Page 5 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

Within seconds, Duncan’s steady footsteps caught up to him, trailing him into the bright morning light. Magnus could practically feel the smugness radiating from his cousin.

The silence stretched until Duncan finally broke it.

“What sort of wife do ye seek, then?”

Magnus did not slow his stride.

The question was absurd. He had an eastern field to inspect and an inventory merchant to break, and he had absolutely no desire to contemplate a woman he had never met.

“Magnus,” Duncan prodded.

Four more paces, then Magnus stopped, his voice dropping an octave.

“Quiet,” he said flatly. “Practical. Sensible.” He paused, his mind flashing briefly to the fence line. “Someone who can care for me goats.”

Duncan came to a dead halt, but Magnus kept walking.

A moment later, laughter erupted. Loud, bright, and completely unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls of the granary.

“I promise ye, me Laird,” Duncan called after him, “ye willnae regret this!”

Magnus did not look back. He already knew he would.

He detested gatherings. He detested the noise, the uncalculated chaos of small talk, and the smooth-tongued lairds who traded promises they never intended to keep.

In less than two days, he would be standing in Bickerson’s crowded hall, surrounded by hundreds of desperate families and ambitious men. He had given his word to choose.

Just then a cold, heavy truth settled in his gut.

He was bringing an unknown woman back to Ben Cruachan. A stranger who would sleep in his home, touch his ledgers, and see the scars he kept buried beneath his heavy tartan.

He had built a fortress to keep the world out, and now he was willingly opening the iron gate.

Chapter Three

“Iam going to be sick,” Elspeth said, her fingers clutching the velvet edge of her seat as the carriage lurched over one last rocky crest.

“Ye arenae.” Katherine adjusted the heavy pearl at Elspeth’s ear.

“I am. I can feel it in me throat.”

“That is nerves. Nerves and the ruts of the road. They feel identical until ye stand up.” Katherine sat back within the cramped interior, her eyes sweeping over Elspeth’s frame. “Ye look beautiful.”

Elspeth looked down at the fine, flowing pale blue silk catching the light. While the tiny pearls threaded through her dark curls had been Becky’s doing, the gown had been Katherine’s idea.

Her own contribution was the soft kid gloves, pulled tight over her knuckles simply because she needed something to do with her hands before she tore at her own skin.

Outside the carriage window, Bickerson Castle cut a massive, imposing silhouette against the black sky. Candlelight flooded from every narrow window, torches flared in iron brackets flanking the great stone entrance, and the distant reedy wail of bagpipes drifted down through the crisp evening air.

It looked like a grand celebration.

She forced air into her lungs, reminding herself of the cold truth: it was a market, and she was the goods.

“Katherine.” She kept her voice down to a harsh whisper. Across from them, Liam sat in silence, reading a small tract by the light of a handheld lantern—his preferred method of managing any situation that did not allow him to draw a sword. Beside him sat her father, his eyes fixed on the approaching castle. “I want ye to ken that I understand ye were trying to help. Back in the solar. When ye suggested this auction over Dunmore.”

“I was helping.”

“Aye,” Elspeth murmured, her pulse fluttering in her wrists. “And I also want ye to ken that if this goes badly tonight, I intend to blame ye for the rest of me days.”