Page 62 of Rose
Chapter Twenty Four
“Get yer hands off my sister.”
Rose blinked, her heart pounding. “Ian?” she gasped, unable to believe her eyes. Her youngest brother had her pretend husband pushed against the wall with a dagger pressed against his throat.
“Ian,” Rose shouted, coming to her senses. “Let him go.” An instant later, she strained her neck back and locked eyes with Ramsay, Scottish rebel and blacksmith. His long blond hair was coiled into several thick braids that hung past his massive shoulders. He smiled down at her, his blue eyes kind, despite the firm grip with which he held her.
“Release me,” she snapped, but the blacksmith only shook his head.
“Who are you?” Ian snarled.
She jerked her head around. Ian gritted his teeth at Tristan.
“That is a bit complicated,” Tristan said, his voice strained.
“Leave him alone, Ian,” she shouted, struggling against the strong hands holding her captive. “Ramsay MacTavish, ye let me go this instant, ye bull of a man.”
He smiled down at her. “Forgive me, Rose, but I’m not releasing ye until Ian tells me to.”
She frowned up at his stubborn face. She knew there was naught she could say that would convince the large man to let her go. She turned her attention back to her brother whose hand was now squeezing Tristan’s throat.
“Ian!”
“What are ye doing here, Rose?” he said, his gaze never leaving Tristan’s face. His voice rose in desperation. “What in God’s holy name is going on?”
“I will explain everything. Just let him go!”
Tristan was beginning to turn purple. “Ian, ye’re killing him.”
“He was kissing ye,” he snarled. “He had his hands all over ye.”
“He’s supposed to kiss me. He’s my husband,” she shouted.
Ian jerked his head around and looked at her with wide eyes before he lowered his dirk and released Tristan’s neck.
Tristan collapsed to his knees, sputtering and coughing.
At that moment, Ramsay let her go. She rushed to Tristan’s side.
“Are ye all right?” she asked. He leaned back against the wall, his hand gently cradling his throat as he tried to catch his breath.
Behind her Ian spoke. “I left ye not a month ago, Rose. How is it that ye’re married!”
“Not now,” she snapped at him, then shifted her gaze back to Tristan. His normal color was returning, and the raspy sound in his throat was gone.
“Are ye all right?” she repeated.
He nodded, still cradling his throat.
“Ye should have walloped him,” she told Tristan.
He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “It is never wise to wallop a brother when there are four others, although I do appreciate your confidence in me.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I’m all right,” he said again before straining to stand. Looking past her to Ian, he stretched out his hand. “This is not how I envisioned our first meeting, but given the rare woman Rose is, I should have known you’d be protective. I know I am.”
Ian ignored Tristan’s hand.
“Who the hell are ye?” Then he turned fierce eyes on Rose. “And what in blazes are ye doing in London?” He gripped his head with his hands, making his red curls even wilder. He turned to Ramsay. “Am I dreaming?”
Ramsay lifted his broad shoulders. “If ye are, then get out of my head, because I see her, too.”
