Page 24 of The Scot Beds His Wife
Laird Mackenzie has recently retired from a long military career, whereupon he gained his moniker, the Demon Highlander, through unparalleled brutality. In the few short years since he’s reclaimed his seat as Laird of Wester Ross, he hasn’t shown any interest in Inverthorne or Erradale so I don’t think you are in danger from him on that score.
But I caution you, Alison, for your own safetyneverto set foot inside Ravencroft Keep. Your mother told me it’s an unspeakably dangerous place.
I will write more soon, dear friend.
Yours,
Mrs. Grant Rollins
(Or I will be once this reaches you, God willing)
***
If Samantha were to compile a list of things she hated, riding a horse in a skirt was onlyjustbeneath rapists, people who were cruel to children and animals, and handsome, arrogant Highland lords.
Murderers used to be higher on that list… but, she supposed, she’d need to ponder that a bit.
Seeing as how she was one.
And she only hated herself a little.
Instead of riding bareback, she chose a saddle this time to keep her skirts from gathering dust from her horse’s hide. She picked her way through the Erradale moors atop the bay gelding she’d come to favor, all the while practicing what she’d say when called in front of the magistrate.
This morning, she’d dressed in her finest blue silk-lined wool frock, arranged her heavy hair into a neatly braided knot at the nape of her neck, and had done some damage to her scalp trying to pin her best hat in place. The clouded mirror atop an ancient bureau had confirmed what she knew all along, that she’d never resemble a regal lady.
Alison Ross—therealAlison Ross—had been confident and lovely in a way Samantha could never hope to be. Sure, she could shoot a bull’s-eye at a full gallop, mend a fence, help brand a herd, and whelp a calf. But she’d never glide across the floor in that way that made a person wonder if a lady’s feet even moved beneath the ruffles of her skirts. She wasn’t made to sparkle brighter than the gems gifted by scores of admiring suitors. She wasn’t elegant, fashionable, or refined.
She was just skinny Samantha Masters.
I like my women plump, pleasant, and pretty, or slim, smart, and sassy,Bennett used to say with that crooked half-smile of his.
Well, she’d definitely been the latter, Samantha thought as the familiar breath-stealing pang sliced through her at the thought of her late husband.
There’d never been enough food for her to get plump. Being pleasant got her exactly nowhere in Nevada. And as for pretty… She’d heard the word to describe her before, but not as often as other descriptions.
Like capable, for instance. Or smart. Diligent. Hardworking. Agile. Men were more likely to praise the way she sat a horse or lifted a hay bale than the way she filled out a dress.
Mostly because she didn’t.
Bennett hadn’t seemed to mind too much. He’d said her sweet face was enough to make up for her bony hips.
It had been the nicest thing she’d ever heard anyone say.
He’d praise the length and weight of her hair, always requesting that she let it loose when she was naked. He’d drag it over her breasts and nuzzle his face into it when he was above her.
She’d been so desperate to get away from the ranch where she’d been raised—from the Smith family—thatshe’d believed every word that ever left his charming mouth was intended to praise her.
Now… dark and hateful suspicions and insecurities shadowed every one of the good memories she had of him.
Had he used her long, thick hair to cover a body that didn’t please him?
I like lookin’ into your beautiful blue eyes while we fuck,he’d say.Why would I look anywhere else?
All she’d taken from that was he thought her eyes were pretty.
Now she was certain he’d meant that there wasn’t much else to look at.
Cresting Gresham Peak, Samantha found the road that led between her lands and Inverthorne. She wished it was only the view of such untamed beauty that took her breath. Or the blue-gray stones of the castle spires in the distance jutting over the ancient forest that put the ache in her chest.
