Page 10 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Aye, in a perfect world, it would be.” He glanced at her, and even in the darkness she could see the regret in his eyes. “But this world is far from perfect, lass.”
They clattered through the castle gates, torches flaring to life as guards rushed to meet them. Ian dismounted with fluid grace, then moved to help her down. His hands at her waist were warm and strong, and for a moment she found herself pressed against his chest, breathing in that intoxicating scent of leather and pine.
Damn, the man feels like a stone wall wrapped in velvet.
Her traitorous pulse quickened at the solid warmth radiating from him. The heat seeped through her torn dress, and she had the sudden, wild urge to press her palms against his chest just to see if he was real or brought on by some fever dream.
This is why ye need tae get away from him, ye daft woman!
“Tristan!” Ian called out, his hands lingering at her waist longer than strictly necessary. “I want guards on the lass, day and night”. Ian’s jaw was granite. “She has a talent fer findin’ trouble that would impress a drunk sailor.”
The words hit Rhona like a slap in the face. Any illusion that she might be treated as a guest rather than a prisoner crumbled to dust.
“So that’s it then?” she said, stepping back from his touch. “I’m tae be watched like a common criminal?”
“Ye’re tae be protected,” Ian corrected, but his voice lacked conviction. “Fer yer own safety.”
“Me safety, or yer convenience?” Rhona’s voice rose, drawing stares from the gathered servants and guards. “Ye might be the new Laird Wallace, but ye’re nae different from the previous one. Ye just dress yer cruelty in prettier words.”
Ian went very still, and something flickered across his features – like shadows of old wounds suddenly torn open. Whatever she’d said had found its mark with devastating accuracy. “Rhona…”
But she was already turning away, gathering her torn skirts as she headed for the castle entrance. “I’ve heard enough. Find me when ye decide whether I’m yer guest or yer prisoner. At least then I’ll ken where I stand.”
With that, she swept into the castle, leaving Ian standing in the courtyard looking as if she’d struck him.
The walk back to her chamber felt endless, her assigned guards trailing behind her like shadows. Rhona’s anger burned hot in her chest, but underneath it lay something colder, more devastating. Disappointment. For a brief moment in that forest, watching Ian fight to protect her, she’d allowed herself to hope that he might be different.
Fool,he’s a Wallace. They’re all equally rotten beneath the surface.
But even as the thought formed, she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. There had been genuine anguish in Ian’s eyes when she’d accused him of being like his predecessor. It was almost as if her words had cut deeper than any blade ever could.
“Here we are, me lady,” the skinnier of the guards said as they reached her chamber. “We’ll be stationed outside yer door.”
“How wonderful,” Rhona muttered, pushing into the room.
Moira was waiting inside, her young face creased with worry. “Och, me lady! When ye disappeared, we thought… the laird was beside himself with concern.”
“Was he now?” Rhona sank onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. “And here I thought he was simply annoyed at losin’ his prisoner.”
“’Tisnae like that,” Moira said gently. “He rode out intae dangerous lands tae find ye in while he had nay obligation tae dae so. That is nae the action of a man who sees ye as a prisoner.”
Rhona wanted to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. Moira was right – Ian could have let the MacPherson men take her, could have solved this problem without bloodshed. Instead, he’d risked his life and those of his men.
“Let me tend tae yer wounds,” Moira said, bustling about to gather clean cloths and a basin of warm water. “Ye’ve got new cuts from yer time in the forest.”
As the girl worked, cleaning the scrapes on Rhona’s arms and face, memories of the healer’s cottage back home came flooding in. Margot had taught her so much about the healing arts, about which herbs could soothe pain and which could prevent infection.
“That water could use a wee bit of comfrey,” Rhona found herself saying as Moira dabbed at a particularly tender cut on her cheek. “It would help reduce the swellin’.”
Moira paused in her work. “Comfrey? I’m nae familiar with that, me lady.”
“’Tis a common herb – grows in damp places, has purple flowers shaped like wee bells. Margot always said…” Rhona caught herself before revealing too much again. “The healer who taught me always used it fer cuts and bruises.”
“Ye ken of healing?” Moira’s eyes lit with interest. “That’s a rare skill fer a lady of yer standin’.”
“Is it?” Rhona kept her voice carefully neutral. “I suppose I’ve always been curious about such things.
“Well, ye’ll have tae meet Baird then – our castle healer. He’s always eager tae learn new remedies.” Moira resumed her gentleministrations. “This willow bark powder should help with the pain, but if ye ken of somethin’ better…”
