Chapter 2
Ishould never have ridden this late.
Maxwell Murdoch felt irritation settle between his shoulders like a weight as he crossed the courtyard. The journey had taken longer than expected. He had intended to arrive before dusk and oversee the formalities himself, to make certain Hunter did not charm the wrong lass or, worse, say too much.
Instead he rode in under a black sky and a cutting early winter wind.
And now, as if to crown the night, there was a lass creeping across the yard like a thief.
Not creeping. Running.
His attention caught the pale shimmer of her cloak, the way she clutched a small bundle to her chest as if it were treasure. Her skirts dragged through the dirt. Her breaths came in sharp gasps that seemed too loud in the cold. Every movement screamed panic.
This was Hunter’s bride.
Maxwell stepped out of the shadows and gave a single command.
“Stop there.”
She froze. Slowly, she turned toward him.
Moonlight slid over her face and for a moment his breath stalled, nae from admiration, though she was undeniably bonny, but from recognition.
Frederick’s description had been accurate: small and curvy, black hair, hazel eyes bright as firelight.
And young. Far younger than he had expected.
Disappointment coiled tighter in his gut.
Another lass unfit for the burdens ahead. He knew she was ill at the signing, but this young of a lass was not what he was expecting.
Her fingers clenched around her bundle, knuckles white. She swallowed hard. “I was merely…”
“Runnin’, Lady McIntosh. Ye were runnin’,” he finished for her. He stepped closer, his stride unhurried but absolute. “And quite poorly, at that. Ye are lucky the guards did nae have sharper eyes. I should speak with yer braither about that.”
Her chin snapped up. “I was nae running. I was…”
“Leaving,” he supplied. “In the middle of the night. With nothin’ but the cloak on yer back.” His gaze dropped to her slight frame, her trembling hands. “Aye. Foolish, at best.”
Her lips parted on a gasp of outrage. “I am nae foolish.”
“I see a lass in the yard with nay escort, nay horse, nay plan,” he said. “What would ye call it, then. A midnight stroll?”
She stiffened. “I had reasons.”
“I am sure ye did,” he murmured, unimpressed. “But whether they were good ones remains to be seen.”
She took a step back. He took two forward. Her fingers twitched, clearly readying to bolt.
Maxwell sighed inwardly. Of all the messes Hunter could make, sending him a runaway bride on the very night of their betrothal was perhaps the most predictable.
“I daenae ken what me braither said to ye,” he said. “But ye are his intended. Yet here ye are, scurrying about like a frightened rabbit.”
“Daenae call me that,” she snapped.
“A frightened rabbit?”
“I did nae ask or wish to be any man’s intended.”
“Ahh… I see. Well, that makes the two of ye, then, I suppose,” he muttered.
Her eyes flashed at that. “If yer braither does nae wish to marry me, then I fail to see the problem.”
“The problem,” Maxwell growled, “is that yer safety becomes me responsibility the moment he takes yer hand. Running into the dark like this... it’s senseless.”
“I am nae yer responsibility,” she cut in.
He arched a brow. “Nae yet, perhaps. But ye will be.”
She bristled. “I have nay intention of marrying a man who does nae wish to marry me.”
“Then why leave without speaking to Frederick,” he asked. “Or to yer maither. Or even to me.”
“Because none of ye would let me go,” she bit out. “I wanted…” She stopped suddenly and clamped her mouth shut.
Freedom. Choice. He saw it clearly in her eyes.
Maxwell exhaled, irritation prickling. “Running solves nothin’, lass. Ye daenae even have a plan.”
“I do,” she insisted.
“Oh aye,” he said dryly. “Let me guess. Run until ye reach the border, then hope the wind carries ye the rest of the way?”
Her cheeks flushed a furious pink. “I would have figured out the rest.”
“Aye. When? Before or after the wolves found ye.”
She drew herself up, small but fierce. “Ye assume I am helpless.”
“I assume ye are ill-prepared.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. “Ye have nay weapon. Ye have nay horse. And I doubt ye have ever spent a night alone on the road.”
“I could learn,” she said, though her voice held a betraying tremor. “I could defend meself.”
Maxwell let out a humorless breath. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
He studied her for a long moment. Stubborn. Reckless. Fire wrapped in softness. Not at all what he had expected Hunter’s bride to be. And far more trouble.
“Very well,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “What.”
“If ye can prove ye can protect yerself, I will let ye walk right out that gate.”
Her eyes widened. “Ye will.”
“Aye.”
She hesitated, suspicion in her gaze. “What sort of proof.”
He shrugged, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his plaid shift. “Hit me.”
She stared. “I beg yer pardon!”
“Hit me,” he repeated, tone flat. “If ye can land a single blow, I will step aside and let ye run to whatever doom ye are after.”
Her outrage was immediate. “That is absurd.”
“Is it? Ye said ye can defend yerself. So. Defend yerself.” He spread his feet, hands loose at his sides. “I will nae strike ye in return, of course. Just try to strike me.”
Her jaw clenched. “Fine.”
He bit back a smirk.
At least this would be over quickly.
She launched herself at him with an indignation that might have been impressive on someone taller.
Maxwell stepped aside, barely shifting his weight. She stumbled past him with a muffled sound of frustration, caught herself, and spun back.
“Stand still,” she demanded.
“Nay I dae nae think I will.”
Her eyes narrowed. She darted in again, this time aiming for his arm. He caught her wrist with insulting ease and raised a brow.
“Is this truly yer best? Would think Frederick might have taught ye better.”
She wrenched, small fingers twisting, but he did nae loosen his grip. She glared up at him, hazel eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and something like fear. Not fear of him. Fear of failing.
He dropped her wrist at once.
“Again,” he said.
She attacked with more thought this time, trying to get around him, switching sides, grasping at his sleeve. His boots barely scuffed the packed earth as he pivoted, deflecting each attempt with a flick of his wrist or a shift of his shoulder.
Her breath grew harsher. Her steps less steady. Yet she kept coming.
He almost admired it. Almost.
“Ye are nae even trying,” she accused, panting lightly.
“Oh, I am trying,” he said. “I am trying nae to hurt ye.”
Color surged in her cheeks. “Ye think I am weak.”
“Hardly. I think ye are determined,” he said. “And far too proud for yer own good.”
She swung at him then, wild, frustrated, utterly untrained. He caught her fist between his hands, closing his palms gently around her trembling fingers. The tremble startled him.
She froze, chest rising and falling, breath coming too quick.
Then her eyes filled.
Not with fear. But with plain frustration and embarrassment.
Maxwell felt something in his chest lurch unpleasantly.
“Daenae cry,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
“I am nae crying,” she snapped, blinking furiously as tears betrayed her anyway. “I am simply tired. And angry. And...”
“Frustrated,” he supplied quietly.
She tugged her hand free. “Ye mock me.”
That pricked. “I am nae mocking ye.”
“Ye are,” she insisted. “Ye are enjoying this. Watching me struggle.”
“That is nae what I am doing.”
“Then what are ye doing,” she demanded, her voice thick with tears she clearly hated.
He exhaled sharply. He had not meant for her to cry. He had expected fire, not this rawness.
“I am showing ye the truth,” he said. “The road ye meant to take tonight is far more dangerous than I am. If ye cannae best me, and I have nay intention of harming ye, ye would have nay chance out there. Ye would be dead by dawn.”
She stiffened at that. A small, wounded sound escaped her, quickly stifled.
He cursed under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair. He was armored for battle and hostility, not for this.
“I did nae mean it cruelly,” he muttered. “But ye must hear it plain.”
Her lashes were wet, cheeks blotched with color. Yet her gaze sharpened suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her.
“Ye speak as if danger follows me clan too,” she said slowly.
He stilled.
Her voice lowered. “Why would it matter to ye if I ran? Why does McNeill care whether McIntosh has its alliances or nae? Why…”
She trailed off as realization began to stir. Her lips parted slightly.
“Frederick did nae tell ye, then?” Maxwell murmured.
Her eyes lifted, searching his face. “Tell me what?”
For a moment, he considered saying nothing. It was not his place. Frederick should have explained long before this night. The lass had every right to be furious.
And he could not bear the thought of being the cause of her tears a moment longer.
He drew a slow breath. “O’Douglas has been sniffing around both our borders.”
Fear flickered through her eyes.
“Our lands lie nearest his,” Maxwell continued. “He has been pushing farther each season. Testing our defenses. Raiding crofts. He wants more land, more power. And he kens that if he can pit our clans against one another, if he can make ye vulnerable, he wins.”
She said nothing. So he pressed on.
“A marriage between McIntosh and McNeill shows him yer laird stands with mine. Two clans united. Two armies. Twice the resistance. It is a shield he dares nae test easily.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He watched her. Watched fear give way to thought, thought deepen into understanding.
“So that is why,” she breathed. “Why this match was made. Why the haste.”
“Aye.”
“And Hunter…”
“Was chosen because he is softer,” Maxwell said carefully. “Easier to accept. Easier to marry for alliance’s sake.”
Something like hurt flickered over her expression, but not for herself. For Hunter, perhaps.