’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. What if someone had managed to get to her? What if this was some MacPherson plot to–
“Rhona!” he pounded on the door harder. “If ye dinnae answer me in the next few seconds, I’m breakin’ this door down.”
A long pause, then a voice came through, muffled but defiant. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
Relief flooded through Ian so powerfully that his knees nearly buckled. She was alive, she was conscious, and she was being contrary – which meant she was probably fine.
“Try me,” he called back, allowing some amusement to creep into his voice now that he knew she wasn’t in mortal danger.
Another pause. Then the sound of bare feet on stone, the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted. The door cracked open just enough for Rhona’s face to appear in the gap, her dark ginger hair mussed from sleep, her blue eyes wary.
“What dae ye want?” she demanded, though Ian could see she was trembling slightly.
“Tae make sure ye’re nae dyin’ in here,” Ian replied. “The guards said ye screamed loud enough tae wake the dead, lass.”
“I’m fine.” She started to close the door, but Ian’s hand shot out to stop it.
“Let me see fer meself.”
“Nay.”
