Page 74 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The canvas flap of the massive pavilion tent was yanked aside with violent force, and Morag was shoved stumbling into the richly appointed interior. Her bound hands made it impossible to catch herself, and she fell hard to her knees on the thick rugs that covered the tent floor.

"Here she is, me laird," growled the leader of her captors, wiping dried blood from his broken nose. "Armstrong's precious bride, delivered as promised."

"She gave us more trouble than a wildcat in a sack," added another man, sporting fresh scratches across his cheek. "Nearly escaped once, the little hellion."

Morag lifted her head defiantly, her hair wild around her shoulders, her blue eyes blazing with unquenched fury. The tent was larger than some cottages she'd seen, furnished with carved wooden chests, silver goblets, and tapestries that spoke of wealth and power. But her attention fixed immediately on the man rising from behind an ornate camp table.

Ronan Fraser was taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered and imposing in rich armor that gleamed in the lamplight. His graying hair was pulled back in a warrior's knot, and his face bore the weathered lines of a man who'd spent decades in warfare. But it was his eyes that made her skin crawl—cold, calculating, completely devoid of warmth or mercy.

"On yer feet, men," Fraser said sharply, his voice carrying the authority of absolute command. "That's nay way tae treat a lady, regardless of the circumstances."

He moved around the table with fluid grace, extending a hand toward Morag. "Me lady Armstrong, allow me tae help ye."

"Dinnae ye dare touch me!" Morag snarled, scrambling backward on her knees.

Fraser's eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression remained coldly amused. "Such aggressiveness from a noblewoman. Yer faither clearly failed in yer education."

"Me father taught me tae recognize evil when I see it," Morag shot back, finally managing to get her feet under her despite her bound hands.

Behind her, the men who'd brought her shifted restlessly. The leader cleared his throat. "About our payment, me laird..."

Fraser's gaze never left Morag as he reached for a leather pouch on his table. "Fifty silver pieces, as agreed." He tossed the bag to the men without looking. "Now get out. And spread the word—anyone who harms a hair on this lady's head will answer tae me personally."

The men bobbed quick bows and filed out, leaving Morag alone with her captor. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp settling in for the night.

"Please, sit," Fraser said pleasantly, gesturing toward a cushioned chair. "Ye must be exhausted from yer journey."

"I'll stand, thank ye," Morag replied icily. "I'd rather nae accept any hospitality from a man who has innocent blood on his hands."

"Innocent blood?" Fraser moved to pour wine into two silver goblets. "I assume ye're referring tae yer escort. Regrettable, but they chose their fate. They could have surrendered."

"Ye murdered them in cold blood!"

"I eliminated obstacles tae achieving me goals," Fraser corrected, offering her one of the goblets. "There's a difference."

Morag glared at the wine with undisguised revulsion. "I wouldnae drink if I were dyin’ of thirst."

Fraser shrugged and set the goblet aside. "Suit yerself. Though I must say, yer husband's taste in wives is... spirited."

"Me husband will be here soon," Morag said, lifting her chin defiantly. "Colin Armstrong daesnae abandon what's his. And when he arrives, he'll cut ye down like the rabid dog ye are."

Fraser's smile was cold as winter stone. "Oh, me dear lass, that's exactly what I'm countin’ on. Did ye truly think this was about ye?" Fraser laughed, the sound sharp and unpleasant. "Ye're merely the bait, me sweet. The lure tae draw that iron-hearted husband of yers exactly where I want him. Though I would enjoy breakin’ yer spirit meself after all this is over."

He moved to the tent's entrance, pulling back the flap to reveal the sprawling military camp beyond. Hundreds of cook fires dotted the valley, and Morag could see armed men moving between the tents with purposeful efficiency.

"Two hundred men, me dear. All waitin’ fer Colin Armstrong tae come chargin’ tae the rescue like some knight from the old stories." Fraser let the flap fall closed. "By this time tomorrow, when Armstrong and every man loyal tae him is dead without a trace, ye'll be beggin’ me tae make ye me wife."

"Never!" Morag spat, her whole body trembling with rage. "I'd rather die first!"

"Oh, I dinnaae think so," Fraser said with maddening calm. "Ye see, I've studied ye, Lady Armstrong. Studied yer family, yer loyalties, yer weaknesses. Ye're far too noble tae choose death when ye could serve a greater purpose."

"What purpose could I possibly serve ye?"

Fraser's eyes glittered with malice. "The MacDuff alliance, of course. With Armstrong dead and ye widowed, a new marriage could be arranged. The trade routes I need, the lands I require—all of it could still be mine through ye."

"Me faither would never agree tae such a thing!"