Page 18 of The Ruthless Highlander's Hellion
“Ye’re a fool if ye think a simple kiss means I’ll fall into yer hands as a bride,” she said, though the words lacked the sharpness they once held.
“Then prove me wrong, lass,” Nicholas said, his eyes glinting with challenge as he took a step back, allowing her space. “But ken this—ye may fight me, but in the end, ye’ll see I was right.”
CHAPTER TEN
It had been two days since the kiss, and Alexandra hadn’t left her room once. She took her meals by the hearth, alone, turning away maids with soft refusals and claiming she had a headache. The tray before her held warm oat bannocks, slices of cold venison, and a bowl of thick root stew seasoned with thyme. She picked at the bannock and barely touched the rest, her appetite crushed beneath the weight of her thoughts.
This is silly. How much longer can ye think of that kiss?
The kiss haunted her like a fever that wouldn’t break. She hated herself for how much she’d wanted it, for the way her body had melted under his touch like snow in spring. Nicholas had awakened something in her—something raw, hungry, and terrifying. She still felt his hands, rough and sure, on her waist, and the burn of his mouth against hers lingered like a ghost on her skin.
She pressed a hand to her lips and cursed herself under her breath. Her chest ached, not from anger or shame, but from the truth she didn’t want to face. She wanted him. Heaven help her, she wanted him like she’d never wanted anything before, and it made her feel weak.
But there was no time for such foolish longing. She had a duty—to Erica, to her brother, to peace. If she stayed here too long, Leo would lose patience, and he would not hesitate to bring war to her family’s gates.
Nicholas had no idea what Leo was capable of, and she couldn’t let her brother suffer for her delay.
She looked down at her untouched stew and sighed. The spoon trembled in her hand, and she set it aside with a frustrated groan. Her mind betrayed her, painting Nicholas in sharp detail—his steady gaze, the firmness of his jaw, the low timber of his voice when he’d whispered in her ear. She should’ve slapped him for his arrogance, not kissed him back like a starving girl offered bread.
Pulling the wool shawl tighter around her shoulders, she stood and moved to the door and opened it.
"Ye there. Could ye fetch me maid, Erica, to come to me chambers?" she said to a passing maid.
"Aye, Mistress. Right away," the maid said and scurried out of sight.
Alexandra moved back into her room and stared out the window at the gray sky and the moors beyond. Somewhere out there, her future was waiting—cold, arranged, and merciless. But her body still burned with memory, a cruel reminder of what she couldn’t have. Nicholas had unsettled her soul, and no matter how she tried to bury it, her heart kept clawing its way back to him.
Her fingers tightened around the windowsill, knuckles white.
“Get a grip, ye daft girl,” she whispered to herself, jaw clenched. “He kissed ye like he owned ye, and ye let him.”
But no matter how many times she scolded herself, the shame and thrill twisted together like two vines, choking out reason.
She needed to leave—soon. Every moment spent in this place only deepened her confusion and dulled her sense of duty. She would tell Nicholas, tonight, if she had to, that she was leaving and taking Erica with her. Even if it shattered something inside her, it was the only way to keep her world from crumbling.
The knock on the old wooden door was soft and polite, barely louder than the crackle of the hearth. Alexandra looked up from her untouched bowl of stew, eyes weary from hours of restless thought.
"Come in," she said.
Erica stepped in, arms full of folded linen and a hopeful look tugging at her lips.
“Ye called for me, me lady,” Erica said gently, setting the linens on a nearby chair. “Ye’ve nae eaten much again.”
“I’m fine,” Alexandra replied, though her voice lacked conviction. She shifted in her seat, wrapping her shawl tighter as though it might shield her from her own thoughts. “Just tired, that’s all.”
Erica didn’t buy it, of course. She was sharp-eyed and kind-hearted, and had known Alexandra long enough to see through such thin excuses. She moved to stir the fire, letting the silence hang for a moment. Then, without looking up, she said, “Ye’ve been hidin’ up here two days, Mistress. This isnae like ye.”
“I ken,” Alexandra said softly, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “I just… cannae stop thinkin’ about Caelan. He must be worried sick by now.”
Erica turned her head, her brows furrowing with concern. “I’m sure he’s doin’ all he can to find ye.”
Alexandra stood and paced toward the window, staring out at the gray moorland stretching beyond the stone walls. “Have ye heard anythin’ from the servants? Any word about the Sinclairs and McLarens? Any sign of battle brewin’?”
Erica shook her head, stepping nearer. “Nay. Just the usual gossip about the kitchens and a few broken fences. Nothin’ about swords or banners.”
Alexandra crossed her arms, her jaw tight. “How long do ye think it'll take before Leo or me brother figures out where I am? They’ll come—both of them. And when they do, they’ll be at the gates, demandin’ me release.”
Erica blinked, her voice quiet. “Are ye… wantin’ to be released?”
