Page 6 of How to Heal a Highland Heart
He sounded impatient possibly, definitely not sorry.
“Good thing this one is nae yer betrothed. She’s bonny, but mad,” another man added.
“Cease talking, William.” The three words, spoken barely above a whisper, held an intensity that she could feel. It washed over her.
“Is yer mistress in the great hall?” The Slayer asked her.
She took a step back so she could properly meet the man’s eyes. She still had to arch her neck to do so. “I’m my own mistress now.”
“Where is Lady Kincaide in the castle?” Definite impatience punctuated his words.
God, but she’d had her belly full of men who were bossy and impatient, among a million other horrid qualities. “Lady Kincaide is in the courtyard.” Her audacity—where the devil had it come from—astonished her.
He glanced around the courtyard, then his eyes rested on her again before he blew out a breath. “Are. Ye. Lady. Kincaide?”
He thought her either a simpleton or mad. Either way, it was perfect. She’d not felt real joy in years, but she rocked back on her heels in happiness and grinned. Why the devil not? Weren’t mad people supposed to go around smiling a great deal?
“I was. But. Silas. Is. Dead.”
There.Let him see how it felt to be talked to like a fool.
He said nothing, but it was thewayhe said nothing. He exhaled another long, slow breath, as if his tolerance was nearly dissipated. He withdrew his sword from the sheath at his hip, put the tip to the ground, and leaned on it as if debating whether to use it on her or not.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the last bit. “Now, I’m simply Patience.”
“What the devil sort of name isPatience?” he asked.
Plain Patience. Perverted Patience, she heard in her head again. Silas was awfully loud for a man in his grave.
“A long-suffering one,” she said, sighing.
“Lady Kincaide—”
“Patience,” she repeated. “Unless ye wish to think of me as Silas’s still.”
“Ye are mine now.” He sounded as unhappy about it as she was. Somehow, that gave her hope. “Did yer father tell ye we are to wed?”
“Aye,” she said, hearing the bitterness in her voice but finding she could not suppress it. “As caring as ever, he sent me a letter. I received it just this morning informing me he was wedding me to a stranger yet again. I take it ye are the Slayer?”
His brows dipped together. “Ye are nae close to yer father.” It was a statement, not a question.
She frowned. “Ye sound pleased.”
“I am,” he said.
She waited a beat, sure he would elaborate, but he simply stared at her.
“So,” she said, realizing he’d not confirmed his identity. “Are ye the Slayer?”
“Ye will call me Brodee.” It was a command. Just like a man, but not exactly like Silas or Ivan, or even her father. Brodee’s order was not harsh. The quiet words had contained an almost gentle cadence.
“I’m told ye’re called the Slayer,” she pressed.
Whatever was possessing her? She knew better than to speak in such a manner to her betrothed. Raising her hands to her chest, palms splayed to ask forgiveness, she took a step back. She had no wish to be struck. His fists looked huge, even bigger than Ivan’s, and his hit had hurt something fierce. One day into her marriage to Ivan was all it had taken to learn to hold her tongue, which made her all the more surprised she was acting so recklessly now, as if she did not know better.
“I am.” He reached out and grasped her by the wrist, pulling her to him. Not hard or hurtful but with definite purpose. His strong, calloused fingers easily encircled her wrist. His touch was hot, as if he contained a fire within him. He smelled of smoke, woods, and grass. And perhaps a smidge of wine. She hoped he was not one to over imbibe and become angry. Both Silas and Ivan had done that—one with words, the other with his fists.
“I will nae ever hit ye,” he said, his voice still low.
