Page 2 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
“If yer stupid mutt tries anything?—!”
“She’s just as confused as I am!” Aileen begged, trying to wrench free from her supposed husband’s grasp. It only caused him to squeeze harder, a vice-like grip threatening to snap her wrist in half. Another pained cry escaped as Aileen’s legs suddenly gave out, allowing the Laird to drag her across the garden and back toward the keep.
“Grab that brat and take her to the main gates,” Laird Carswell snapped. “And gather whatever paltry things they have in their rooms to throw out.”
“But ye said …” Aileen’s legs were dragging across the ground as she fought to regain control of her body, of the situation, of anything at all.
“Ye spat in the face of generosity, lass,” Laird Casswell hissed. “I willnae let an ungrateful bastard back into me keep.”
Mollie’s terrified shriek sent Aileen into a full-blown panic. She managed to wrench herself free and spun around, watching a handful of guards surround her sister’s seat. The crowd had long since stepped away, not one of them looking to interfere or speak up on their behalf. Bannock, meanwhile, had long since comeout from underneath the chair, a midnight monstrosity who bared her teeth and dared any hand to try and get near Mollie.
“Mollie!” Aileen felt her stomach lurch out beneath her as an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her into Laird Carswell’s hold once more. “Me Laird,please!Whatever I’ve done to deserve this, daenae take it out on the child!”
“Tell ye snake of a brither that, lass.” Laird Carswell lifted the missive once more. “Though, I daenae think the dead can hear much of anything.”
It was like a jolt of lightning shot down Aileen’s spine. She grew limp in the Laird’s hold, her mind spinning at his sudden declaration. “He … what?”
“Ye heard me, lass.” Laird Carswell then turned to his people, holding Aileen as if she were a rotting corpse to be disposed of. “And ye all will hear me now! The Laird of MacGunn betrayed the Highlands; his actions have caused death and misery upon four of the great clans, and I willnae marry a wench associated with such impendin’ danger. She means to bring death to our doorsteps,” Laird Carswell added. “And as yer laird, I willnae allow it!”
Aileen’s eyes scanned the crowd, searching for someone,anyone,who might stand for her and Mollie’s sake. But the kindness she had seen upon their first arrival—the warmth, the care, the camaraderie—was coldly absent from everyone’s gaze. Something inside her flickered out completely, and she weaklyturned toward Mollie, the guards around her closing in as Bannock began to lose ground.
“P—Please, me Laird …” she could barely get her words straight, let alone get the words out to begin with. “Daenae cast us away as if we were diseased. I … I’ll walk out on me own with Mollie and our dog. Willnae ye give us this last dignity?”
A terrible silence hung amidst the garden. For a moment, Aileen wondered if she’d crossed an unspoken line, if she’d just condemned herself and Mollie to an early grave. But much to her relief, the hold around her waist loosened, and she managed to push free from the Laird’s grasp, shoving through the men and gathering Mollie into her arms.
“I’ll follow ye out personally,” Laird Carswell snarled. “To ensure ye willnae enact whatever terrible scheme ye and yer devil of a brither may have planned for us.”
It was almost too much to bear. But somehow, Aileen managed a nod, stepping past the warrior once more as she made for the keep’s front gate. A procession of men followed behind her, with the Laird’s gaze cold against her neck. All the while, Bannock kept close to her heel, staring up at Mollie with a concerned whine.
“Where are we going, Leelee?” Mollie asked, her voice trembling and her head buried into her sister’s chest.
“I …” Aileen didn’t have an answer ready. As far as she knew, her old clan may already have been wiped out or overtakenby neighboring groups. And even if, by some miracle, Castle MacGunn remained standing, there was little chance they’d let her in. Bastard aside, no one would ever trust the name ‘Hughes’ again. As terrible as she felt for thinking it, Aileen hoped the former had occurred. At least then, she may have the chance to pick through the ruins for supplies.
For now, she simply placed a reassuring hand against Mollie’s back, keeping her sister’s eyes away from the horror that marched behind them, or the unknown terror that waited ahead. After all, there was—quite literally—nothing left to be done about it.
2
If the Laird of MacLiddel wished to remain in his study, he would have done so quite easily. It was clean, organized, a space he had complete control over, unlike the madness that had recently arrived at his doorstep.
The last few days had felt straight out of a nightmare, one Gerald felt himself unable to awaken from. The news of Marcus’ death had spread quickly between the greater clans, and though he had taken the news heavily, it was the expected fate for any laird amidst the Highlands. No, what had shaken him to his very core was the reason cited for Marcus’ death.
‘Traitor.’Even now, the word felt like ash against Gerald’s tongue. It couldn’t be believed at first—it wouldn’t be, without him seeing it for himself. But as the greater clan lairds met, and the evidence lay bare for all to see, he could no longer close his eyes to the truth.
Marcus Hughes, the man who seemed to possess an endless spirit and determination to better the Highlands for all, had been plotting everyone’s downfall from the start. And though he could deny it no longer, Gerald could not delay the inevitable rippling effect Marcus’ death would cause.
And thus, his stay in his study stretched on for days. At least, until his man-at-arms finally broke his isolation.
It had begun on the fourth morning of his self-imposed isolation. Gerald had fallen asleep at his desk, waking to the sight of correspondence scattered across it. Many were from the other major lairds, inquiring about his opinion on dividing up what remained of MacGunn territory. Interwoven between talks of land were notes of concern, a recognition of the powerful bond he and Marcus had shared. Gerald could only roll his green-hued eyes and curse beneath his breath at the weakness he was showing to the others.
“This has gone on long enough,” he hissed, running a hand through long, dark curls of hair unnaturally kept down during his period of mourning. And yet, he had no desire to leave his chair.
That’s when the knock came at his door, followed quickly after by its opening. A sigh escaped Gerald as he glanced up, knowing full well there was onlyoneman in the whole of MacLiddel keep who’d have the gall to burst in on their laird without waiting for permission.
And there he stood, beneath said door’s frame, a young buck whose horns had barely grown in through his curly-russet hair, yet he held himself with the confidence and charm of a stag well into his years. Rory Tavish was a man-at-arms for a reason, but there were moments when Gerald wondered why he’d picked such a rakish braggart.
“Ah! So ye’re still in here, then!” Rory admonished, crossing the room with little care for the mess of papers strewn across the ground. “Staff was startin’ to think ye’d grown roots and grown into yer desk.”
Gerald’s expression remained neutral, glancing down at the letters as if he were deciding how to respond. In truth, he was doing everything he could to not strangle Rory there and then.
