Page 48 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“And gentleness? Joy? Daenae ye need those to make a family?”

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes, which had drifted back to her face during the question, dropped again, slower this time, tracing the line of her shoulders down to where the shawl had slipped. He did not seem to notice he was doing it. Or maybe he did not care to stop.

“What I need to make a family is ye wearin’ that in me chamber,” he said, his voice rougher at the edges.

His hand came up before she had fully understood the sentence, two fingers catching the thin fabric at her wrist, drawing along the seam of it with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact at all.

She felt it everywhere, a slow heat spreading up from where his fingers traced, and found herself wondering what that same touch might feel like beneath the fabric.

“Lookin’ like that,” he added, quieter.

Her cheeks, already warm, burned. She glanced down at where his fingers rested against her wrist, then back up at him, and took her time answering, mostly because she needed it.

“After we wed,” she said, and was pleased to hear her voice come out steadier than she felt. “Until then, ye willnae see me lookin’ like this again, Magnus, or ye’ll find yer own shift folded neatly beside me bed instead.”

Something shadowed his face. Surprise, she thought, at his own hand still on her wrist, at whatever he had just said and clearly not planned to. He looked, for one unguarded second, as unsettled by the admission as she felt hearing it.

“Me Laird,” she added a beat too late, the honorific arriving with considerably less authority than she had intended.

He cleared his throat and stepped back half a pace, though the doorframe held most of his weight. His jaw tightened as though he were physically forcing the next words out in the correct order.

“Goodnight, Elspeth.”

Before she could form an answer, his hand moved from her wrist to her shoulder, and he turned her around, steering her back across the narrow corridor.

The door shut between them with a soft, final click.

Elspeth stood there in the dim light of her own chamber, flowers clutched in one hand, shawl slipping from one shoulder, and stared at the closed door as though it might yet offer further explanation.

None came.

She looked down at the wildflowers. She looked back at the door and could not decide whether she was furious with him or a good deal more complicated than furious.

Chapter Fourteen

Magnus found Duncan waiting for him at the edge of the paddock, arms folded over the top rail, watching nothing in particular.

“Ye’ve got news?” he asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Aye, me Laird.” Duncan didn’t turn.

“Walk with me a moment.”

They crossed toward the far fence line, away from the stable lads and the general traffic of the yard, until the only sound left was the wind moving through the grass and the distant clang of the smith’s hammer.

“Angus’s cousin trades in Inveraray,” Duncan said. “Deals in wool, mostly, but he hears things. The stranger came to the market three days ago, askin’ about Ben Cruachan. And the handfasting.”

Magnus kept his eyes on the fence line. “Askin’ what, exactly?”

“When. Where. Who’ll be in attendance.” Duncan finally turned to face him. “Askin’ with a Highland accent that wasnae local, and a manner Angus’s cousin didnae care for.”

The wind moved through the grass. Somewhere behind them, a hound barked once and fell silent.

“Ye think it’s him.”

“I think,” Duncan said carefully, “that we’ve had thirteen years of silence, and now that word has spread that ye’ve taken a bride, a stranger is askin’ about the date of the handfasting in a market three days’ ride from here.” He held Magnus’s gaze. “I daenae believe in coincidence that convenient.”

O’Brien.