Page 23 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

She ate at the kitchen table. The kitchen was warm; the hall was not. Not yet.

There was something about the kitchen at this hour—the scent of the banked fire, the yeast of the bread, and the dried herbs hanging in thick rows from the rafters—that made it feel like the only honest room in the castle.

She ate quickly, her spoon clinking against the bowl. Mrs. McAulay talked about the week’s provisioning and whether the barley merchant could be expected by Thursday. Elspeth listened closely. Then she went out.

The courtyard air hit her instantly. It was cold. The wind brushed against her skin. Her breath came out in sharp white plumes. The cobblestones were damp and dark underfoot, and above the high stone walls, the sky was a pale grey.

Magnus was already there.

He stood beside the horse, the same enormous dark stallion, which seemed to have no other mode than patient and vast. His back was partially turned to her. He was checking the saddle girth, fully coated against the frost.

He was clearly several tasks into his day. It made arriving after eating porridge feel almost decadent by comparison.

The sound of her boots on the cobblestones made him turn.

He looked at her. It was a brief but thorough survey, taking in the heavy shawl, the borrowed boots, and the white plumes of her breath in the cold air. Then his eyes flicked to the horse and back to the iron gate.

“Ye ate?” he asked. His voice was rough from the morning air.

“Aye.”

“Good.” He moved to the horse’s left side, his massive frame shifting easily. “Come.”

No preamble. No inquiry about whether she had slept, or whether the room had been warm enough, or whether she had any preference regarding the direction of travel. Simply a dry command: “Come.”

She crossed the damp courtyard, her boots clicking against the stone.

He turned to her. Without a word or any ceremony, he placed his large hands firmly on her waist and lifted her straight into the saddle.

She had known it was coming. He had done it at the auction, and he clearly intended to do it every time there was a horse involved, which in this part of the Highlands seemed to always be the case, because there was no carriage. She had already decided not to comment on it.

She did not make a sound. But her fingers found the cold iron pommel and gripped it harder than the situation required. He had lifted her without apparent effort, without any adjustment of his posture. Then the leather saddle was beneath her. The morning air felt colder up here, and she let out a breath.

He mounted behind her.

This was the part she had not planned sufficiently for. At the auction, it had been dark. She had been startled, and there had been too much happening for any single element to receive her full attention. Now, it was dead quiet. She was painfully present.

He settled into the saddle behind her. His arm wound around her waist to gather the thick leather reins, suddenly rendering her rigid.

Not visibly so; she managed that much. She kept her shoulders squared, her hands firm where they were, and her chin at a reasonable angle. She was rigid on the inside, where it was her own business.

He smelled of rain, cured leather, and cold air. The same earthly notes he had left a trail of on his way out of her room the other night. Up close, it was not subtle. It monopolized the air.

She breathed in carefully, her ribs expanding against his arm.

His forearm rested heavily across her waist. It was not tight. It was not restrictive, but its presence was more than acknowledged by her body. The inside of his sleeve brushed against her middle, where his arms held the reins on either side of her.

That light touch sent warmth through her body. Her back was barely two inches from his chest. She could feel the heat of him radiating through the morning cold.

She registered this with great reluctance.

The horse began to move. They passed through the heavy iron gate and down the rocky track, heading straight into the grey morning mist.

The hills rose steeply on either side of the track, a low shroud of fog clinging to their peaks. The loch across the low ground below engulfed dark, still waters. The world was silent. The horse’s hooves struck the mud with a rhythmic, heavy thud. The cold air bit at her cheeks.

Behind her, she felt the steady, even sound of his breathing. She could not hear it, but she could feel the constant rise and fall of his chest against her back, his warm breath tickling the hair on the nape of her neck.

Her gaze fixated on the hills. The horse walked on into the mist, Magnus not giving a different command. She had not expected him to.