Chapter 2
Branches slapped her arms, and leaves tangled in her hair, but Emma did not care. She continued to run anyway.
The wind was colder beneath the trees, and the canopy dimmed the light, but everything under her feet felt louder. The leaves, the twigs, the way her breath grew more jagged as she continued to run, the sharp pull of her bodice against her ribs.
She could hear everything twice as much as she used to.
The hem of her skirt snagged on a broken branch. She yanked free and heard the fabric tear, but she kept going.
The castle had already disappeared behind her. No chapel. No crowd. No altar. Nothing but the thick forest and the frantic pounding of her heart.
Still refusing to risk anything, she kept running.
The ground dipped and shifted beneath the leaves, causing her slippers to grow slick with mud. She stumbled once, caught herself, and pushed forward harder.
Then, she heard it.
Footsteps. Loud and firm enough for her to take the wildest guess of who could be running behind her.
She bit back a curse.
“Ye do realize this was a mistake, do ye nae?” came his voice behind her.
Her throat closed up, but she refused to look back.
“Go away!” she shouted. “Stay back!”
His footsteps continued following her anyway.
Emma turned right, ducking under a crooked branch. Thorns scraped her arm, and a twig tore at her ankle. She winced, but it wasn’t enough for her to stop. She couldn’t risk even looking down to see the extent of her injury.
“Ye’ll ruin yer dress,” he cautioned.
“Good. Let it rip!” she growled.
He was right behind her. Close enough to let her know that there was no escaping this. And for some reason, she had a feeling he knew that. He knew she couldn’t outrun him, and something in his voice taunted her just because of it.
“Ye run like someone who’s never needed to run,” he called behind her again, his voice annoyingly steady.
“Well, seeing that I never had to run away from a monster, ye are correct!” she snapped back, turning her head just a little to see where he was.
She couldn’t see anything except the tall, dark trees blocking most of the sunlight.
“Oof. Is that what ye think I am? Some kind of monster?” he asked.
“I daenae intend to find out.”
“Ye think I meant to hurt ye?”
“I daenae care what ye mean!” she shouted back.
The trees grew even thicker ahead, and she turned sharply, pushing through a small gap in the undergrowth. Thorns tugged at her dress again, and the pain in her ankle grew sharper. But he was close. Too close for her to stop. It was almost as if he wasn’t chasing her.
It was like he was only following her. Like he was waiting to see where she would break down.
“Ye do realize that I am nae even running, do ye nae?” he drawled.
Emma’s breath caught in a furious sob. “Aye. I would like ye to stop speaking as well.”
“Why? Ye prefer silence while ye panic?”
“I prefer to be left alone!” she screamed. “I didnae ask for this… for any of this!”
Another root snagged her legs, and she couldn’t find her footing quickly this time. Her heart stopped as her body pitched forward.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the ground rushed toward her. Then it paused just as she was about to slam into the hard soil. A hand gripped her arm and yanked her upright. She spun immediately and slammed into something solid. Something hard and unyielding that wasn’t the ground.
A chest. His chest.
His scent was the first thing to hit her. Woodsmoke. Earth. And something faintly sweet beneath it. It was the same scent she had caught when the doors to the hall opened.
She swallowed, caught her breath, and looked up. Dark and unflinching green eyes stared back at her. She could feel his hand holding tight to her arm, and she was unable to do anything about it.
“There ye are,” he muttered, his voice low enough for her to hear.
There was a wicked smile on his face. It made the chills that settled down her spine grow even chillier.
Emma’s breath came fast, and her hands trembled. Her whole body buzzed from the run, from the near fall, and from the man holding her steady without effort.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Tired yet?”
“Let go,” she whispered.
He did not.
She shoved against him, but his grip held.
“I said, let go.”
Still, he did not.
So she did the only thing she could. The only stupid thing she could think of. She inhaled deeply and balled her hand into a fist. Then, without thinking too hard about it, she slammed it hard into his jaw.
Her knuckles hit bone as his head turned to the side. He barely groaned or reacted. Instead, he blinked once, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his gaze was the same.
“Try that again,” he warned quietly, “and ye’ll lose both yer hands.”
Emma stared at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. She wanted to hit him again. She wanted to scream, but her hand throbbed, and the threat in his voice, low as it was, settled in her chest.
She tried to yank her arm back. “I’ll run again,” she said.
“Aye,” he uttered.
“Ye’ll nae stop me.”
“Did I stop ye the first time?” His eyebrow rose. “Ye made it this far.”
Her throat tightened. So she was right. He was following her.
“Did ye really think I wouldnae catch ye if I wanted to?” he added. “Ye ken, for some reason, that offends me.”
A flush crept onto her cheeks.
“To think I cannae catch me bride—”
“Daenae call me that,” she hissed.
His eyes searched hers. “Why nae?”
Her eyes narrowed as if to say, Are ye being serious?
“Because I am nae yer bride!”
“Oh, well, I suppose there is the issue of formalities—”
“This isnae about formalities. I daenae want to marry ye. That is why I ran,” she snapped.
“And I came after ye. That is why I walked,” he returned. “And yet here we are.”
She glared up at him, hating how steady he was and how calmly he spoke. Her breathing was ragged, her dress was torn, her heart was pounding, and he looked like a man taking a stroll.
It was smug and utterly arrogant.
“Why are ye even here?” she demanded. “Why come after me?”
A smirk spread across his face, deepening the green in his eyes. “I said I’d talk to me bride. Is that nae clear?”
She tried again to pull away. “Let me go!”
His fingers loosened, but he did not let go entirely. Just enough so that she could shift her weight.
“What do ye want?” she asked.
“To see what sort of woman runs from a wedding and lands a punch on a laird’s face before speakin’ three words.”
She flushed again.
He tilted his head slightly. “Most would’ve fainted.”
“I daenae faint,” she muttered.
“Aye,” he said. “I noticed.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Wind stirred the branches overhead, and a leaf drifted down and landed on her hair. She felt his eyes settle on it even before he reached up.
She flinched.
He looked straight at her. “Would ye relax?”
His fingers brushed her braid gently, plucked the leaf free, and let it fall to the ground between them.
Emma stared at him. “What now?”
“Now?” he said. “Ye breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Aye, ye are. Like a deer in a trap.”
She gritted her teeth. “Ye ken I can just turn around and run again?”
“I wouldnae advise that,” he drawled. “Because I would catch ye again.”
She said nothing.
“I am nae chasing ye, lass,” he added. “I’m only following because I want to ken what kind of woman would rather tear through thorns than marry me.”
Her lips parted, but she did not speak.
“I want to ken what kind of woman considers me a horrifying monster.”
A tense silence settled between them, and for the next minute, none of them spoke. He eventually sighed and broke the silence.
“If ye want to keep running, I willnae stop ye.”
Her eyebrows rose, eyes narrowing.
“But I will follow ye,” he continued. “And when ye’re too tired to run, I’ll still be there.”
She swallowed; her heart was still racing. Her dress was ruined, and her hands were scraped raw. But he wasn’t dragging her. He hadn’t shouted or struck back, and that terrified her more than anything else.
She exhaled as loudly as she could, realizing she still had one more trick up her sleeve. She just needed to make it convincing.
Sympathy worked most of the time. Hopefully, it did for her now.
“Will ye hurt me?” she asked, her voice low.
“What?”
“Is that why me uncle brought me to ye? So ye would hurt me?”
“Nay, lass.”
Emma frowned. “Ye daenae?”
He tilted his head. “Nay. I’ll do something worse. I’ll marry ye.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’ll marry ye,” he repeated, calm as if discussing the weather.
She stared at him, unsure of where exactly to steer the conversation now.
“I… I embarrassed ye, me Laird,” she stammered. “Running like that. Ye daenae want a bride who runs from her wedding, do ye? Ye might wish to find a bride who… who doesnae run. A bride who wants to be seen with ye.”
“I already have a bride, and that is ye.” He leaned closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Ye belong to me, whether ye like it or nae, lassie.”
She yanked her arm again. This time, he let go. She stumbled back a step and rubbed the spot where his hand had been. Warmth lingered there.
“Is this how all yer courtships proceed?” she asked sharply. “With running and threats?”
He met her eyes without flinching. “Ye would be surprised. But if this ends in marriage, I’ll call it a success.”
Her pulse spiked. “Ye think this is success? A wife who wants nothing to do with ye?”
“I think it’s the truth,” he said. “Ye ran, I followed. Now, we speak plainly.”
She folded her arms. “Plainly enough to call it madness.”
“Madness keeps the clans from killing each other,” he pointed out. “Peace has stranger roots.”
She hated that his calm voice made sense. She hated even more that she wanted to hear him speak.
“Why?” she demanded. “Ye could just let me go without following me. Why nae do that?”
“Because I keep what is mine,” he declared. “And ye, at this point, are mine.”
The silence between them grew, and the wind brushed the trees above, carrying the smell of damp earth. Her heart continued to beat too fast.
“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “I am just yers now?”
He studied her face. “Aye. But ye’ll find that I keep what’s mine safe.”
She blinked, startled by the softness beneath the words. “Safe,” she repeated. “Is that what ye call this?”
“It’s what I offer. Ye would be surprised that I am nae the monster ye seem to think I am.”
Her throat tightened. “This isnae some decision ye can make, me Laird. Ye seem to think that yer words, for some reason, can claim me.”
He stepped closer, his eyes unreadable. “Ye are mine, whether ye like it or nae. It is up to ye to take this with grace or with anger, but ye belong to me now.”
She glared up at him, her jaw trembling. “And if I choose anger?”
“Then we live with it,” he said quietly. “I’ve lived with worse.”