Chapter 12
Stop it, he ordered himself. Stop looking at her. Stop thinking about her. Stop remembering how she’d felt pressed against him, how she’d gasped his name, how close he’d come to…
“It’s beautiful.”
Her voice startled him out of his spiraling thoughts. He glanced over to find her gazing out at the landscape, her expression soft with wonder.
And it was beautiful. The Highlands stretched before them in rolling hills painted gold and green by early autumn.
Heather bloomed purple across the slopes, and the mountains rose in the distance, their peaks touched with morning mist. A burn rushed somewhere nearby, the sound of it a pleasant burble beneath the birdsong.
“Aye,” he said, though he found himself looking at her rather than the view. “It is.”
Leona turned her head, catching him staring. Color bloomed in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “Do ye ever take it for granted? Livin' somewhere so bonnie?”
“Sometimes.” The honesty surprised him. “When I’m caught up in clan business, in ledgers and disputes and politics, I forget to look. To see what’s right in front of me.”
Their eyes held for a beat too long. The weight of his words hung between them, suddenly meaning more than just landscape.
She looked away first, clearing her throat delicately. “How much further to the village?”
“Another hour. Maybe less at this pace.” He forced his attention back to the road, his jaw tight. “We should arrive just as the market is in full swing.”
“And everyone will be expectin'… what, exactly?” Her voice had taken on a nervous edge. “I’m nae sure what a newly betrothed couple is supposed to act like in public.”
Like they cannae keep their hands off each other, a voice in his head supplied helpfully, unhelpfully. Like the thought of anyone else touching her made him want to commit violence. Like he wanted to mark her, claim her, make it clear to everyone that she was his.
“Just be yerself,” he said instead. “The people will love ye for it.”
“Will they?” She sounded doubtful. “I’m a Gilmore. Me clan hasnae exactly been friendly to Ainsley over the years.”
“Ye’re nae yer clan.” The words came out sharper than intended, almost fierce. “Ye’re a woman who showed courage when it mattered. Who risked everythin' to do what was right. That’s what they’ll see.”
He felt her eyes on him again, searching, but he kept his gaze ahead. He couldn’t look at her. If he did, he’d say more. Admit more. Things he had no business admitting.
“Thank ye,” she said softly. “For sayin' that.”
A hawk cried overhead, circling lazily on the morning thermals. Thunder’s hooves struck a steady rhythm against the packed earth. The world moved around them, peaceful and beautiful, but Murdock couldn’t shake the tension thrumming through his veins.
Last night had changed things. He could feel it in the air between them, this new awareness that made even silence feel intimate. Could see it in the way she kept stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her green eyes dark with something that matched the hunger in his blood.
He opened his mouth to say something. What, he didn’t know. But then movement on the road ahead made his hand go instinctively to his sword.
Three men on horseback had appeared around the bend, blocking their path. They sat their mounts with casual arrogance, but Murdock’s instincts, honed by years of battle, screamed danger.
Beside him, Leona had gone very still.
“Murdock,” she breathed, her voice tight with recognition. “Those men…”
“I see them.” He edged Thunder slightly ahead of her mare, positioning himself between her and the threat. His hand stayed on the hilt of his sword, ready.
The men urged their horses forward, closing the distance. As they drew nearer, Murdock studied them. All of them wore the colors of Clan Kerr. One was older, grizzled, with scars that spoke of experience. The others were younger, cocky, with the kind of swagger that usually got men killed.
They stopped ten feet away, their horses stamping nervously. Thunder stood rock-steady beneath Murdock, a warhorse trained for battle.
“Well, well,” the older man drawled, his eyes fixed on Leona with an unpleasant smile. “So the Laird was right. Ye released the captive.”
Murdock felt Leona stiffen beside him, heard her sharp intake of breath. But when she spoke, her voice was steady.
“That person is nay Laird.”
The younger man laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. “Ragnall Gilmore is our Laird, whether ye like it or nae. Ye’re the one who lost legitimacy. The moment ye betrayed us.”
“I betrayed nay one.” Leona’s hands were white-knuckled on her reins, but her chin lifted with pride. “I refused to be used as a pawn in Keith’s schemes. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” The older man’s expression hardened. “Ye helped a prisoner escape. Ye stood by while our Laird was murdered. And then ye ran like a coward to the very man who killed him.” He spat on the ground. “Our loyalty lies with the Laird, nae a traitor who opens cages for captives.”
Murdock’s hand tightened on his sword. The rage building in his chest was cold, controlled, but absolute. These men dared speak to her this way. Dared call her a traitor when she’d shown more courage than either of them likely possessed.
“I’d advise ye,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made seasoned warriors flinch, “to say nothin' more if ye value yer lives.”
The younger man’s eyes flicked to him, sizing him up with the arrogance of youth. “Or else what? Ye’ll kill us, too? Add our deaths to all the others ye’ve caused?”
Something in Murdock went very, very quiet. The rage crystallized into something sharper, more focused. He’d given them a chance. They’d refused it.
“Aye,” he said simply. “Or else this.”
He moved.
Years of training made the motion fluid, instinctive. His sword cleared its sheath with a whisper of steel, the blade catching the morning sun as he spurred Thunder forward.
The older man barely had time to register what was happening before Murdock’s blade found him.
The strike was clean, efficient, aimed for the throat.
The man’s eyes went wide with shock as blood sprayed, hot and crimson, across his horse’s neck.
He fell backwards off his mount, hitting the ground with a wet thud.
The riderless horse screamed, rearing in panic. It bolted, charging past them in blind terror, hooves thundering against the earth.
Leona’s mare caught the panic like wildfire. The smaller horse shrieked, rearing up on its hind legs with a violence that would have unseated a less experienced rider.
“Leona!” Murdock’s heart stopped as he watched her fight for control, her hands yanking on the reins, her body pitched forward to stay seated.
But the mare was beyond reason, beyond training. It reared again, higher this time, and Leona lost her grip.
She fell.
Murdock was off Thunder before conscious thought, his body moving on pure instinct. He caught her as she tumbled from the saddle, his arms closing around her waist and pulling her against his chest as they both hit the ground.
He twisted at the last second, taking the impact on his shoulder, cushioning her fall with his own body. They landed hard, and pain jolted through him, but he didn’t care. Didn’t feel it. All that mattered was the woman in his arms.
“Are ye hurt?” His hands moved over her frantically, checking for injuries. “Leona, talk to me. Are ye…”
“I’m fine,” she gasped, her fingers clutching at his tunic. “I’m fine, I just…”
The thunder of hooves made him look up. The remaining two men had dismounted, drawing their swords as they advanced. The younger one’s face was twisted with rage, all cockiness gone, replaced by the reality of violence.
“Ye bastard!” he screamed, charging forward. “Ye killed Sam!”
Murdock was on his feet in an instant, pushing Leona behind him. His sword came up, meeting the younger man’s wild swing with a clash of steel that rang across the empty road.
The man had fury but no skill. He swung again, putting all his weight behind it, leaving himself wide open.
Murdock sidestepped easily, his blade flashing out. It caught the man across the ribs, cutting deep through leather and flesh. The man stumbled, blood blooming across his tunic, his sword falling from nerveless fingers.
The third man, seeing his companions fall, hesitated. Self-preservation warred with loyalty on his face.
Loyalty lost.
He turned to run, but Murdock was faster. He closed the distance in three strides, his sword striking low, severing the tendons in the man’s knee. The man went down with a scream, and Murdock’s blade found his back before he could rise.
Silence fell across the road, broken only by labored breathing and the distant rush of the burn.
Three bodies lay in the dirt, blood pooling beneath them. Leona’s mare had disappeared over the hills, following the path of the first frightened horse. Only Thunder remained, standing exactly where Murdock had left him, trained to wait through chaos and death.
Murdock turned, his sword still in hand, blood dripping from the blade. His chest heaved, a rush singing through his veins, the battle rage that had consumed him beginning to ebb.
Leona had pushed herself up and stood where he’d left her, her face pale. She stared at the bodies, then at him, her green eyes wide and dark.
He waited for the fear. For the horror. For her to look at him and see what he truly was—a weapon forged in violence, a man who killed without hesitation when threatened.
The Beast of Ainsley.
But she just stood there, trembling slightly, her hands clasped together to stop their shaking.
“Leona.” He dropped his sword and moved to her, his hands gentle despite the violence still thrumming through him. “Are ye hurt? Did they…”
“I’m fine.” Her voice wavered. “I’m fine, me Laird. Just a little shaken.”
His hands moved over her again, checking for injuries he might have missed the first time. Her arms, her shoulders, down her sides. Looking for blood, for bruises, for any sign that she had been harmed.
“Truly,” she said, catching his hands. “I’m unharmed. Ye caught me. Ye…” She swallowed hard. “Ye protected me.”
Something about her voice, about the way she looked at him, made his heart flip. It was not fear or horror, but something else entirely.
Gratitude. Trust.
Things he didn’t deserve.
“Yer horse ran off,” he said roughly, needing to focus on practical matters before he did something foolish. Like pull her into his arms and never let go. “Ye’ll have to ride with me the rest of the way.”
“Oh.” Color bloomed in her cheeks, and he watched her realize what that meant. Sharing a horse. Her body pressed against his for the remainder of the journey. “I… aye. Of course.”
Thunder stood waiting, patient as stone. Murdock guided Leona to him with a hand on her lower back. The destrier didn’t even shift as Murdock swung himself up into the saddle and then reached down.
“Take me hand.”
Leona hesitated only a moment before placing her smaller hand in his. He pulled her up effortlessly and settled her in front of him, her back against his chest, her body cradled between his thighs.
The contact was immediate, overwhelming. He could feel every curve through the layers of fabric. Could smell heather and cold sweat and something uniquely her. Could feel the rapid beat of her heart through her back, pressed against him.
His arms came around her to hold the reins, caging her in. She fit perfectly against him, like she’d been made for this exact spot.
“Comfortable?” His voice came out rougher than intended, his lips close to her ear.
She shivered. “Aye.”
He urged Thunder forward, leaving the bodies behind. Someone would find them, eventually. Would carry word back to Ragnall that his men had attacked Laird Ainsley and paid the price.
Good. Let him know. Let him understand exactly what would happen to anyone who threatened what was Murdock’s.
They rode in silence, Thunder’s powerful strides eating up the distance. But this silence was different from before. It was heavier. More intimate.
Leona’s body swayed with the horse’s movement, pressing against him, and Murdock had to grit his teeth against the surge of desire that accompanied every motion.
This was torture. Sweet, exquisite torture.
“Murdock?” Her voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of hoofbeats.
“Aye?”
“What ye said earlier, about me belongin' to ye for the next year.” She paused, and he felt her take a deep breath. “Did ye mean it?”
His arms tightened fractionally around her.
Did he mean it? Christ, he meant it more than he should. More than was safe or wise or sane.
“Aye,” he said roughly. “For the next year, ye’re mine to protect. Mine to defend. And nay matter how hard they try, nay matter what Ragnall sends, they willnae get to ye. I swear it on me life.”
“Why?” The question was barely a whisper. “Why would ye do that for me? We barely ken each other. This is supposed to be temporary, convenient. Why risk yer life for—”
“Because ye’re mine,” he interrupted, the words tearing from somewhere deep in his chest. “Do ye still question it? Betrothal or nae, fake or real, ye came to me for protection. Ye put yer trust in me. And I daenae take that lightly, lass. I daenae take ye lightly.”
Silence. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: “Thank ye.”
And somehow, those two simple words meant more than any elaborate speech. He felt her relax against him, felt the tension leave her shoulders as she settled more fully into his embrace.
Murdock, feeling her trust, her warmth, the way she fit against him like she belonged there, knew with absolute certainty that he was in far deeper than he’d ever intended.
This woman was supposed to be temporary. A means to an end. A solution to a problem.
The village appeared on the horizon, smoke from cooking fires rising into the clear morning sky. Soon they’d arrive. Soon they’d have to play their parts again, smile for his people, pretend this was all going according to plan.
But for now, for these last few moments, Murdock let himself hold her. Let himself feel the weight of her against his chest, the trust in the way she leaned against him.
Let himself pretend, just for a heartbeat, that this was real.
That she was truly his.
And that he deserved to keep her.