Page 19 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Did no one give this man a chance? He’d helped her to his own detriment. He’d known who she was and had been about to take the punishment without a complaint… Had he known who she was last night while they’d made love—

Something knotted in her gut. It hadn’t been lovemaking. It had been a beautiful tryst when his guard was down. And when he’d held her afterward, she’d sensed a man who didn’t want to let her go… His words about his brother when they’d played chess crashed down on her. Accused unjustly. Was there something else lurking in the past that they hadn’t listened to?

“It’s the truth, James. He protected me.” Her gaze lifted to Tormund’s once more. He was still holding her waist and for one blessed moment, she allowed herself to truly feel it, lean into it. “He was going to win. Ye owe him yer gratitude.”

She licked her lips. No one said a word. She reached up and pushed away the trickle of blood rolling down his cheek with her thumb, for no one else seemed to care about the injury he’d just suffered unjustly, just as he swiped away a tear on a callus-roughed thumb.

They both froze. That magic…it was still there, she could feel it.

Blast it, she wanted to explore it, despite the bad blood between their people. She dropped her touch as he inspected the tear on his thumb as if a curiosity he couldn’t explain.

“I’ll nay allow more bloodshed when I have the power to stop it,” she whispered.

“Then there will be no boon granted. Lady Brighde wins, fairly”—at this, her head snapped around. “And Laird MacLeod is nay banished from the faire.”

A hand on her arm guided her back. For a moment, Tormund’s grip tightened upon her hip again, as if to keep her anchored instead, but it slipped away, replacing where he’d touched with coolness. His obsidian gaze darted back and forth between her eyes as if trying to figure out a puzzle.

“The winnings, to Lady Brighde MacDonald of Clanranald!” Clapping and cheering rose onto the air as a heavy purse was thrust into her hand, weighting down her frame so that she lurched.

But the win felt bitter. The hulking presence of the silent warrior to her right felt heavy, like a squall rolling in off the water, like at any moment, he could sweep her away with the torrent.

And then he was gone. Dropping off the dais to land with a lazy thud, as once more the crowd quieted, the man in his proud gold and blue great kilt lumbered away through the crowd that parted for him like the Red Sea, as if this world was his battleground, calling out to his men with a flick of his finger.

“Reaper. Niall. Come. We leave to find Ghost and the others, and then I must plan for Inverness…”

Never once looking back.

Who was Ghost? Was he leaving? Going to Inverness proper from this nearby castle? The faire had just started. There’d be other contests, other feats of strength and brawn, deals to be made, handfasts to be celebrated, and truces declared. And chances to see him! And he was leaving?

She looked down at the heavy purse. Reaves destroyed his crops. James’s reaves.

Her people were fat on wealth, their lands fortified and fertile. No matter what wrongs had been committed toward her clan, Tormund’s folk were innocent. Tormund never attacked their villages or crops, only their castle. As if what he wanted was inside.

As far as she knew, Tormund never came to the faire. Never gathered with the clans throughout the year. Was an outsider not welcome among civilized nobles. Why had he come this time?

To win this purse. For his people. To earn it fairly, nay reave.

A knot pitted in her gut. That traitorous part of her wondered about the real man. She’d always wondered what her sister had murmured about, incoherent and fading. He’s innocent…at Stornoway…must protect…must find…James will nay understand… Owen…

He’d saved her from falling, to his own detriment. He’d asked her if she was amenable last night, wanted her first time to be special for her. He was a poet who spoke in French and kissed like sin and had held her afterward as if filled with raw longing for more.

She didn’t know this enemy who’d attacked her castle time and again, but after last night, today’s race, and this revelation about Owen, something whispered, He’s nay the demon ye thought he was. And she’d never know for certain if she let him walk away.

Chapter Six

Tears. Damnation, Tormund hated tears. A lass’s tears were the battle-ax to a warrior’s resolve.

Worse? She’d cried because of him. He’d known once she learned the truth about his identity, she’d be horrified. Fok, and the way she’d touched him? As if to heal the wound inflicted by the rock?

There was no healing a damned soul. No fixing his scars. He’d nay been so touched since his maw had washed his scrapes after he and Owen had scuffled as squirrelly lads.

He stalked away as his men lumbered with him, Nykr and their mounts in tow. Market-goers parted for him and his entourage, as if he were plagued, their heads together in whispers. He shot them a repelling glare and they hurried to turn away, when hooves thundered closer.

He glanced down the footpath. Ghost, his cousin, was cantering through the throngs, causing folk to scatter. “Come, laird. I found the perfect spot,” he said. For the ambush.

Tormund shot him a quelling scowl. Nay here. “Let Nykr rest, then show me.”

Ghost jutted his chin toward the racing finish where people were still gathered, cheering. “Ye win?”