Wedded to the Twisted Highlander (Taming the Kilmartins #3)

Chapter 1

1

“ G et yer hands off me. Dinnae touch me!” Astrid’s voice rang out with a mix of defiance and desperation.

She struggled against her captor to no avail. Every muscle in her body tightened as she tried to figure out her next move. Struggling through the whirlwind of emotions, her heart raced like a wild stallion.

The torches flickered and cast long shadows that danced across the stone wall. The scent of roast meat and spiced ale swirled about her as they made their way down the hall. Despite the temptations, all she could focus on was the man who held her captive.

“Let me go. I dinnae ken what else ye want from me. Had I nae apologized for what I’ve done? Then let me say it again, I’m sorry. There, now. Let me go.” Astrid met his piercing gaze, and while she hoped to find some semblance of understanding, all she saw was his unyielding resolve, cold and harsh as the granite of the castle.

“Words mean nothing here, lass. Ye’ve spun yer last tall tale, ye hear me?” he replied. His tone was deadly and reminded her of a finger trailing down her spine.

She swallowed hard as they approached the grand oak doors of the Great Hall. Terror rippled through her. Each ragged breath seemed to echo in her ears and only amplified the dread that pummeled her chest. Feeling her pulse in her throat, she glanced around for some escape, but there was none.

She held her breath as the doors swung open. A rush of warmth and light enshrouded them. Sounds of merriment sprinkled with music mingled with the clinking of tankards as the clan gathered around the tables.

Astrid’s stomach twisted with hunger for one brief moment at the sight of such a feast.

“Laird McFair,” her captor called over the din.

Heads turned, and the laughter faded into an uneasy silence that rattled Astrid to the core.

The Laird, a formidable figure, rose from his seat. Astrid’s gaze swept over the sea of faces and landed on the ruggedly handsome man narrowing his eyes. He was tall and well-built, with stormy blue eyes that made her heart rate quicken.

“Why have ye brought this lass here?” he asked, his eyebrow arched in suspicion.

“She has much to answer for,” Astrid’s captor replied, tightening his grip on her arm to assert his control and dominance.

Her heart sank as the gravity of her situation sank in. Panic clawed at her chest as she tried to inhale deeply to summon her courage from the depths of her being.

“Laird McFair,” she started, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. “I truly meant nay harm. I only sought to?—”

“Whatever eloquent speech ye had planned, I dinnae have the time to listen or to care.” The Laird’s voice was sharp and commanding as it rose over the murmurs in the hall. “And ye will speak only when I allow it.”

Astrid’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at her captor, who seemed to revel in her discomfort. Her eyes flicked back to the Laird as she stood before him unashamed. It didn’t matter what punishment he would dole out—all she cared about was going back home.

By all accounts, she was trapped, and the best thing for her to do was accept her fate.

“Me Laird,” her captor started as he gave her a side glance, before bowing so low that she wondered if he was going to kiss the ground. “This thief thought that she could waltz in and take what doesnae belong to her. I want?—”

“Enough,” the Laird boomed, silencing everyone.

A mix of fear and indignation brewed within Astrid as she clamped her mouth shut. The loaf was smaller than the others, easy to swipe from the cart as she passed by. And it wasn’t even for her. But before she could utter a single word in her defense, the Laird stepped forward, his presence commanding the room. The murmurs and side conversations died down.

“Ye’ve brought this wench to me Hall,” he spoke, his voice practically rattling the windows.

Astrid didn’t flinch. Noise never frightened her. The Laird could scream till he was blue in the face and she’d just stare at him like a naughty child in need of a spanking.

“Astrid Fulton, Me Laird.” Her name tumbled from her captor’s lips like something he would scrap off his shoe.

It was bad enough that she was already the center of attention, but to be humiliated as well… Astrid found herself far more eager to receive her punishment.

“I dinnae care,” the Laird said as his eyes narrowed on her. Her breath caught in her throat again as she met his steely gaze. “Tell me. Did ye do what he said ye did?”

There was something unnerving about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if his eyes were shards of ice, both piercing and calculating. The way he studied her made her stomach twist and her heart flutter with trepidation. As if he was a predator assessing its prey.

Astrid swallowed hard, her throat as dry as a desert. The truth hung like a guillotine ready to sever her head from her body.

“Aye, I did,” she confessed. “But I didnae take but a morsel,” she blurted out, hoping to shed some light on the situation.

“Och, I see. And I’m supposed to just allow ye and every other beggar in the village to take whatever ye want from me? Is that it? Ye’re tryin’ to put me out of business, are ye? Ye heard her, Laird McFair. I demand retribution,” her captor sneered.

“Enough.” The Laird’s voice sliced through their argument like a blade. “Ye’ll nae speak while I’m addressin’ either one of ye.”

The hall fell silent.

All eyes turned to her.

Astrid felt the weight of their scrutiny and the pricks of uncertainty. The air was taught, and her captor’s fury radiated beside her like a wildfire. But it was the Laird’s unyielding glare that made her heart race and her palms sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the faint silver glow of the moon.

Night had come and she was running out of time.

“Then get to it,” she snapped. With each passing moment, she grew ever more anxious. “Ye’ve already decided on me punishment. We dinnae need to drag this out longer than we need to. So, what will it be? The rack, irons, or stalk?”

“Ye speak of punishment as though it’s a sport,” her captor growled as he swung his hand back.

Astrid braced herself for the blow. If that was the worst he would do to her, she’d gladly accept it just to leave.

“Steady yer hand,” the Laird growled. “I’ll nae have any man treat a lass in such a manner. Is that understood?”

“Me Laird.” Her captor cowered as the words seeped out like venom.

The Laird stepped closer. His presence overwhelmed her, and for a brief moment, Astrid wondered whether she should have opened her mouth at all. But there was a restlessness growing within her that she could no longer ignore.

“Why do I have this feeling that nay matter the punishment I hand out, ye’ll nae learn yer lesson?” the Laird asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Whatever ye decide, Me Laird, I will accept it.”

Astrid kept her head down and her voice low. She didn’t dare try and draw any more sympathy than what she had already gotten. The fact that the Laird had already stepped in on her behalf had not gone unnoticed. The whole scene was enough of a shock to put her in her place.

The Laird arched an eyebrow as he paused to study her. She wished she could read his mind to know what it was that he thought of her.

“Show little remorse for yer actions. Do ye understand the gravity of what ye have done?” he asked as he folded his arms across his chest, towering over her.

Astrid met his gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps?

“I understand very well. Probably more so than any man in this room.”

“Yer boldness is commendable,” he said slowly, a hint of intrigue softening his features. “But that doesnae negate the crime. And ye will be punished.”

Astrid braced herself for his judgment, but then the heavy doors of the Great Hall flew open with a crash . All heads swiveled toward the door as a manservant rushed in. The sound of his boots echoed through the eerily silent room.

With all eyes and attention on the man, Astrid heaved a sigh of relief. But her relief was short-lived, as the Laird’s eyes remained on her despite the interruption.

“Laird McFair,” the servant said with a swift bow. “It’s yer faither. He’s havin’ another fit. The healer… he doesnae ken what else to do. Nothing is workin’ anymore.”

The Laird’s expression shifted, and his stormy blue eyes darkened with concern. He turned sharply to the servant, giving him his full attention.

For a moment, Astrid felt as if she had slipped into the shadows and her misdeed was forgotten.

“Speak plainly and quickly.”

“The muscle spasms willnae cease this time,” the servant said. “He’s as rigid as a board.”

“And the healer?” the Laird barked. He looked like a formidable foe, and yet Astrid did not move an inch, unwavering, unflinching. “Is he nae doin’ anything to help?”

“Aye, but his lavender and chamomile tea isnae workin’,” the servant said.

Astrid’s ears burned as she listened to the fool. She shook her head and ground her back teeth. Oh, how she wanted to say something. But would the Laird even listen to her?

“Ye seem to be just as irked by the news as I am. Speak, if ye have a different opinion,” the Laird snapped.

“Ye need to steep willow bark in water with a pinch of lavender root and…” Astrid paused and looked around.

All eyes were back on her. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the stone floor.

“And what?” the Laird asked as he moved closer to her.

She stood her ground, not cowering despite his sudden approach. His eyes were wild with worry.

“And add a pinch of garlic or onion,” she finished. “It’s a brew that will help ease the spasms.”

“What do ye ken of such things? Are ye a healer? Who are ye again?”

“Astrid. Astrid Fulton,” she answered.

His expression unnerved her. His attention was both exhilarating and nerve-racking. Astrid found herself caught between admiration and fear as she studied his face.

“Are ye speakin’ from experience?” he asked, his voice dropping.

“Aye,” she replied, her heart racing in her chest. “I learned from the healer in me village. I’ve seen the tremors come on.”

The Laird arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. She could tell he was sizing her up, uncertain whether to trust her or not. She rolled back her shoulders and stood straighter with the confidence one gets from experience.

“Follow me,” the Laird commanded, much to the dismay of her captor. As well as the clansfolk, as it was clear they had been looking forward to a spectacle.

“Me Laird, ye cannae be serious. She’s a thief. She deserves to be punished. Ye cannae let her enchant ye. She is a minx.”

The Laird merely raised his hand, silencing the room. Astrid watched his expression shift from one of apathy and concern to absolute authority.

“Ewan, escort Collin out of the castle and ensure that he is compensated for his losses,” he ordered with such conviction that even Astrid wanted to jump up and obey him.

Collin’s protests were drowned out as the guards jumped to execute the Laird’s order.

Astrid stepped aside as the guards dragged her captor out of the Great Hall. She watched with a mix of relief and uncertainty. She had not expected the turn of events, yet she couldn’t deny the fact that she was very grateful for them.

But what of her fate? That, at least, remained uncertain. All she knew was that sooner rather than later, she would have to find a way out of the castle and back to the village.

“Come,” the Laird called over his shoulder and started toward the door without giving her a chance to protest.

There was no way Astrid could deny him. Her heart raced as she followed him and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

As they moved through the castle, her fear began to dissipate. She glanced around as her footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls. Perhaps she could redeem herself, at least in part due to her healing skills. Maybe she would even be able to barter her way out.

Her mind raced, scrambling for a plan to escape the castle. She couldn’t decide if she liked or hated being here. After all, the castle was warm and well protected, but if she was an enemy of the Laird, there was no way she would ever find peace here.

They reached a large door that looked as if it’d been scorched. The Laird pushed it open and stepped into the muggy room. The smell of rosemary and spearmint hit Astrid at once. Her heart stuttered as she noticed the man convulsing on the bed.

“Please tell me ye’re nae usin’ spearmint?” she gasped as she rushed over to the bed to check the balm on the side table.

“Who is this? What does she ken of healin’? It’s nae spearmint,” the man with long robes mumbled from the corner of the room.

“Have ye lost yer sense of smell? This is clearly spearmint,” Astrid argued as she plucked a sprig and held it up for the Laird to see.

“Dreyfus, have ye lost yer eyesight as well?” the Laird growled.

“Quickly,” Astrid pointed to the bowl of water and started scrubbing the balm off the Laird’s father. But the damage had already been done.

She leaned back as the Laird cornered the healer. “What have ye done? Spearmint?”

“It was to ease the muscle cramps,” the healer explained.

Astrid couldn’t help but notice the way the healer reacted to the Laird. It was as if the old man knew that his master was all bark and no bite.

“I think it’s time that ye rest,” the Laird said, the anger in his voice fading. “Go, the lass will take over from here on.”

“Me Laird?” the healer asked as the Laird escorted him out of the room.

Astrid watched as the Laird’s father slowly relaxed. She looked at the herbs, balms, and tonics littering the tabletop. It seemed that the man had everything he needed to live but lacked the will to go on.

“How did ye ken to wipe off the spearmint?” the Laird asked, his voice startling her.

She hadn’t expected him to be so close. Yet, there he was, barely a breath away from her. There was no getting around him—he encompassed and shrouded her. The scent of burned oak and peat swirled around her. It was a homey, earthy scent that seeped into her and soothed her bones.

She swallowed hard as she caught a harsh movement out of the corner of her eye.

“Ye cannae give it to dyin’ muscles,” she said, noticing the strong citrusy scent in the room. She grabbed the balm and dared to take a whiff. “This willnae do anything but cause his skin to blister. Laird McFair, I hate to tell ye this, but yer faither is?—”

“I ken,” the Laird muttered as he stepped away. The fresh air cleared the cobwebs from her mind. “I’m nae tryin’ to prolong his life. Just make him more comfortable. I can nay longer trust Dreyfus wit’ that task. Nae after what I just witnessed. That is why I’ve decided that ye’re goin’ to look after me faither from now on.”

“What? Me Laird, nay, I cannae do that,” Astrid protested as he turned on his heel and walked to the door.

“Aye, ye can. And ye will,” the Laird fired back as he pulled the door open. He paused on the threshold and glanced over his shoulder at her. “See that she doesnae leave the room.”

“Me Laird, ye cannae. Please.” Her heart sank into her stomach as the door slammed shut. Despair clawed at her throat. “Please, I have to go back to the village. It’s a matter of life and death. She’ll die without me. Please.”