Highlander’s Hunted Bride (Highland Wedding Crashers #1)

Chapter 1

“Walk.”

The casualness of his tone frightened the hell out of Emma. Her slippers made no sound on the cold floor, and for some reason, that fact alone seemed to terrify her even more.

Perhaps it was the fact that she felt like she wasn’t moving, or the sheer silence that seemed to close in on her and her uncle.

“I said, walk,” her uncle repeated without looking down at her.

She did.

Each step felt like a kind of betrayal. Like she was struggling to come to terms with an inevitable fact.

He was waiting.

Yes, he was waiting for her at the altar, and when her uncle opened the door to the Great Hall in MacLeod Castle, he was the first thing she saw.

Before the candlelight or the crowd seated on either side of the aisle, she saw his silhouette first. The smell of thick wine and something she couldn’t place her finger on registered much later.

Her uncle yanked on her arm one more time as her eyes settled on him. He didn’t look like a man to her. As far as she was concerned, he was a shadow of a man. He was tall and silent, and half his face was lost in the surrounding candlelight.

Good God.

He was even more terrifying in person, and she hadn’t fully seen him yet. She tried not to look at him as they drew closer, her uncle basically pulling her weight at this point. She tried to focus on the stone floor instead, but her eyes kept straying to him. To the Laird she had been given to.

Traded to.

“Uncle,” she whispered, her throat too dry. “I cannae do this. Please give me a moment.”

Her uncle did not break stride. “Ye’ll do it.”

Her breath caught. “Please—”

“Emma!” he hissed between gritted teeth, giving her a brief once-over. “We cannae keep men like him waitin’.”

Emma glanced up at him. “Ye mean monsters that kill their wives? That’s who ye chose for me?”

His grip on her arm tightened. His jaw clenched. “That is enough.”

“How do ye expect me to—”

“Ye’ll hold yer tongue.”

“He’s said to have—”

“He is yer husband now,” he snapped. “And if ye ken what is good for ye, ye will do as ye’re told.”

Emma looked ahead again. The Laird hadn’t moved. He stood rigid in front of the priest, and a dagger hung from his belt. The guests on either side of the aisle leaned forward with either anticipation or curiosity. She saw her twin sister Ava near the front, eyes wide and pleading.

But none of them would stop this. None of them could.

Her feet kept moving, and her body obeyed even though her mind protested. Each step forward, for some reason, felt like the snapping of a thread.

The air in the chapel grew hotter as she tried to inhale deeply, but her breath came shallow, caught behind her ribs. Her palms, on the other hand, grew even more clammy with each passing second.

She was close enough that his face had come fully into view now. He was staring at her legs or the hem of her skirt—she couldn’t tell.

Then, his eyes met hers, and her legs immediately stopped moving.

Nay.

Her hand jerked free from her uncle’s arm.

“Nay,” she breathed.

Her uncle stumbled to a stop beside her. “Emma, what in God’s name do ye think ye’re doin’?”

She turned toward him, trembling. “I said, nay!”

Gasps rippled through the guests like wind through tall grass. The priest hesitated, mouth half-open, but it was now or never. Emma swallowed and took a step back.

Her uncle’s face darkened. “Ye disgraceful lass. What do ye think—”

“I cannae do this!” Her voice cracked, rising above the music. “I cannae marry a man who… who frightens his own clan! Ye’re handin’ me to a ghost!”

Someone she didn’t recognize in the crowd rose to their feet, and several voices whispered harshly.

“Emma!” her uncle barked. “Compose yerself!”

She was already moving.

She gathered her dress as she turned, and air whooshed from her lungs. The chapel doors stood open now, wide and full of pale light.

“Emma?” her uncle called again, his voice almost a warning.

She ran.

More gasps rose behind her, and she heard a woman cry out. A man probably swore under his breath, but she was too caught up in the excitement to confirm.

She tried to shove past the crowd, knocking a bouquet loose from a pew. Flowers scattered underfoot.

“Emma!” her uncle roared.

Booted steps thundered after her, but she didn’t look back. The crowd parted too slowly, and she kept pushing through them, her shoulder catching a man’s chest, nearly sending her spinning. However, she kept running until she reached the main doors.

She swallowed and crossed the threshold, feeling the cold wind slap her face. Her makeshift veil tore on the door as she burst into the open air, the fabric snagging and pulling. She ripped it free with one hand.

“Emma!” came the shout behind her.

She didn’t stop.

Stone gave way to gravel. Gravel to grass.

The wind snatched at her hair and tore pins from their places. They fell in a trail behind her, bouncing silently on the earth. She kept running, ignoring the burn in her lungs.

After a long while, she staggered to a halt at the far side of the wall, pressing both hands to the cold stone.

She stood there for a full minute, doubled over, gasping for all the air she could get.

Green.

The doors opened, and the first thing he noticed as she walked in with her uncle was how green her dress was.

It stood bright against the candles and pulled him out of the reverie he had been in right before she entered.

She paused at the threshold, caught by the light.

He narrowed his eyes to examine her from afar.

She was slim and pale, like the snow itself.

Her eyes had been the furthest from timid. He saw the fire in them almost immediately. The thought of having a woman like that as his wife pricked him in a weird way. Whether it was the right or wrong kind, he couldn’t tell yet.

But then she ran.

The gasps erupted before the scene could register properly, and two of the men sitting at the front pews shot to their feet.

“Me Laird, shall we—” one whispered.

“Leave her,” Jack ordered.

“Me Laird, she just ran out—”

“And I saw that. Leave her.”

He didn’t wait for any of his men to finish speaking. Instead, he moved away from the altar and walked down the steps.

Laird MacFinn stood near the rail, his cheeks pale and his jaw set undeniably tight. Jack stopped before him, his face giving nothing away but disappointment.

“I thought we agreed on the most obedient one,” he said.

MacFinn’s mouth twisted. “She is obedient, MacLeod.”

“Is she now?” Jack asked, his voice raised but not harsh. Not yet. “Then that is the strangest form of obedience I have ever witnessed.”

“She has never done this before,” MacFinn said. “I swear it.”

Jack tilted his head. “Do I look like a fool?”

“Nae at all, MacLeod.”

“Then I assume I was speaking with sense when I said I only want the most obedient one.”

MacFinn swallowed. “Ye will have her obedience. Just give me a moment, and I will bring her back meself.”

“Just like ye did before she ran out?”

MacFinn ground his teeth. “I will drag her here by her hair if I have to.”

“So ye will bring her back weeping or pale with fear?” Jack scoffed. “I want neither.”

MacFinn drew closer by a step. “If ye will let me talk to her.”

“Nay need,” Jack said. “I will talk to her meself.”

“MacLeod—”

“If she is to be me bride, what other way to get to ken each other than this? Do ye nae agree?”

MacFinn swallowed, his voice on the very edge of a breakdown. “Certainly, MacLeod.”

The priest’s voice carried from the altar. “Me Lairds, perhaps we can proceed with the other rites while the young lady is fetched?”

MacFinn shot him a glare. “Nay one fetches her but family. She isnae an escaped prisoner.”

“Nay one fetches her at all,” Jack added. “She ran because thirty eyes were on her. Put fifty more, and she will never stop.”

MacFinn’s jaw worked. “She is young and afraid. Marriage just seems daunting to her, that is all.”

“Aye,” Jack uttered. “Fear makes even the bravest of men bolt. But it is clear that there was more in her eyes than fear.”

“What then?” MacFinn asked. “Stubbornness?”

“Fire,” Jack stated.

“I am certain ye can kill whatever fire is in her,” MacFinn answered. “I just want her back and married.”

“How does she feel?”

“What?”

“What is her opinion of this marriage?”

MacFinn narrowed his eyes. “Her opinion?”

Jack frowned, shuffling his feet. “Ye didnae ask her?”

“I want her wed,” MacFinn responded. “And I want the peace we bartered.”

“Peace,” Jack echoed. “I will have it, but I will have it stand. It willnae stand on a lass dragged by the arm.”

“Then let me fetch her,” MacFinn pressed. “She trusts me.”

“She trusts ye to trade her,” Jack shot back.

MacFinn’s head jerked back a fraction. “For peace.”

“For peace.” Jack nodded. “Aye. Then trust me to win what ye have bought.”

“She isnae a purchase,” MacFinn protested.

“She is a pledge,” Jack said. “I ken very well the weight of one.”

MacFinn’s shoulders relaxed, and his voice cooled. “Are ye certain ye can bring her back?”

“Do ye doubt me, MacFinn?” Jack asked, tilting his head.

He turned away before the older man could respond and made his way to the door. He could feel eyes on him as he crossed the threshold, but he didn’t stop to question any of it. Instead, he moved out into the cold afternoon.

“Let us see exactly what ye’re made of, wife,” he muttered to himself, tightening his fist around the hilt of his sword.