Page 6 of Taken By the Savage Highlander

Margo sat rigid in the saddle in front of Laird MacLeod. Her back and hips ached from the effort of keeping as much distance as she could between the two of them. Still, she felt every breath he took, every minute movement he made to guide the stallion that carried them.

“We’re near,” the Laird said, his voice so close that she jumped.

For the last several days, they’d barely spoken a word to one another, and hearing him speak again was a shock to her system. While her anger had not waned, their interaction at the first inn they stayed at kept her at bay. The way he had looked at her and the harsh tone of his words stuck to her, clawing at the inside of her mind.

“The spire in the distance?” she asked, squinting ahead of them.

“Aye,” he confirmed, taking a deep breath that pressed his muscular chest into her back. “I daenae think that we are the first to return. Me men should have ridden through the night rather than stoppin’ at inns along the way.”

Margo made a soft noise in the back of her throat, her heart beating faster as she took in the battered cliffs that surrounded the building. It felt as if the Land itself was watching their approach. The place felt ancient, as though it carried the spirit of every single person that had ever been there. Or perhaps she was feeling something odler still - the heartbeat of the land itself.

The hills around them were becoming increasingly familiar to the horse; it seemed to move faster, with more ease. Behind her, she could feel the MacL’od's energy as well. She could not read it, which unsettled her even more.

It didn’t take long for them to reach MacLeod Castle. Guards and residents alike lined the gates and walls, as though the entire household had gathered to witness her arrival. As they passed through the gates, the guards noded in greeting. She recognized several of them, some still bearing the injuries they had suffered during the skirmish on their first day upon the road.

I do not understand why there are so many people here.

As they came to a stop within the courtyard, Margo could not help but notice the way maids whispered behind their hands. She realized the energy that had been building inside her since they arrived on these lands was hostile. If she stopped long enough and listened, it sounded as though the sea itself were upset with her arrival.

“Oh dear,” she whispered to herself, feeling doubly exposed when MacLeod climbed down from the saddle, leaving her towering over everyone else.

She scrambled down, forcing a smile on her face. Both of them were road-worn, their clothes dirty and tattered from days of exposure to the elements. It was much more acceptable for a Laird to have his travel leathers scuffed and caked in mud. It was much less acceptable for a Lady to look the way she did.

“Where is the Minister?” Laird MacDougal barked, turning to one of the guards who approached with the groom.

Minister?

“He’s waitin’ in the Great Hall,” the guard replied, examining Margo with poorly-concealed interest. “He arrived nearly two hours before ye.”

“Then we willnae keep him waitin’ much longer,” MacLeod said. He looked at Margo, his gaze hardening when he took in her expression. “Follow me.”

Without giving her the chance to respond, he began to march toward the doors. Several of the staff members took off after him; those remaining were watching Margo. She felt almost as if they were waiting for her to turn around and flee.

I cannot. If I do not follow his instructions, he will come after me. And he may go back to get Eleanor.

Lifting her chin and rolling her shoulders back, she walked in the same direction that MacLeod had gone. It was difficult to maintain her composure when she felt so scattered, but she refused to show any fear or trepidation. She would behave, if only so she could see her sister again.

As she stepped inside, the fires roared. There was a chill in the air; they must have been lit when the guards had spotted their approach. The ambiance was eerie; the ghostly feeling she’d experienced on the way into the valley seemed to extend to the interior of the MacLeod Castle.

“A ribbon,” MacLeod said. His sharp gaze swept over the gathering in the Hall. He didn’t even give her a second glance, apparently searching for someone else. “It doesnae matter what kind of ribbon. Any will do.”

There was a flutter of confusion running through the residents, and when she looked at the minister, the man’s brow was furrowed. As one of the women, older and severe, pulled a ribbon loose from her hair, a guard pushed Margo forward. Her head swiveled, trying to piece together what was happening.

As soon as she took her place in front of the minister, Laird MacLeod approached them with a tartan ribbon in his hand. It passed from his palm to the minister’s. Then, he stood in front of Margo, and the overwhelming truth rushed over her.

A handfasting. Right now?

“I trust ye ken the script,” Laird MacLeod said, offering Margo his hand without looking at her.

You cannot even look at me, and we are about to be married.

“Aye,” the minister said, clearing his throat. “Lady…”

“Margo,” she said, still looking down at his proffered hand. “Margo Abbot.”

“Lady Margo Abbot,” he said with a polite nod toward her. He was the only one here who felt safe. “Would ye please join hands with Laird Cameron MacLeod.”

Stiffly, she did as she was told, her eyes widening at the sheer strength of Laird MacLeod. His hand was so much bigger than hers, covered in calluses from years of training and fighting. She could not hear a single word the minister said, blood rushing in her ears.