Page 4 of When the Laird Conquers

“No, perhaps not, but…” In a fluster, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a leather-bound book.

He had no choice but to move closer to see the title.

Agnes stiffened and took a step backward, bumping into the sill she had dropped down from when she intruded on his slumber.

“What do ye have there?” he said, giving her a modicum of space, just in case she happened to have a dagger under her cloak.

Not that he couldn’t disarm her, but he would hate to kill such a pretty thing for attempting to murder him. It would not have been the first time another clan had sent someone to try their luck, though they were never fortunate.

“A book,” she replied.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I can see that.”

“It is an almanac. Clans of the Highlands,” she explained quietly, holding it out to him. “I found your name here. I assumed you were unmarried, as no such information was mentioned, so… here I am.”

He knew he was missing something. Or she was, where her brain should be.

“I’m fairly sure that’s nae how it works, lass,” he said, curious to know what had been written about him. “Ye daenae open a book, run yer finger down the pages, and pick a husband.”

He took the almanac from her and wandered back to his bed to light a lantern with a tinderbox and taper.

Settling the lantern on the bedpost, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to flip through the pages of the book. He hadn’t known the English were so interested in anything north of the border.

As he read, he scoffed and snorted. Whoever had written this had an ignorant opinion of several clans.

“Clan MacDingle are affluent?” he sneered. “Effluent, more like.” He glanced up at Agnes, who observed him in utter stillness. “Ye realize this is all nonsense, aye? Whoever wrote this wants a sound beatin’.”

“But I have heard that⁠—”

“I daenae care what ye’ve heard,” he interrupted curtly. “It’s half fiction.”

Her throat bobbed. “But you are fearsome and dangerous and not to be trifled with, aren’t you? You are… a wolf, aren’t you? The man who earned his nicknames?”

He just stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was wrong with her?

Her mouth moved as if she were chewing on the inside of her cheek, contemplating his words.

“Is it because I’m English?” She gulped loudly. “I’ve heard of other English ladies who have made their laird husbands very happy. Why, just before I left England, I read of a woman named Lady Emma who is married to one, and she speaks very highly of her husband. She is the envy of society.”

“So, this is some challenge?” he asked, struggling to understand.

She pulled a face. “No, it is not ‘some challenge.’ I have given this great consideration.”

“Aye, well, it seems to me that ye hear and read too many things,” he remarked as he found the entry about his clan.

And the lass still came here after reading that?

“I can be less English if you like,” she told him. “I have been practicing my Scottish accent for days. It was good enough to fool the guard, so perhaps I⁠—”

Gordon rose from the bed, and her words died on her lips, her eyes flying wide. “Lass, enough with yer jests. Ye’re tellin’ me that ye found a book that says I’m the laird of a cruel, violent, and powerful clan, and I’m to be avoided at all costs, and ye decided to come here and propose to me?”

“As I said, I know of other ladies who⁠—”

His lip curled. “Tell me the truth of why ye’re here, or ye can spend the night in me dungeons. Ye might survive the cold down there, but I cannae promise yer niece will.”

The beautiful woman clutched the mewling baby tighter to her, as if he might be the monster she assumed he was. Her big eyes flickered down to the floor, her bosom rising with a deep breath.

“It is a long story,” she mumbled.