Page 10 of When the Laird Claims
Her hands tightened on his pale shirt, the soft fabric more comforting than she had anticipated as she steadied herself. Arran caught her elbow, his other hand steadying her by the waist. The moment that the adrenaline of nearly falling wore off, she immediately jerked away from him.
“You look Scottish,” she blurted, not even sure why she felt the need to point out the obvious like that.
She knew that he was Scottish; there was no mistaking that accent or the unusual lower garment of his kilt. If she had tried to imagine a man in a skirt, she would have conjured up something very different; it certainly would not have been as utterly… masculine as the reality, his sculpted calves on show for all to see, and a hint of defined thigh just above his knees. A knight in full armor would not have been as rugged nor as manly asthisman in shirt, kilt, and boots.
Snapping her attention away from the indecency of that bare skin and the little flurry it ignited in her stomach, she caught sight of Arran arching an eyebrow. Clearly, he was waiting to see if there was more to her “you look Scottish” remark.
“I just…” She felt more foolish with every passing word. “I just thought that the journey to Scotland was… um… much longer.”
Silence stretched between them as he stared at her. “It is.”
Her face was on fire. She might as well hope and pray that the ground would open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole. She could have melted into a puddle from his slowed-down pronunciation alone. He likely thought her simple. But at least he did not comment on it.
The Laird shook his head and started toward the inn to arrange their stay for the night, but seemed to think better of it halfway and turned around.
“Do not throw me over your shoulder again!” Victoria held up a hand in warning.
Grabbing the skirt of the dress that was supposed to be her wedding gown before it had been soiled and ruined from the ride, she attempted to hurry away from the large man hulking toward her. Though even she could not lie to herself about the way her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest at the look on his face. What was the matter with her?
“Then I suggest that ye use yer own two feet to march into the inn yerself,” Arran warned.
She stammered, “And if I do not do as you like, will you just manhandle me?”
Arran paused his advance, and that sly ghost of a smirk surfaced again. He nodded to the men around them, and they all started to head around back to the stables to take care of the horses. One led the Laird’s mount away, as if to reiterate that Victoria would not be leaving of her own accord… even if she could get the horse to do as she wished.
Distracted by the sight, she did not see Arran lunge for her. His fingers brushed against the fabric of her dress, but she was able to dance away at the last possible second. Though she was not so lucky the second time around. How was he so fast on his feet?
He pulled her close, one arm wrapped around her waist, and she did the only thing that she could think of; she tried to hit him, but he caught her by the forearm, his thumb brushing over the injured skin of her wrist with surprising softness as if remembering her injuries, or perhaps reminding himself that he ought to behave.
“I willnae tie ye, nae unless ye ask, of course.”
He was far too close to her to be speaking in such a low tone as that.
Her face blazed, blinking rapidly. “W-why would I ever ask for such a thing?”
The look he gave her set her mind reeling. She was not wholly innocent, at least not where her imagination was concerned. Victoria loved to read anything and everything she could get her hands on, even the kind of books that were not exactly befitting or appropriate for her station. She had indulged in them from time to time, but she would never admit to it. But even with that knowledge in hand, what possible reason would make a womanwantto have a man tie her up? She could not fathom it.
Arran winked at her, his grip on her loosening only slightly. “I mean, ye’re nae me prisoner. But I think ye’re the safest with me. So, I suggest ye follow me.”
With that, he turned her loose and walked away from her for a second time, this time not even bothering to look back at her.
They were surrounded by a dense forest on all sides. They had already taken all the horses, and she did not think that attempting to run away in the darkness without any supplies or any knowledge of where she was or where she was going was perhaps the brightest idea.
Victoria’s feet seemed to make a choice before her mind even had time to catch up to it. “Wait!”
5
The inn was just about as unappealing inside as it looked from the outside; the floor was sticky despite a scattering of old straw that was beginning to rot. The small parlor was still warm from the embers of a dying fire, the old carrot-top scent of some kind of stew in the air, but it appeared that they were the only guests that the place had had in quite some time. Certainly, they were the only guests there now, the parlor entirely empty, not a sound to be heard.
What if this is one of those places where brigands and highwaymen meet?
The fire burned lower in the hearth as she subconsciously pulled herself closer to Arran, shivering at the empty, uncomfortable feeling of the place.
“Are ye hungry?” he asked, ushering her onto a bench beside a long, stained table.
She shrugged. “I hardly know. Yes… probably. My stomach is still recovering from the shock of being thrown over your shoulder.”
“Ye look like ye should eat something,” he said decisively. “Ye’re too pale, too thin. Did that bastard starve ye?”
