Chapter 6 #2
She hoisted herself upright, looking around the room, feeling panic surging in her chest as she desperately sought the shape of the bottle she’d been clutching when she’d fallen. Had she broken it when she fell?
She could make another, but the delay required to maintain the quality may irritate the man before her, and she felt as though she were walking a knife’s edge as far as his willingness to put himself out for her.
Although the fact that he was currently holding a bowl of soup and looking at her quizzically made her feel slightly less like he would just storm out of the room and ban her from his gardens.
“The bottle,” she explained frantically. “I had a bottle.”
It had not been cheap to acquire four more glass bottles. She hadn’t thought he’d feel respected with plain ceramic or stoneware, so she’d gone out of her way to commission the glassmaker. It had cost her several drams of good whiskey, but if it kept Violet alive, it would be worth every drop.
The confusion on the Laird’s face relaxed into understanding, and he nodded.
He turned his large body and, with grace that never ceased to surprise her, reached to the floor beside the bed and lifted a bundle she recognized as her traveling cloak, before placing it in her lap. “Aye, ye did, lass. It’s sound.”
A wave of relief washed over her as she unwrapped the cloak and found the bottle nestled safely within. The crushing pressure in her chest vanished rapidly, and she choked out a laugh, fighting back tears that embarrassingly sprang to her eyes.
“Yer whiskey is due tomorrow.” She held the bottle out to him, pretending her hand wasn’t shaking. “I was making sure ye received it.”
The Laird’s jaw dropped, and he slowly reached out to take the bottle from her, then thudded it and the bowl on the small table beside the bed. “Are ye mad, lass? Why would ye risk yer life for such a reason?”
“Me village!” The words burst out of her, and she found herself staring up at him, hardly able to believe he would ask such a question. “Me village, we’re—”
“Aye, aye, they’re dying of an illness.” She hoped he didn’t mean to sound quite as dismissive as he did. “But ye wouldnae risk yer life like this unless ye had blood on the line.” He raised a dark eyebrow at her and waited.
Hannah hesitated, caught out and knowing it, then nodded with a sigh. “Me sister.”
“Yer sister.” The Laird’s voice was carefully even, enough that it drew her gaze from where it had fallen to her hands back to his face. He’d schooled his features into neutrality.
“Aye. I’m sure if ye have siblings, ye understand the love and obligation.” She offered him a smile.
He failed to return the smile, scoffing instead and crossing his arms as he leaned back, shaking his head. “Ye shouldnae be riskin’ yer life over anyone. Blood or nae.”
Hannah felt her ire rise along with the heat in her cheeks, and she huffed, straightening her back in defiance. “Ye obviously daenae understand. I assume ye daenae have braithers or sisters.”
“What makes ye assume such a thing, lass?” His blue eyes scanned her face as he spoke, and she felt it heat further under the scrutiny.
“If ye did, we wouldnae be having this conversation,” she snapped. “I would do anything for me little sister. She’s been mine to mind since she was a bairn, and that hasnae changed with age.”
“Seems yer sister’s old enough to mind herself,” the Laird retorted harshly. “Perhaps it’s time ye let her be.”
“How am I supposed to do that when ye’re lettin’ our village wither away and die?
” Hannah didn’t know when she’d risen from the bed, but she realized with a start that she was on her feet and pointing a finger into his large chest. “I suppose I shouldnae expect anything different from a man who’s abandoned his own people. ”
His large hands caught her shoulders, and he pulled her between his knees, still taller than her while still seated. “Careful, lass, ye shouldnae be using big words about that which ye ken nothin’ about.”
“Oh? And if I do, ye’ll let me die, will ye?” Hannah hissed, even though her heart was thundering in her throat for an entirely different reason than cold fear. A much warmer, taller reason.
“Nay! I—”
“Ye what, me Laird?”
They were face-to-face, mere inches from one another, and Hannah realized with another flutter in her throat that it would take no effort at all for their lips to brush.
Her gaze flicked to the lips against her will, and her breath caught.
She forced her gaze up and caught him looking down just the same.
The Laird released her shoulders and stood so abruptly that she was nearly knocked off her feet. He backed away and cleared his throat loudly. “If ye’re feelin’ well enough to rile me up, then ye’re feelin’ well enough for me to take ye home.”
She swallowed several times against a suddenly dry throat and busied herself with unfolding the cloak the rest of the way. “I daenae need an escort to me own home.”
“I am yer Laird, as ye have reminded me. I could simply order ye to allow it.”
“Why?” Hannah demanded on a sharp exhale, turning to stare up at him with the heavy wool garment in her hands.
“Because…” The challenge in his voice was obvious, and she felt the heat in her belly grow as his intense gaze met hers. “… if I daenae take ye to yer home, I’ll be takin’ ye to mine.”