Page 25 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes – both of them this time – and rubbed his temples. What a bloody mess this had become. The marriage proposal had been a disaster, she’d made her feelings perfectly clear on the matter. And now… whatever had just happened between them only complicated things further.
Ian rose from his chair and moved to the window, staring out into the moonlit courtyard below. His Council would expect answers soon. They’d want to know her decision, would pressure him for next steps. MacPherson raiders were still making trouble on the borders and his clan was vulnerable – his army barely rebuilt.
And here I am worryin’ about a lass who’d probably put a blade in me back soon as she got the chance.
Yet, even as he formed the thought, he wasn’t entirely convinced it was true after what had just happened.
The situation was impossible. He couldn’t force her, but he couldn’t simply release her either, not without risking war. And his clan depended on him to find a solution.
What am I supposed tae dae?
The thought followed him as he finally sought his bed, after waiting for some time, but sleep was a long time coming. When it finally came, his rest was uneasy – like trying to sleep on a battlefield where the war hadn’t ended, just paused. Every sound may be an enemy approach, every shadow a threat, and somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, decisions waited with drawn blades.
The following day would no doubt bring the same problems, the same impossible situation. His Council’s demands. MacPherson threats. And the woman who had shown him such unexpected kindness, but who would likely never willingly be part of any solution he could offer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ineed ye tae send these fer me.”
Rhona thrust three neatly folded letters toward Ian as he stepped into her chamber, her heart hammering against her ribs. She’d spent the morning hunched over parchment, weighing each word like a merchant counting the end-of-day coins, trying to craft reassurance from half-truths.
The letters represented hours of careful deliberation – what to say, how to sound alive without revealing too much. Each sheet bore the careful script she’d labored over in the grey hours after dawn, when the castle was still quiet and her thoughts were her own.
Ian’s emerald gaze flicked from her face to the letters, one dark eyebrow rising. “Good mornin tae ye too, lass. And what exactly am I supposed tae be sendin?”
“Letters. Tae me sisters.” She shook the papers when he made no move to take them, her hands trembling slightly despite her best efforts to appear calm. “They think me dead, Ian. Three months of silence – they’ve probably held funeral rites by now, wept over an empty grave while I-”
“Rhona–”
“Dinnae ‘Rhona’ me.” She stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of leather and pine that seemed to follow him everywhere. “These are simple letters. I’m nae revealin’ clan secrets or drawin’ maps tae yer weaknesses.”
“And what weaknesses would those be?” Ian asked, one dark eyebrow rising with curiosity.
Even in her anger, Rhona’s mouth twitched. “Besides yer apparent inability tae send a bloody letter? Och, where would I start? Yer obsession with that horse of yers, yer tendency tae brood like some Gothic hero, yer–”
“Ye’ve thought this through well enough lass.”
Rhona blinked, taken off guard by the dry humor in his tone.
“Gothic hero?” Ian’s smile broke free, transforming his entire face from stern laird to something dangerously appealing. “Is that what ye think of me?”
The sight of that grin sent an unwelcome fire spiraling through her abdomen, and Rhona silently cursed her body’s betrayal. “Dinnae let it go tae yer head.” She forced herself to focus. “The letters?”
His amusement faded like a candle flame in an open draft, and Rhona’s chest tightened even before he spoke. “I cannae. Nae yet.”
“Why?” The word cracked like a whip, all her carefully contained desperation spilling through.
“Because the minute those letters leave this castle, half the Highlands will ken exactly where ye are.” Ian moved closer, his voice dropping. This time, she didn’t retreat, though every instinct screamed at her to maintain distance from this man who somehow managed to be both salvation and threat. “Because yer faither will either come fer ye with an army, or he’ll assume the worst and declare war. Because–”
“Because I’m still yer prisoner, ye mean.” Rhona finished quietly. “Despite the comfortable room and the fine dresses and all yer talk of protection.”
The accusation hung between them like a blade drawn but not yet thrust. Ian’s expression shifted, something cracking in his carefully controlled façade.
Ian’s jaw clenched. “Ye want tae ken what the difference is between me and Douglas Wallace?” His voice roughened with frustration that seemed to come from somewhere deep and raw.“He would’ve used those letters as kindling fer his fire. But here I am, explainin’ meself tae a woman who’s determined tae see me as the villain nay matter what I dae.”
Ian’s words hit their intended mark and heat crept up Rhona’s neck like spilled wine. She lifted her chin slowly, meeting his gaze directly. “Then prove me wrong.”
“How?” The question practically exploded from him, and Rhona glimpsed something that made her chest tight – the weight he carried, the impossible position he’d inherited. She suddenly felt a pang of empathy, but she quickly shoved it back down. “Tell me, Rhona, what grand gesture would convince ye I’m nae the monster ye’ve decided me tae be? Because I’m runnin’ out of ways tae show ye, and I’m tired of bein’ condemned fer another man’s sins.”
