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His green attention held hers firmly only to intensify her undesired reaction to him. Several seconds and the elevation of her inner temperature demanded she disentangle hers from his. Free from her defiance, his scrutiny sauntered over her as if they became torches burning each and every spot they infested with their touch.
Her brows creased. For a woman, clan alliance meant only one thing. Fury brewed in her insides. “You cannot be suggesting…?”
“Marriage, naturally.” His stance dead serious.
Her breath quickened at the possibility of marrying this giant… giant… man! “Not to you, I hope.” Marriage would be with whom and when she wanted. No one. No. One. Would force her.
But the idea he could be the groom unleashed a dark series of images in her head, all inappropriate and definitely unladylike.
A low chuckle of understanding reverberated the stone walls. The aversion mutual, clearly. “No. I am a widower and have no intention of re-marrying.”
He meant some kin, surely. She silenced, the puzzle of who in the air.
“My son.” He delivered casually.
Such an idea designed a veritable scowl on her feminine face. “Your son?” The question shot high pitched between them. This troglodyte did not appear too gone in years, a son of his would be young.
Too strained to remain seated, she sprung from the chair.
“My clan needs an heir.” He said unmovable.
Rage. Immense, uncontrollable, explosive rose from the depths of her. “I will not marry into your filthy people!” She fired away.
“Be careful, Lady Aileen.” He answered low, silky. “I may take offence on behalf of the McDougals.” The danger lurked in his cold tone and on a face that could be likened to a wolf’s
A swivel to him, eyes burning the hell out of her. “Be offended and send me away.” She had to practically tie up her emotions not to yell.
“If I take offence, I will do much worse.” His flashing eyes left no doubt about it.
On that mouth, it sounded so much more than a threat. A promise. Heated. Molten. Forbidden. She gyrated from him to hide this misplaced response
The laird stood from his chair ringing a bell.
Her incompliant reaction was burning out his short temper. To ashes. Being a McKendrick did not afford her the right to act so arrogant.
His stony features turned full on her and she took him on fearless. The feel of blood rushing in his veins, hotter by the second, froze him to the spot.
The tragic fact was blood rushed to parts of him that should not be demanding attention at that precise moment. In search of regaining control, he dodged his head somewhere away from the disquieting woman.
The door opened again. Sam stood at the threshold. A willowy boy nearly as tall as him, bright orange hair, round spectacles. “Sam, come in.”
The boy appeared shy and awkward, but Taran felt sure maturity would develop him.
When the door closed, he spoke again. “Come meet your bride, Lady Aileen McKendrick.”
The woman in question goggled axes at him and at the young man alternately. Ludicrous written all over her goddess-like fa
ce. “How old is he? Sixteen?”
The glasses made his son look more childish to other people. “Eighteen.”
“L-lady Aileen.” An insecure Sam started. “I am pleased to make your-your acquaintance.” A slight bow came with it.
She curtsied, too. “So am I, Sam” Totally in the name of politeness, he understood.
She turned her fury to him. “I will not marry a boy!”
“He is not a boy; he is of age!” A volcano built in his guts.
