Page 8 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

He sighed. “I cannae even even stand out here in peace.”

The footsteps came to a halt.

Curious, he looked up and saw the woman from earlier, his defender. She had followed him outside. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes holding his without the fear he’d grown used to seeing in everyone else’s.

It unsettled him more than the whispers ever had.

He began to notice things he had no business noticing: the curve of her mouth, her delicate hands, her slender neck. He had spent seven years training himself not to care how anyone looked at him, but she was undoing all his effort.

“Forgive me, me Laird.” She dipped into a small, awkward curtsy. “I only meant to apologize for how our guests treated ye tonight. It was quite rude of them to be so blatant about it. Me family expected better.”

“Ye’re the one who defended me.”

A statement, not a question.

He had heard her clearly across the room, her voice cutting through the whispers without a single doubt in it.

It had been a long while since anyone had spoken on his behalf without being asked to. His mother, bless her soul, didn’t count. Mothers were obligated by blood. The lass standing before him owed him nothing, and that made her defense of him strange.

Dougal briefly wondered what she expected to gain from it.

Certainly not attention. His attention would not be something she would want. He would have to keep talking to her to see what she truly wanted.

The lass blushed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I-I only said nothing was proven. It wasnae much.”

“And are ye nae afraid of me?” Dougal asked, tempted to take a step forward.

The lass looked startled at the question, but slowly shook her head. “Nay, I daenae fear ye.”

Dougal laughed, and the bitter sound made her flinch in surprise. “Then ye are even more foolish than I thought.”

She gasped. “What?”

“How can ye stand there and say ye daenae fear me when ye’ve surely heard I murdered me betrothed?” He let his voice drop low, testing her. “Surely, ye have heard the rumors.”

She blushed but didn’t look away. “If ye had done so, ye wouldnae speak of it so openly. That much I am sure of.”

Dougal smirked despite himself, tilting his face to the stars. “That still doesnae mean I have pure intentions towards ye.”

The way the lass tried to stammer out a response interested him more than it should have. He smirked, gazing into her eyes. She made no move to flee to the safety of her home and remained out here with him in the cool evening air.

He imagined the things he could do to her. It had been too long since he had felt the touch of a woman, longer still since one looked at him without flinching.

The thought alone was enough to remind him how dangerous it was to be out here, speaking with her.

He had no business wanting her the way he did. Quickly, he tried to push those thoughts out of his mind before they could take root. Yet here he stood, half hidden beneath the tree, still cataloging everything he could about her.

Her breath caught when his hand rose to her cheek, and she caught his wrist, her grip gentle but firm. “Wait. Ye might be innocent, but I must confess me wrongdoings.”

“Go on, then.” He was amused now. “What could a lass who blushes this hard have possibly done?”

“I write,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Lion of the Highlands.”

He went very still.

She lowered her gaze for a moment but then quickly looked back up, apologetic.

Thisyounglass had written such a tale. It was the last thing Dougal had expected to hear, let alone from her. To be frank, he had never thought she would be capable of even thinking up such a story, let alone write it.