Page 41 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Adam sat back down like a boy who had just been scolded by his tutor. He could not look his sister in the eyes, but Doughall seemed to have no trouble.
In fact, Doughall seemed determined to stare right through her… and if she was not horribly mistaken, she thought she saw the ghost of a smirk lifting one corner of his lips ever so slightly.
The sight of that fleeting twitch enraged her.
“If this marriage is to be a mockery, why are ye botherin’?” she snapped at him. “Even I can tell that ye’d rather pluck out yer own eyes with spoons than wed me, so why bother at all? It’s nae as if me braither wouldactuallydemand satisfaction for a wee kiss. He’s nae daft. He wouldnae pit his army against yers for me sake. He wouldnae even pit himself against ye for me sake, despite what happened earlier. He’d have lost his nerve long before he touched blade to flesh.”
Doughall raised an eyebrow, that damnable hint of a smirk appearing for a second time. How was it possible that, even during her angry outburst, he had something to smirk about? Was the idea of trapping her in a touchless, loveless, empty marriage so hilarious to him?
“How dare ye,” Adam cut in, his nostrils flaring. “How dare ye disparage me like that?”
Freya laughed coldly. “How dareI? Are ye quite serious?” She eyed the bottle on the table. “How many of those have ye had, eh, that ye can say such a thing to me?”
Doughall made a motion to Adam—a sharp flick of his wrist and forefingers that either meant, “Get out” or “Give us some privacy.” But Freya liked to think it meant, “Stop before ye truly embarrass yerself.” Judging by Adam’s scowl, that was more or less what he thought it meant too.
“I’ll give ye some time to talk, seein’ as there’s nay further damage that can be done,” Adam said tersely. “But I’ll be havin’ a word with ye afterward, Freya. I dinnae care for this attitude.”
He walked out, passing Freya without so much as a brotherly pat on the shoulder. The door closed with an ominousclick, leaving the betrothed couple alone.
“Somethin’ to say, or has the cat got yer tongue?” Doughall asked drily, no hint of a smirk on his lips now.
Freya steeled herself. “Och, Doughall, I haveplentyto say.”
16
Doughall traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip, wondering how quickly she would explode if he yawned. He had not been looking at the clock, so he did not know how much time had passed, but hedidknow that Freya had been ranting for an eternity.
“I didnae want this… Ye should have heard him approachin’… What sort of protector are ye if ye cannae hear footsteps on frost… If ye’re that against it, if ye’re only bothered about tormentin’ me, then ye can find yerself someone else…Iwanted to stay at MacNiall Castle, but far be it from me to voice me opinion…”
On and on, saying so much without saying much of anything at all. It was nothing he had not already heard, though he did not appreciate his warrior instincts being called into question. They had only failed him because of her, after all.
But they willnae fail me again. That is why I willnae touch ye again.
Despite having heard everything she said before, Doughall found himself listening to every word that fell from her sweet mouth. He never thought that Freya would be one to rant for so long. If he was being honest with himself, he liked that she had finally found her voice and was ready to defend herself. He just didn’t like the fact that he was the one on the receiving end of her wrath.
With every “Why must I always do what all of ye tell me to? Will ye ever hear a word I have to say?”, he noticed how her eyes darkened with rage, how the movements of her hands became more frantic. He listened and watched and said nothing until she stopped for a minute.
“Are ye done?” he asked bluntly, leaning on the armrest of his chair.
She blinked and pulled a coarse woolen blanket tighter around herself, tempting his mind to wonder what she was hiding beneath it. And why she had come to his study in such a state of undress in the first place—her slipper-covered feet suggested that she had been about to go to bed.
“Almost,” she said, tilting up her chin defiantly. “To conclude, I believe ye ought to let me be free to choose a real husband—one who can offer me a real marriage.” She paused, a glint in her eyes. “Laird MacMillen, perhaps.Heis a laird who kens howto make a lass happy, who wouldnae ever threaten nae to touch her.”
Doughall was up and out of his chair in an instant, slinking around to the front of his desk like a wolf on the prowl, leaning back against it. His hands gripped the wooden edge and might have broken it if it had been made of weaker stuff.
Nae wise to provoke me, lass. Nae wise at all.
“Ye never did tell me if ye were jealous or nae,” she continued, only the bob of her throat betraying her nerves. Otherwise, she was putting on quite the performance.
Doughall pushed off the desk, walking slowly toward her. “If it wouldnae cause a clan war, I’d have broken Laird MacMillen’s arm at the shoulder.” He reached out, letting his palm hover over her waist. “The fingers that touched ye here, too.”
“What if he is the one I want?” she replied, the lie woven into each breathy word.
He rolled his shoulders, stretching the frustration of her question out of his neck. “If what ye want is to shed a thousand useless tears, wonderin’ where yer husband is, whohe iswith, vyin’ desperately for his attention once he’s bored of ye…”
“At least he would pretend to love me,” she whispered, her eyes shining in the dim light of the study.
“And ye want pretty falsehoods?”
