Charming the Shrew
Page 30
The grin left his face, and his eyes went black and stony. “You will marry again, Morainn, and ’twill be to me. I am champion now,” he said. “’Tis time for me to take a wife, have bairns.”
A jolt ran through Morainn, but she did not let him see how his words pierced through her. Once she had wanted bairns, but she had given up that dream.
“You are a good weaver, a good cook, or so Hamish used to say. I am sure Hamish trained you well in the other wifely duties,” he continued, leering at her. “’Twould be a good match for you to wed me.”
She was actually grateful he had continued, thus stoking her ire and steeling her will.
“’Twould be a good match for you to wed me,” she said, “but ’twill not happen.” Morainn’s patience was at an end. “I have much to do before the light fails.” She stepped around him again and set off for the castle.
She had not gone three steps before Baltair spun her around. She lost her grip on the plaid as he pulled her so close his nose doubled in her vision. She arched her back to get enough distance to judge his intent. ’Twas a mistake, for he took the opportunity to kiss her.
Revulsion combined with anger, and all her control fled. She struggled to get loose, shoving against his rocklike chest, trying with all her might to wrench away from him, but he was too big, too strong, too determined.
Too gone.
One moment she was caught in the vise of his embrace, his hard lips pressed against hers, the next he was whirling around, trying to keep his balance. She stumbled backward, catching her own balance with difficulty.
“It doesn’t look like the lass wants to be kissed, Baltair,” came a smooth voice from behind the champion.
Baltair shifted to his left just enough so she could see who her new hero was. Flaxen hair danced about an oh-so-handsome face. A smile skirted the corners of his mouth, somehow balancing between a smirk and a grin. His eyes stayed on Baltair, but she could feel his attention on her. Quickly he glanced at her.
“Are you well, Morainn?”
His smoky gray eyes held her gaze for a moment. His full-blown smile slammed into her with enough force to make her step backward. She stumbled on an icy patch, and Ailig reached out to steady her, rescuing her once more. She wasn’t sure she was comfortable seeing one of the chief’s sons as her rescuer, especially not given the mayhem his smile was causing in her gut and the odd way her arm tingled where he held it. She stepped away from him, removing herself from his grip.
Ailig gave her a quizzical look, his pale brows drawn down over eyes gone the color of clouds.
AILIG WAS PUZZLED by Morainn’s lack of greeting. He knew she did not think much of him, but he had expected some word of thanks at the least. Her wildly curling brown hair showed glints of copper in the fading sunshine, though most of her curls were severely tamed in a thick braid that hung over one shoulder. Her smile was cautious.
“Did he harm you?” he asked.
She glared at Baltair, and Ailig was startled at the look of hatred Baltair flung in his direction.
“He did not. ’Tis only that he is hard of hearing, or gone completely daft.”
“’Tis none of your affair, wean,” Baltair said to Ailig as he grabbed Morainn’s elbow and pulled her against his side. Morainn tried to pull her arm free, but the man obviously had a tight grip upon her.
An unfamiliar protectiveness insinuated itself into Ailig’s thoughts. He stepped closer, facing down the much larger man.
“I’d say ’tis none of yours, either, from the look on the lass’s face. Release her.”
“I do not take orders from you, bairnie. I am champion. I answer to the chief alone. I do not think you are that person.”
“Not yet,” Ailig said.
Rage painted Baltair’s face a brilliant red, and Ailig prayed the man would give in to it. He’d like nothing better than a good fight to rid himself of the nervous energy that plagued him, but now wasn’t the time for it.
“Not ever!” Baltair roared, shoving Morainn behind him then surging toward Ailig.
A rage of his own swept through Ailig as he ducked the meaty fist that whistled just over his head.
“I’ve no time to fight you now.” He whirled to his left as the big man charged at him, grabbing Baltair’s arm as he passed. Before the larger man could react, Ailig had spun him so that his arm was twisted up against his back, his shoulder in danger of wrenching out of its socket.
Baltair’s fists were clenched and his chest heaved as he tried to get loose. “You always were too much of a coward to fight fair.”
“Calling me names will not change the fact that Morainn did not want your kiss, Baltair. ’Twould seem you are the coward for forcing yourself on someone unable to defend herself.”
He heard Morainn gasp behind him.
“I can defend myself!”
He grinned at the spirit in her voice. He glanced over his shoulder at the beautiful woman glaring at the both of them, hands on her hips and challenge in her sparkling eyes. In truth he could not fault Baltair for wanting to kiss her, only for acting upon it when the lass clearly did not want his attentions.
“If I release you—” Ailig pulled harder on Baltair’s arm, making his point “—will you leave us and cease bothering Mistress Morainn?”
“You cannot hold me here forever, wee Ailig.”
Ailig figured that was as close as he was likely to get to an affirmative answer from the man, so he released him with a shove toward the gate.
“You can take your anger out on me later, Baltair, and I will relish the excuse to break your nose again, but for now I must see the chief.”
“’Twas a lucky punch, pup, and many years ago. ’Twill never happen again.” He scowled at Morainn. “We are not done, lass.” He shifted the scowl back to Ailig. “’Twill be my pleasure to beat you to a bloody pulp, just as soon as the chief is done with you.”
The man rubbed his shoulder, then turned his back on both of them and stomped through the gate into the castle.
“Do not look at me like that, Morainn. Had I known you could defend yourself, I would have happily watched you scratch his eyes out.”
He watched as her glare shifted into an embarrassed smile. “I do appreciate your rescue,” she said, looking down at the snow-crusted ground. “He took me by surprise.”
As she took him. He vaguely remembered her as a little girl, all gangly arms and legs, but now…now she was grown up, and the sharp elbows and knees had given way to womanly curves. His body surged, surprising him, and he quickly turned back to gather the reins he’d dropped when he’d vaulted off his horse.
“Are you well?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Aye,” she said, her voice tentative. “Did you find your sister?”
He nodded. “Catriona is well.” But he could say no more. Not yet. He turned back to face her, his horse following behind. “I must speak to the chief.”
She nodded and stepped back, breaking a thread that he hadn’t even realized had connected them, even if only for a moment.
“You were in mourning when I left, were you not?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure why.
“I was,” she said, then looked to the castle. “Thank you for your help, but I would not keep you from doing what you must.”
Reluctantly he agreed. “Perhaps I shall see you at the evening meal?” Ailig said as he mounted his horse.
“I do not take my meals in the castle.”
“Pity,” he said, mostly to himself. He leaned on his saddle and looked down at her. The icy snow pellets had shifted to light fluffy flakes that caught on her coppery-brown hair and melted where they landed on her softly freckled nose and cheeks.
“You’ve grown up, Morainn,” he said.
“Most people do,” she said, looking up at him.
“Aye, but not many turn out as bonny as you have.” He smiled at the pink that stained her cheeks and urged the horse on his way. At least there was one bright spot to returning to Assynt
. He looked up at the castle looming over him and realized ’twas likely the only bright spot he would find for a very long time.
ALSO BY LAURIN WITTIG:
Daring the Highlander
The Legacy of MacLeod
Don’t miss Ailig’s story!
The Devil of Kilmartin
Laurin Wittig’s award-winning debut novel
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Laurin Wittig comes from a long line of Scots and has been fascinated by all things Scottish ever since she attended her first American Clan Gregor Society gathering when she was ten years old. Now she lives in Virginia with her husband, two kids, and Anna the Eskie, but she often imagines herself high upon a ben in Scotland.
Connect with Laurin online!
LaurinWittig.com
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