Page 9 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
CHAPTER THREE
“Iken ye’re probably nae the biggest fan of me clan right now.”
Ian’s words hung in the forest air as he studied Rhona’s face in the moonlight, noting the way her chin lifted with that fierce defiance he was beginning to recognize. Even disheveled from her escape to the woods, trembling from the aftershock of violence in her weakened state from captivity, she was magnificent. The sight of her pressed against that oak tree, blue eyes blazing with a mingle of fear and fury, had done something to his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.
Christ, she’s brave.Any other lass would be weepin’ or swoonin’ after what just happened.
The sounds of retreating MacPherson hoofbeats were fading into the distance, but Ian’s focus remained entirely on the woman before him. Her escape attempt had nearly given him heart failure – the thought of losing her to Lachlan’s men, ofwhat they might have done to her, had driven him to ride hard to protect her.
“But I can guarantee ye,” he continued, his voice rough with adrenaline and battle, “I willnae harm ye.”
Even as he said it, Ian felt the weight of his own hypocrisy. Here he was, promising protection while keeping her prisoner, offering safety while he could not truly guarantee it. What kind of man did that make him?
Rhona lifted her chin, and Ian watched defiance flare up in her eyes despite the tremor in her hands. “I doubt that. I’ve seen what yer clan daes tae people like me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. “People like ye? And what manner of people will that be, then?”
“Those who refuse tae kiss yer boots,” she shot back sharply, and Ian felt his temper stir at the accusation. “Those with enough spine tae resist Wallace tyranny.”
Tyranny.The word twisted in his gut like a blade. Is that truly what she thought of him? His grandfather’s voice echoed in his memory, rough with old pain: “The Wallace name carries the stench of cruelty, lad. Yer great-uncle burned entire families fer sport, and I was cast out fer stoppin’ him. Dinnae let that legacy define ye.”
Ian had sworn he’d be different, that he’d restore honor to the clan name that was tainted by generations of brutality. Yet, here stood this fierce woman, looking at him with the same fear and disgust that his grandfather had once described seeing in the eyes of those that had been terrorized by Wallace men.
Am I just foolin’ meself?Am I really any different from the monsters who came before me?
Something shifted within him, and a harness settled upon his shoulders that he couldn’t suppress. “So that’s what ye are then? Me sworn enemy?”
He watched her face carefully, noting the way something flickered across her features – almost as if the word ‘enemy’ didn’t quite sit right with her either. Surely she would have noticed by then that that was far too simple a word to define what they were to one another.
“If the shoe fits…” she shrugged.
“Careful then, lass,” he said, dropping his voice to something almost predatory. If she wanted to play this game, he could remind her exactly how precarious her position truly was. “Sounds like I’m terrible at tellin’ friend from foe.”
Her face went pale at his words – sharp with implication. Ian saw a chill settle over her and immediately regretted the subtle threat.
What the devil is wrong with me?She’s been through enough without me addin’ tae her fears.
But it was too late to take back the words, and he could only hope that she would recognize what he was truly saying – that if she insisted on being his enemy, he might just start treating her like one.
Rhona opened her mouth to retort, probably with something that would cut him to the bone, but Ian had heard enough. This verbal sparring was getting them nowhere, and standing in those woods arguing about clan loyalties was the height of foolishness when MacPherson raiders could return at any moment.
“Enough.” Ian’s tone brooked no argument, and he saw her mouth snap shut in surprise. “These woods are crawling’ with enemies, and I’ll nae have yer blood on me conscience.
As they began their journey back, Rhona caught herself stealing glances at Ian’s profile in the moonlight. They way he’d moved during the fight – fluid, lethal, completely in control – kept replaying in her mind like some dangerous melody she couldn’t shake. She’d never seen anyone fight with such deadly grace, each movement precise and utterly devastating. The memory of him placing himself between her and danger, without hesitation or thought for his own safety bubbled to the surface again, and stirred something treacherous in her chest.
What sort of man risks his life fer a woman he barely kens?
She watched the way he sat atop his horse with natural authority. His hands on the reins were steady and capable – the same hands that had just wielded a sword without hesitation. Despite her determination to only see him as her captor, she still couldn’t deny the flutter of something warmer, more dangerous that his protection had awakened. It was a feeling she had absolutely no business entertaining, yet it persisted like smoke, curling through her defenses.
The ride back to Castle Wallace felt like a funeral procession. Rhona sat astride her mare, acutely aware of Ian riding beside her, his powerful frame tense with watchfulness. Every shadow seemed to hold potential threats, every rustle in the underbrush making his had drift toward the hilt of his sword.
Much to her dismay, he was taking her back. Back to stone walls and locked doors. Back to a life that wasn’t her own to choose. The brief taste of freedom, even under such frightening circumstances, had only made the prospect of captivity more bitter.
“Ye dinnae have tae dae this,” she said as the castle’s imposing silhouette came into view. “Ye could let me go. Pretend ye never found me.”
“And let those MacPherson dogs tear ye apart?” Ian snorted, but his voice was firm. “I’d sooner dance naked at a harvest festival.”
His words exploded in her mind, conjuring a tantalizing mental image that Rhona pushed aside for now. “That should be me choice tae make.”
