Page 61 of A Virgin for the Highland Beast
“Ye willnae be able to keep me here,” Emma said, her tone laced with a promise.
No matter what sort of pit Geoffrey would throw her in, Emma vowed she’d escape one way or another.
“See, now that’s where I think ye and I have a difference of opinion,” Geoffrey stated, a dark edge to his taunting. “Let me set the record straight for ye right now. Ye belong to me. And I have it on good authority that ye and that brute of a laird never sanctified yer marriage. And to think, if he’d only taken ye when ye asked him to, I’d be havin’ this conversation wit’ Lydia instead.”
Emma’s face paled, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her chest. That Geoffrey knew of her intimate moments with Hunter by the lake left her mortified. She had seen the servants exchanging whispers, their eyes darting her way, but she never imagined the gossip would travel beyond the castle walls.
The very thought twisted her stomach, a wave of nausea threatening to betray her stoic façade. It was not just her own reputation that hung in the balance now but Hunter’s as well, and the thought that she had brought him into disrepute with her recklessness made her feel utterly sick.
Geoffrey scooted closer, his presence alone enough to make the air around her thick with discomfort. His hand grazed her thigh, a touch unbidden and revolting, prompting her to jerk away with every fiber of her being. His voice slithered through the dimness, a vile promise in the dark.
“I can give ye everything ye want, Emma.”
“What I want is somethin’ ye’ll never have to give,” Emma spat back, seething with defiance. “I’m a MacRoss now. Me husband willnae stand for this. Touch me, and Hunter will stop at nothin’ to see ye dead.”
Laughing, Geoffrey’s scoff filled the room, mocking her with cruel delight. “Ye always had foolish ideas, lass. I thought ye were the clever one, but perhaps I was wrong. Ye see, ye’re mine now, and yer beloved is nowhere to be seen. So if I were ye, I’d stop bein’ a menace and do as ye’re told.”
Before Emma could retort, Geoffrey lunged at her, intent on stealing a kiss.
Emma was quicker. She ducked, her hand finding the cold plate he had set before her and swinging it with all the might her bound wrists allowed. The plate struck Geoffrey squarely, and he recoiled, the sound of his frustration echoing off the walls.
His patience frayed, he stood, towering over her as he hissed, “Ye are trying me patience, Emma. If ye’d just cooperate, things wouldnae have to be so… complicated.”
“Why are ye doin’ this? What madness has driven ye to such ends?” Emma’s voice quivered with a mix of fear and anger, yet her eyes never left his.
Geoffrey’s face twisted into a snarl as he paced before her.
“It has always been about power. Ye see, without ye, the clan sees me as nay true Laird. They whisper of rebellion behind closed doors. Yer hand secures me reign. Without ye, I’ll lose everythin’. Granted, I would have taken yer sister, but she was always a little too jumpy. The fact that she stayed inside behind MacRoss’s stone walls was smart on her part. Even after I walked away. But now, well, ye have always been the gullible one, have ye nae?”
Geoffrey pinched her chin as he kept his gaze locked on her. “Without ye, I’ll never be seen as the true Laird Clyde.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Scorn laced every syllable. “Ye were never meant to lead the clan. It should’ve been me braither, the rightful Laird—the one people deserved.”
“And that’s precisely why I killed him,” Geoffrey hissed, the malice in his voice sending shivers down Emma’s spine. “And I did the same to yer parents. But ye and yer sisters, I can force ye to marry whom I choose and build alliances. Do ye nae see? Yer lineage is a threat to mine. If ye want to live, ye will agree to go with me, willingly.”
Her spirit, indomitable despite her situation, flared defiantly in her response. She glared at Geoffry, wishing she had more than a broken shard of the plate to defend herself with. Every muscle in her body coiled like a snake getting ready to strike.
“I’ll do nay such thing.”
“I hoped ye’d see things me way. But nay matter. Who do ye think it should be, after ye?” Geoffrey asked as he started pacing the length of the tent.
Emma watched as he methodically fiddled with the stubble on his chin.
“Nora, perhaps? Nay, I ken. Isobel. I have a bone to pick wit’ her. Perhaps I’ll force her to marry me, until there’s nay one left but Lydia. Sweet, poor, wee lass. And wit’ nay around to stop me, I could take yer whole line. But the choice is yers. Ye have the opportunity to grant yer sisters a future.”
The very air seemed to still in the charged silence that followed, then shattered by a deep voice that resonated from the shadows.
“Over me dead body,” the voice echoed, thick with the promise of vengeance.
Emma’s heart leaped in her chest. How he found her, she didn’t know, but she knew the sound of her husband’s voice, and there was no mistaking it.
Hunter had found her.
23
As the canvas of the tent fluttered in the evening’s capricious breeze, Hunter’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, ablaze with the fire of betrayal, were locked on Geoffrey, who stood uncomfortably before him.
The air between them crackled with tension, thick with the unsaid but deeply felt. Hunter’s fury was a palpable force, filling the confined space with an irrefutable sense of foreboding.
