Page 7 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked softly, crouching down to her level.
Rhona hesitated, but something in his manner made her want to trust him.
“Rhona.”
“Just Rhona?” His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Nay clan name?”
She said nothing, watching him warily. Douglas Wallace had known exactly who she was and why she was valuable. This new laird’s ignorance might be her only advantage.
Ian seemed to sense her reluctance. This close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes that spoke of a man who’d spent his life squinting against sun and wind. A small scar bisected his left eyebrow, and his shirt stretched taut across his broad chest with each breath. Heat radiated from his body, and she found herselffighting the insane urge to lean closer, to seek the warmth and strength he represented.
“Fair enough. Can ye tell me why ye were imprisoned?”
“Ask yer men. I’m sure they’ll spin ye a fine tale.”
“I’m asking ye.”
The simple statement, delivered without threat or demand, nearly undid her, but she did not answer him.
“Christ.” Ian scrubbed a hand through his thick hair. She noticed that his fingers were strong and capable – a swordsman’s hands, yet gentle when they’d gestured toward her. The urge to reach out and touch him, to verify that such masculine perfection was real, shocked her with its intensity. “Ye’re highborn?”
It wasn’t a question. Her manner of speech, despite months of deprivation, still carried the refined cadence of noble upbringings.
“Daes it matter?”
“Aye. It matters.” He stood abruptly and the full effect of his height and breadth hit her anew – he had to be at least six feet of solid muscle and masculine appeal. When he turned slightly, she caught a glimpse of more tattoos snaking down his back beneath the white shirt. Her mouth went dry at the thought of tracingthose patterns with her fingertips. “Though, high born or nae, nay one deserves tae be treated like this.”
For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her mouth dry.
“Tristan!”
Ian’s most trusted advisor and council member materialized suddenly, clearly having stayed within earshot. “Aye, me laird.”
“Send word tae the kitchens – I want a proper meal served immediately. Hot food, fresh bread, and clean water fer a bath.”
Rhona’s stomach clenched at the mention of food. Three months of thin gruel had left her considerably thinner than her already petite frame could afford.
As he hurried off, Ian turned back to her. “We’ll get ye cleaned up and fed, then we’ll decide what’s tae be done.”
Once they reached the servant’s stairs, Ian turned to a young servant girl who had appeared as if summoned. “Moira, help the lass wash up proper. See that she has everythin’ she needs.”
“Aye, me laird.” Moira bobbed a quick curtsy. “Right away.”
As Ian departed, Rhona found herself led to a chamber she’d never expected to see – guest quarters with a proper bed, cleanlinens, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The transformation from the dungeon felt like stepping into another world.
“I’ll prepare a nice hot bath fer ye, miss.” Moira said cheerfully, bustling about the room. “Ye’ll feel much better once ye’re properly clean. Let me just fetch the soap and towels from the stores.”
The moment Moira’s footsteps had faded down the corridor leaving her alone, Rhona moved. This might be her only chance at freedom. Her heart hammered as she slipped from the chamber, bare feet silent on the cold stone floors.
She remembered the way from her arrival – down the wide corridor, past the great hall, through the courtyard. The castle seemed different now, less oppressive, but she pushed such thoughts aside and focused only on escape.
’Tis now or never!
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped from the chamber, every instinct screaming at her to move quickly before someone discovered her absence. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight. Each step felt like a thunderclap in silence, though her bare feet made barely no sound on the cold stone floors.
Dinnae look back,Just keep movin’. Get tae the forest.
She fled through the corridors like a wraith, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she navigated the maze of passages. Past tapestries that seemed to track her escape, past doorways that might hide guards, past everything that represented her captivity. The night air hit her face as she burst through a side entrance, cool and sharp with the promise of freedom.
