Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rory was preparing to leave Caer Rannoch and Alana behind. His heart as well. He was speaking with the stable boy regarding the supplies he would need for his return trip back to Hartsmoor when MacDonell came to find him.
“Ah, Hart, there ye are,” he said. “I looked for ye in the Great Hall but must have missed ye,” his sneer was condescending kenning damn well Rory had spent the night and meal with the servants and guards.
“Is Alana weel?” He asked, holding his breath when he realized what he had done—revealed too much.
MacDonell was smug when he answered. “She is fine. And she will forget ye soon enough. Dinnae fash o’er that. Once I have tamed her she’ll be thinking of nay one else.”
Rory stiffened, his rage flared as he fisted his hands. Yet, still, he managed to hold his tongue. But it took all his restraint.
“She seems to have developed a liking to ye. Have ye done the same? Do ye lust after my betrothed, Hart?”
“Nay,” he lied through clenched teeth.
MacDonell shrugged. “It matters naught. Women need guidance, do they no’? She will learn.”
Finally, Rory stepped in close to the man, looking down at him. “She is no’ yers to tame,” he growled.
MacDonell smiled then clucked his tongue, wagging a fat finger in Rory’s face. “Och, see, that is where ye are wrong, Hart. ’Tis the nature of things. Of bargains made. She may no’ be mine this verra minute. But she will be. I will make her mine.”
Rory’s punch came without thought, connecting with MacDonell’s beefy maw. The man’s eyes widened afore he fell hard upon the bales of hay stacked near the wall.
Towering over the bastard, Rory seethed. “Ye willnae,” he spat. “Alana would ne’er bow to ye.”
MacDonell pushed himself up to stand. “I will,” he countered. “If it takes me locking her in her chambers until she complies, she will obey me. I own her.”
Rory’s fist found MacDonell’s jaw once again, and the man lilted on his feet, swaying for a moment afore catching his balance.
A few guards approached at the commotion, but they paused when Rory glared at them, blazing fury emanating off of him in palpable waves.
“Her father was a fool to strike a deal with a louse such as ye,” he ground out.
“Mayhap, but a deal he did. A deal with the MacDonell,” he jabbed a finger into his doughy chest. “No’ with the Hart. Ye dinnae have enough to offer.” He grabbed his crotch crassly thrusting his hips. “Ye cannae offer her this.”
“Ye bastard!” Rory roared, rearing up to punch him again.
MacDonell put his hands up. “I wouldnae hit me again, Hart. I’ll have ye in my dungeons so fast and no amount of sway will get ye released. I may e’en force ye to watch the bedding ceremony.”
Kenning that he needed to get control of his emotions, Rory backed away. MacDonell was right. He’d punched him twice. The arse was a laird. He could already order him locked away. Nay, he needed to be smart.
He turned to leave, but paused, addressing MacDonell once more. “She deserves better. Ye ken it, though ye’re selfish and dinnae care. I only wish she kenned it.”
And then he left, his heart splintered into a thousand wee pieces.