Page 59 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Malcolm’s fingers curled into fists, and it took a great amount of willpower not to burst into the boathouse and toss the lovers in the water. They were going down. All of them. The whole bloody Helvellyn family.

Before the couple pulled apart, Malcolm took off for the manse. He had a lot to think about and a lot to do. What he’d witnessed turned so much of his conjecture onto its head. In his chamber, he gave Jeremiah specific instructions, making him memorize every word and then seeing him off on a horse toward the inn where W was staying.

But he wasn’t finished yet. It was time he had a serious conversation with Olivia.

There was still light shining from beneath her door, and he didn’t bother to scratch the surface and wait for her to answer. Instead, he thrust the door open, stepped inside and shut it behind him, leaning against the frame and blocking her escape.

She turned to him in surprise from her perch at the window seat. “Was that you I saw outside? Where did you go?” Obviously, she’d been watching. Knowing.

He was struck again by that look of innocence and the way it tugged at his heart. God, she was good. So bloody good. Anger sliced inside his chest, carving a deeper hole in his heart, tearing open old wounds and creating new ones.

If she saw him leave, then she’d been spying on the other man too.

There was no such thing as coincidences—and he had to stop pretending as if there was. It was only with her that he’d ever let his guard drop like that.

When he looked into her eyes, he could see only one thing now:guilt.

Olivia staredacross the length of the room, shocked that Malcolm had come bursting in. At first, she’d wondered if he’d changed his mind. If they were about to kiss again, and he was going to let her touch him.

But then she was stunned. Any amorous feelings were shut down by the look of betrayal on his handsome face. The way he was staring at her was gutting. She could have sworn she’d just seen him outside. Had thought he was there to cool off and wanted to do that very same thing herself, as she did at their house in London, wandering through the gardens. But then he’d taken off running, and she’d been so confused.

At first, she’d thought that maybe he’d been running like that to get rid of the energy bursting inside him, for she had that same consistent buzz, but that didn’t explain he’d crouched, as if he were hiding from someone.

“Why did ye shoot me, lass?” There was barely contained fury in his voice as he asked.

She could almost see the air around him pulsing. Olivia shook her head. “What? You know that was an accident, Malcolm.”

He pushed away from the door with such force that she worried it would rattle in its hinges. “Why are ye lying? I’ve found out about your sister. Are ye in on it, too?”

Her sister? Olivia straightened. Shocked, puzzled. The coolness of the glass on her back was the only thing keeping her grounded. Where in the world was he going with this line of accusations, and what did it all mean? But no amount of thoughts somersaulting through her brain brought up a reasonable answer.

“I told you about my sister. Remember?” She was a little hurt to think he’d forgotten that conversation after she’d been so open with him. There had never been another soul she’d shared those dark secrets with. No one else she’d felt she could be vulnerable with and not be trampled. “I did not lie or try to hide it from you.”

He shook his head, teeth bared in her direction. The anger sluicing off his large frame was a little frightening. Olivia uncurled herself from where her knees had been tucked up, planting her feet on the floor and staring at the door behind him. But the way he took up all the space in front of her, she doubted she’d get far if she had to run.

“Ye left out one part,” he growled, a single finger held between them to emphasize his point, which she still didn’t understand.

Olivia squared her shoulders, remaining seated in hope not moving might make him calm down. Quietly, evenly, she asked, “And what is that?”

“That ye”—he stabbed his finger toward her—”and your family”—he stabbed his finger toward her door, his voice trailing off, the muscle in his jaw ticking with such ferocity she thought it just might pop.

Olivia blew out a long breath and stood from the window seat, deciding another tactic was necessary. She wiped the sweat of her palms onto the sides of her nightgown. She approached him, trying to keep her expression soft. Wasn’t that what was advised when dealing with wild animals? For that was what he represented at the moment. A wild, angry boar.

But despite his fury, Malcolm was the only person she’d ever let her guard down with. The only man she’d kissed. Trusted with her confessions and her body. Whatever he thought, whatever had made him so angry, he was willing to toss all of that aside and turn the tide on her?

By the time she reached him, her calm was being drawn away, replaced by her irritation. Almost like the power of his anger had stretched out and grabbed her tight in its arms, sharing in the misery.

“I do not know what you think has happened with my family. Or why you think I would shoot you on purpose. But you, Malcolm, you have played me for a fool. Tricking me into making personal confessions I’ve never shared with anyone. Kissing me. Touching me the way you did an hour ago. How dare you come in here making accusations when you yourself have behaved like a perfectarse.”

But she wasn’t done. Now she marched forward, poking him in the chest, the heat of her disappointment fueling her fire. “For two seasons, I protected myself. For two seasons, I tried to avoid this kind of heartbreak, and here in the span of a few weeks, you’ve taken all that I’ve built around myself and torn it down, brick by brick.”

He spread his arms wide, his face incredulous. “Yeshotme. Remember? Ye’re working against me.”

“What?” Exasperated, her tone was a near shout.

“Traitor,” he seethed, his nose nearly touching hers, nostrils flaring.

She’d never seen him so mad. Never been in a situation before with someone who was this angry. Not even her own mother. Or her father. This was a different kind of mad than finding out your daughter had tossed punch on another suitor. This was a kind of mad that seeped into your bones and ripped your heart apart.

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