Page 7 of Kidnapped By her Highland Enemy
Angry, horrified and a bit fearful, Maisie spat, “Because ye are nothing but ruthless dogs that have nay compassion, care or remorse. Ye kill whatever displeases ye and ye will nay stop at anything to get what ye want.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened and he came forward, his long legs eating up the small space between them with two strides. Pressed against the wall, Maisie feared the flashing fury in his eyes. He stopped a stride away from her, but while he did not touch her, something odd crackled over her skin, raising the tiniest hairs on her skin.
“Dogs ye say,” he growled quietly.
“Aye,” she braved. “Ye are nothing but mangy mongrels.”
His lips were thinned, “We might be mongrels but we are not bastards. We do nay abuse women. Yer maid, me lady, is downstairs. Being…entertained, ye could say.”
Fright for Heather leaped into Maisie’s heart. “What? Are ye—what are ye doing to her?” Lurching from her place, she darted to his side. “If she is hurt I will—” Her hand lifted with the intention to crack it across his face, only for him to swiftly grab it and stop her dead in motion.
A scorching heat ran up her arm at his touch, the warm heat of his palm and the disturbingly arousing rasp of his calluses on her wrist. His gaze was taunting, “Ye’ll do what, lassie?”
Affixed by his daring gaze, heat flared between them, and Maisie was not sure if it came from their mutual hatred of each other. They held each other for a long while, the small room quiet but for the sound of their breathing and the lapping of the water just beyond—but then, his eyes darted to her lips and his nostrils flared.
Was he…was he aroused? Nay! She angrily dismissed the thought. It could not be, he was her enemy more than anything else, a cursed Barclay! He had to be angry. That was it surely. Why else would his nostrils had flared like a bull? Yanking her hand from him she said, “I need to see Heather.”
“So ye can put yer heads together and come up with some foolish plan to escape?” His left brow arched to his hairline. “Do ye ken I am a greenling?”
“I ken ye are a brute,” she said icily.
“Even so, I am a smart one,” he countered. “And ye willnae see yer friend until I decide to let ye do so. Have a rest, lassie, and daenae try to escape through that window. There is nay way out that way; unless ye can walk on water, ye’ll die.”
Her lips twisted. “Fine,” she said. “Are ye planning on feeding me at all? I’m hungry.”
“And what would ye like?” He asked, “Rabbits in gravy, all covered with sugar, red and white wine a’ plenty? Pheasants, and partridges, and roasted plovers? Fritters with sugar mixed with rose-water? Or may it be, apples baked with honey and dried fruits?”
“Yer mocking me,” she scowled.
“I am,” he smirked.
Maisie swallowed. “Fine then, I’d rather starve.”
“Dinnea fash yerself,” he snorted, “Ye’ll eat. Until then, daenae worry yer little head too much.”
Her stomach roiled as she turned away from him, and set her gaze on the far wall, decided on ignoring him. With a laugh, the Barclay laird left the room, and she drew her legs up to her chin. Lucas McCormack, the bane of her father’s life. She had never expected to meet him, well, unless he had a sudden turn of heart and had come to apologize and make amends with her father.
And now I realize that is very far-fetched. He loves putting my family to shame.
Tucking her head into her knees, she felt dread begin to rest in her heart. If she did not know where she was, she doubted her father knew either. It was not as if the raiders had left him directions.
Even worse, she did not know what the dratted man wanted with her. Would he save her life and give her back to her father, or would she end up floating in a firth somewhere? Despondent, she tried to hold back the tears and sucked in calming breaths and pray that she would not die this way.
“Me laird,” Oliver greeted Lucas as he descended the wooden staircase. “Me wife is on her way.”
Eilidh Jamieson was the loveliest soul Lucas had ever met. Oliver had met her in his twentieth year and by one-and-twenty, the two were wed. Lucas had just turned fifteen and had been sent to train under him.
Back then, he had not seen the point of marriage and had mocked it, saying the man was throwing his freedom away, but then, Oliver had said, “Ye’ll find out one day. When that seed plants itself into yer heart, I dare ye to pluck it out.”
Lucas did not have the heart to utter one word against love the way his arrogant younger self used to, as now, the need to find a woman he could claim as his, had begun to set in his heart. Perhaps deeper, into his soul.
“Ah, aye,” Lucas nodded while ruffling his hair. “Are ye sure yer wife is fit to travel? The little lad or lassie is due any day now.”
“Eilidh is from strong stock,” Oliver grinned. “She might look frail and so, but the woman can kill a hedgehog from half a chain away.”
“Ah,” Lucas nodded. “How is the other lass?”
“Upset an’ worrying about her mistress,” Oliver said, while jerking his head to a room on the left. “Ian is minding her.”
