Laird of Chaos (Highland Protectors #2)

Chapter 1

“Iknow you do not want this match, Violet, but Lord Westall is a good man and a good match for people like us,” Sir Horace Wilkinson reasoned as he led his daughter up the steps to the front of the chapel where she was about to be wed.

Violet wished she could express how much she didn’t think the word ‘good’ should be used to describe Lord Westall, but the lump of fear and anger in her throat wouldn’t permit her to do anything other than struggle to breathe.

The carriage still parked in front of the chapel called to her to turn back and run before binding herself to a man she had yet to hear one good thing about, but her father’s grip on her arm was set on preventing that escape.

He was more determined to see this through than anything else he had ever attempted to do.

She sighed.

Why did it have to be Lord Westall of all people to ask for her hand?

She had yet to understand why he had all but threatened her father to make him agree to the match. It wasn’t as though she were some great beauty, and her family was on the lowest rung of the social ladder.

Her father had yet to answer her, despite how many times she had asked over the month it had taken to finalize the wedding preparations. A time she had considered too short.

“You just have to be patient and respectful,” he continued. “Marriage takes work, and if you do your duties well, you may come to find love with your husband in time.”

May. Not will.

The thought left a sour taste in her mouth, which she forced herself to swallow. He couldn’t even pretend to hide the truth from her.

It was days like this that resentment towards her father’s nature overshadowed the love she had for him. He never considered her happiness in any of the decisions he made. Never considered how much he was hurting her by refusing to listen to her concerns.

She had hoped the thought of resigning her to a future of misery would be reason enough for him to grow a spine, but he had done the opposite. Even now, she felt nervous tremors rack through him the closer they got to the chapel doors.

Lord Westall intimidated him; that much was obvious. Yet her father considered him a good man.

When their engagement had been announced, Violet had received pitying looks from ladies who would usually ignore her, and the ton’s most famous gossip, Lady Weatherby, hadn’t hesitated to fill her ears with tales of his gambling and failed attempts at climbing the social ladder.

Shame was the only thing she could feel upon hearing those words, and disgust was the only thing she could feel every time she looked at him.

Whiny and always complaining about his lot in life, she didn’t understand why such good looks had been wasted on such a man.

He was tall, considerably taller than her, with a head of golden hair that was always gelled in the latest style that showed off his aristocratic face.

If he had better manners, he would have been one of the most sought-after bachelors for his looks alone.

The chapel doors opened sooner than she had hoped, and she wasn’t at all surprised by the number of guests in attendance.

Theirs was no great match that would stir the gossip pots of the ton, so the rows were more empty than filled.

Although she was more than surprised to see the Earl and Countess of Burnwick.

Then again, the Countess was a lover of weddings.

“My lovely Violet,” Lord Westall said, taking her hand from her father’s grasp. “You are as lovely as a spring flower.”

She tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. She turned away from him, trying to suppress the shudder that ran through her when he kissed the back of her hand.

However, her breath hitched when he leaned closer to whisper in her ear, “I cannot wait for this ceremony to be over, and I can finally make you mine. I have dreamed of our wedding night since your father agreed to my proposal.”

She shuddered, unable to hide it this time, but she did not look at him lest her fear show. Her heart thudded unsteadily in her chest as a cold bead of sweat ran down her spine.

Why did she have to be married to a man who couldn’t be bothered with propriety enough to know he shouldn’t speak so crassly in public, and what’s worse? In a church!

The priest began the sermon, but she hardly heard his voice, the sound lowering to a din underneath the heavy pounding of her heart.

It wasn’t too late. She could yank her hands from the odious man’s grip and run out those doors. Her reputation might suffer for it, but at least he would be too embarrassed to come asking for her hand again.

Run, Violet!

I can’t.

Stop being a coward and move.

She shuffled on her feet, but Lord Westall’s grip tightened on her arm as if sensing her urge to flee.

Her chest suddenly felt tight, and she struggled to breathe. She felt somewhat like a caged bird, and all she wanted was to be free of this match, free of her father’s control, finally free to live her life on her own terms.

Someone save me.

Her silent prayer came with the sting of tears pooling in her eyes as the hopelessness of her situation sank in.

If she married Lord Westall, there was no guarantee of freedom. She would no doubt wither away until she was a mere shadow of herself.

Save me, please!

As if hearing her prayers, the chapel doors crashed open, and they all turned in shock to see men storming in with swords and… kilts?

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, but at least she could breathe better now that Lord Westall had let go of her arm.

“What do you lot think you’re doing?” he bellowed. “How dare you interrupt my—” His words died in his throat when the men parted to reveal a larger man walking forward.

Even though Violet wasn’t the target of his fiery gaze, she still felt the heat from where she stood. It was a wonder Lord Westall was capable of standing under such a powerful glare.

She placed a hand on her stomach and tried to take a deep breath past the crushing tightness of her corset, but moving turned out to be the wrong thing to do, as the man’s dark gaze turned to her.

Now, underneath his gaze, she saw just how intense it was, and fear filled her.

Her heart thudded unsteadily as her feet turned heavy, almost feeling rooted in place.

She wanted to run, but he was sure her body wouldn’t move even if she tried.

She had wanted her wedding to end, but not at the cost of her life.

The tension in the air was heavy, and no one dared to move, although she vaguely saw the Countess of Burnwick burying her face in her hands.

“What is the meaning of this, brigands?” Lord Westall cried, obviously having a desire to lose his life. “Do you know what wedding you have interrupted?”

“Me men and I arenae brigands, Lord Westall,” the man spoke, his voice as cold as steel and just as hard. “I am Laird Ruaridh Sinclair of Clan McLeod.”

Lord Westall scoffed. “What business do I have with you, barbarian? How dare you cross into our lands bearing arms? Are you looking for war?”

The Scotsman didn’t fly into a fit of rage as his men did, but his eyes went cold enough to make his men rein in their tempers.

“I havenae come seekin’ a war, but a war ye will get if ye daenae return what ye have taken from me,” he threatened, walking forward.

In the ensuing silence, his footsteps echoed, the rhythm matching the pounding of her heart. He came to stop at the foot of the raised platform, where she stood beside Lord Westall.

At least now her groom had the sense to take a step back in the face of danger.

Now that they stood facing each other, Violet wanted to laugh at how the sheer masculinity of the Scotsman overshadowed the pompous airs Lord Westall put on. It made her wonder why she had been so nervous to run from him.

“I have nothing that belongs to you, brigand,” Lord Westall sneered. “Begone at once.”

“Ye have me daughter, and I will forgive yer trespassing if she is returned to me immediately.”

Violet turned to look at Lord Westall with surprise. He kidnapped a child? Was there no depth too low for him to sink into?

“I do not know what you speak of,” Lord Westall said, looking guilty.

The Scotsman stepped forward, and the action said more than any threats he could have made.

“Do not presume to threaten me in this hallowed house, brigand. I’ll have you—” Lord Westall broke off when the Scotsman clamped a hand around her arm.

Violet stiffened both at the shock of being touched by a stranger and the roughness of his large palm.

“What do you think you’re doing? Unhand her at once!” Lord Westall barked.

Violet tried to wriggle out of the Scotsman’s hold, but he pulled her to his side with one easy motion, stilling her struggle.

“Give me me daughter, and I will release yer bride to ye,” he stated calmly.

“I… I will give her back to you, but you must give me time.”

“Time willnae be granted to ye,” he insisted. “Bring her here, now.”

“She is at my estate,” Lord Westall argued. “It will take me some time, but after the ceremony, I will send her in a carriage to—”

The Scotsman turned to leave, dragging Violet along with him. She was too stunned to argue, considering Lord Westall’s insistence on wrapping up the wedding ceremony at such a dire time.

“You cannot take my daughter!” her father protested, jumping to his feet, but he fell back onto his seat at a cold glance from the Scotsman.

Violet wanted to scream in frustration. Was no one really going to stop him from taking her?

She tried to yank her arm free, but he held firm.

“If ye want yer bride, ye will bring me daughter unharmed to the crossing at Yorkshire tomorrow,” he ordered, not turning back.

“I will bring her to you, but I cannot let you leave with my bride,” Lord Westall insisted, and Violet turned to see him taking a step back.

She scoffed as she was dragged, but she didn’t intend to make it easy for the Scotsman to do so. If the men who should protect her were too cowardly to do so, she would fight for her freedom.

“Unhand me!” she snapped, trying to pull free from his grasp.

He turned to her then, and for a split second, she wondered if he was going to hit her. She stiffened, but what he did in the next moment surprised her.

He pulled her forward in one easy motion, and she found herself lifted and thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As if that wasn’t scandalous enough, his hand curled around the back of her thighs to steady her.

Of all the insulting things she had had to endure!

She began struggling with all she had, pounding his back with her fists, but he held fast and continued walking out of the chapel.

“Let go of me at one, you brute!” she growled. “How dare you treat me this way? This is entirely rude and uncouth! Set me down at once!”

He set her down, but before she could protest, he pointed to his horse. “Ye can either mount it yerself, or I can throw ye over the saddle,” he muttered. “Choose.”

“I will do no such thing!” she gasped. “I want to return to—”

He picked her up, set her on the saddle, and mounted behind her in the same breath, effectively caging her in his arms.

She stiffened at his closeness, her face flaming when he kicked the horse into a quick trot, effectively putting them closer. She tried to keep herself sitting upright, but it was hard to do with the constant motion.

She tried hard to ignore the broadness of his chest against her back, the stiffness of his posture, and the way her body was acutely aware of his.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and sagged back in protest. His answering groan was a welcome sound.

Good. She intended to hurt him.

“You cannot keep me prisoner,” she muttered under her breath. “I will leave as soon as I get off this horse.”

But it seemed he heard her, because he chuckled deeply, the vibrations traveling through her.

“I would enjoy seeing ye try.”