Chapter 3
“Oh, what am I doing?” Margaret asked herself as she approached the gates of Castle McGhee.
Regret roiled in her stomach. She’d been taught her entire life never to trust a Highlander, yet she was preparing to offer herself up to one as his wife. Her aunt’s words thrummed in her head.
They were savages, she’d said. Pictures of ruthless, vicious men flashed behind her eyelids each time she blinked. They were supposed to be cruel.
Could this Laird be crueler than Duke Cunningham? Am I trading one evil for another?
Taking a deep breath, Margaret soldiered on. It was too late for doubts. Regardless of the kind of man this Laird may be, she couldn’t turn back now.
The castle was imposing, a large and well-protected building. A stone wall surrounded the main structure, and lookout towers stood at each corner. As she drew closer, two men materialized, one on either side of the gate.
“And who’s this bonnie wee thing?” one guard called to her as soon as she was close enough to hear him.
“Never seen ye around here before, lass,” the other said. “What brings ye to Castle McGhee?”
“I’m Margaret Sutton, and I’m here to meet with the Laird of this castle,” she said, holding her head high and tightening her hands into fists at her side.
“Ah, she’s a wee Sassenach,” the first guard laughed.
“An English lass has come for our Laird?” the other said with a sneer. “How novel.”
Her face burned with shame, the insults burrowing into her skin like barbs.
The guards weren’t even looking at her anymore, jesting with one another.
She opened her mouth, intending to tell them that this was no way to treat a lady, regardless of where she hailed from, when a strong voice cut through the air.
“Enough!”
It was commanding, and the guards’ laughter ceased instantly. Even Margaret felt as though she should obey the demand. She searched for the man who had issued it.
He stepped from behind the gate, his cold brown eyes locked onto her. An odd sort of unease ran through her as she was being scrutinized.
The man was handsome, his face clean-shaven, revealing the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth was set tight, as if at any moment he could open it to release that voice again. And his muscles…
Well, Margaret had never seen someone who looked as strong as he did.
Is it possible for a man to be too handsome?
She thought so. Despite the vast number of balls she attended when she was in England, she’d never seen someone who lit a fire in her quite the way this man did. He was perhaps the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
When he took a step toward her, Margaret realized something else about him. He was dangerous, the kind of Highlander she’d been warned about over and over. His cool and calculating nature made him seem as though he wouldn’t grant mercy, no matter how hard someone begged for it.
“What do ye want?” he demanded, staring down at Margaret.
She swallowed hard, fortifying her resolve before she said, “I will only speak to the Laird of this castle.”
“Aye, is that so?” the man asked, smirking at her in a way that made a curious heat pool in her belly. “Then ye’re in luck, lassie. I am the Laird of this castle.”
Margaret felt herself flush all the way down below the collar of her newly sewn gown. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, and the weight of the Laird’s gaze threatened to suffocate her. His guards were snickering, but he was so focused on her that he didn’t seem to care.
“Oh, um…” she stuttered out when she realized he was waiting for her to respond. “I would like to speak with you privately.”
The smirk on his face only deepened as he raised an eyebrow and motioned for her to follow him. Surprised, it took Margaret a moment to realize that her request was being granted. She recovered quickly and jumped slightly as she began to follow him.
She was led through the winding halls of the castle.
The Laird moved so quickly that she was nearly unable to keep up, trotting along behind him and only catching glimpses of the interior.
With each turn she took, Margaret became more and more confident that she wouldn’t be able to run if things went sour.
Eventually, they came to an abrupt stop in front of a heavy wooden door. The Laird pulled a key from his leather-trimmed trews. It swung open easily, and he waited for her to step over the threshold before joining her.
“Now that we’re in private, perhaps ye could start by tellin’ me who ye are,” he suggested as he closed the two of them in the room that seemed to be his study. He fixed his intimidating stare on her.
“I’m Margaret Sutton,” she said, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
I’m not sure I like being alone with a man like him.
“Margaret,” Laird McGhee said as if tasting her name. It sounded different with his accent, warmer in a way that made her want to squirm. “And why have ye shown up at me castle demandin’ to speak with me in private?”
“I believe we can help one another,” she explained, shaking her head when he gestured for her to take a seat in a plush-looking chair. “I’ve come to propose a deal.”
“A deal?” he replied, tilting his head, still smirking at her. “What is it that ye’ve come to offer me, Sassenach?”
Margaret ignored the term, assuming he didn’t mean it as an insult. She was no stranger to jokes that fell flat, and she forced herself to assume that was what he intended.
“I know that you need someone to act as your betrothed,” she said, her head held high. “I’ve heard your council has been hounding you, and I imagine you’d like to put a stop to that.”
“Ye do?”
“Yes,” Margaret confirmed then continued, “I need someone to shelter me. That’s a service I believe you could provide.”
The Laird considered her, his eyes sweeping over her form. The hint of amusement never left his features though his smirk melted into a thin line.
“Why is it that ye think I need someone to act as me betrothed rather than just bein’ me betrothed for real?”
The corner of Margaret’s mouth quirked. It didn’t sound as though he were denying her. Still, it wasn’t an acceptance either.
“If you truly wanted a wife, you’d have gotten married already,” she explained. “Surely, you’ve plenty of potential wives. And I imagine your counselors have provided their suggestions.”
“Ye make many assumptions, do ye nae?” Laird McGhee replied, skirting her statement entirely. He rubbed his large, strong hand over the hard line of his jaw. “Why is it that ye need protection? And why come to me?”
“You ask a fair few questions yourself,” Margaret replied, anxiously adjusting her skirts. “But if you must know, the man that I rejected is chasing me. I fear for my well-being.”
She didn’t offer any other details and prayed he wouldn’t ask for more. Despite the fact that she was asking him for his help, she didn’t trust him. At his core, he was still a Highlander. The less he knew of her situation, the better.
The easier it will be to leave if it’s ever safe for me to go back to England if Cunningham’s reign is stopped. Maybe I won’t even have to marry this man.
“So, a bonnie English lass is comin’ to me to avoid the English bastard that willnae take nay for an answer,” he mused, sounding as if he found humor in her situation.
He went quiet after that, apparently contemplating her proposal. Every second that passed made her sweat. She wondered if she’d miscalculated coming here.
Will he even let me leave if he says no? Have I messed this up?
“I suppose that yer suggestion has its merits,” he considered, the smirk returning to his unfairly handsome lips. “Ye’d get the council off me back, and if yer rejected suitor comes around… well, me men arenae fond of Englishmen who daenae respect their women.”
“Are you in agreement, then?” Margaret asked, the tension she hadn’t realized was there draining from her limbs.
“Aye,” Laird McGhee said, eyes sweeping over her form once again. “I look forward to havin’ ye as me wife, Lady McGhee.”
A strangled giggle slipped from Margaret’s mouth at the statement. It seemed ridiculous, perhaps too good to be true. This felt far too easy.
There must be a catch.
“I’ll get a maid to show ye to yer rooms,” he said with an air of finality. “I noticed ye daenae have any bags with ye. Should I send for them?”
“I… yes,” Margaret said, giving him her best smile. She wondered if she should tell him that this was the only presentable gown that she owned, but she thought better of it.
“Then I’ll see to it. Ye should have yer things by the end of the day,” he said, starting toward the door. “Stay here until yer maid comes.”
“Wait,” Margaret called after him before he was able to leave her. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t know your name. I know only your title.”
“I suppose that me wife needs to know that,” he said. “Me name is Ryan Morris.”
With that, Ryan left the room, leaving Margaret reeling from everything that had just happened.
At least I’m protected from Duke Cunningham now.