Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Innes woke groggily to the sound of the maids entering her room.
The light was pouring in from the thin window beside her bed.
She had slept badly, unsurprisingly enough.
After she had stormed out of the hall, giving up on the very notion of trying to convince Lachlan that she was not a complete prisoner here, she had made her way back to bed.
She had tossed and turned all evening as she tried to make sense of what she was to do now.
What did he mean when he said that he would make sure she respected him?
Truth be told, she was not sure she wanted the answer.
He seemed to hint at so much more than even she knew of him, and the thought of uncovering just how far the depths of his madness reached within him was hardly a pleasing prospect.
“You must rise, Lady Anderson,” one of the maids told her, the same one who had brought her the tray the night before. “Yer dress is to be fitted this morning.”
“My dress?” Innes was surely awake now.
The girl planted her hands on her hips and nodded, like it should have been obvious.
“Aye, yer wedding dress,” she prompted her. “For the ceremony tomorrow.”
She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, talking about her marriage as if it was something she should have been thrilled by. She made no movement to get out of bed.
“He thinks I’ll stand beside him as some meek bride?” she muttered. “He must be as mad as they say.”
The maid slowed slightly, the color draining from her face. She had already dealt with enough from Innes as it was, and no doubt had hoped that she would deign to go along with all of this so as not to cause more trouble.
“The Laird said it would be better if—”
“What’s yer name?”
The girl blinked, falling silent for a moment.
“Catrin.”
“Catrin, where exactly is the Laird?” she asked, finally climbing out of bed, taking a cloak from where it hung over the edge of the bedpost, and draping it around her shoulders.
“He’s training with his men.”
“Then I’ll speak with him myself,” she announced, and she brushed past the maid before she could say another word and started on her way down to the courtyard.
She could not very well remember how she had gotten there in the first place, but she did not let such a thing bother her. She knew that she had to keep her focus, had to keep herself from falling into the trap that he had laid out for her.
The corridors seemed to spiral on for an eternity until she saw a spill of light through the front archway and followed it outside to where the Laird was currently occupied.
The sound of steel meeting steel exploded through the air as she stepped outside, making her jump slightly; she prayed that nobody had noticed it, sure that they would think it funny to see her in such a state.
It took her a moment to spot Lachlan; he was half-hidden from her sight, surrounded by a circle of men, standing in the midst of it all and brandishing a sword.
Another man paced opposite him, the two of them feeling each other out as they waited to see who would strike the next blow.
And, though she knew well that this was nothing more than training, given that the man he was up against was one of the guards who had let them in, it was difficult to recall that he was not truly out for blood.
She watched as Lachlan raised his sword, bringing it down on his opponent.
As the metal clashed once more, a cheer rose from the men around them.
She heard a loud grunt as the man’s blade was knocked from his grip.
Lachlan spun his sword, controlling the heavy blade with ease, a grin spreading over his face as he rounded on the now-unarmed man before him.
His muscles flexed beneath his tunic, and she was reminded, all at once, of how they had felt when the two of them had been dancing together; so close and tight it seemed as though he would have let nothing come between them.
And then, with a flash of frustration, she remembered why she had come here in the first place. Not to watch him fight, like some kind of simpering girl. No, to put up a battle of her own—about the wedding that he seemed so determined to force her into the next day.
“Lachlan!”
She called out to him, mustering all the certainty she could. He raised his gaze as soon as he heard her voice, and a smile crossed his lips when he laid eyes on her. He brushed through his men, who parted like water to let him through, and came to a halt before her.
“Ah, the lady rises,” he teased her.
She frowned, refusing to let him talk around the matter.
“If I am to be married tomorrow,” she told him, planting her hands on her hips. “Then I want to do it in my own dress. Not some borrowed rags that you’ve chosen for me.”
A snicker sounded amongst the men. Lachlan raised a hand, condemning it to silence instantly. Lachlan and Innes stared each other down for a moment, both waiting for the other to yield.
“I dinnae care how you find yerself at the chapel tomorrow morning,” he added. “But you will.”
“At least wait until my brother arrives to bring me some of my own clothes,” she countered, and he smirked.
“Yer brother’s not invited.”
He brushed past her and made his way towards the Keep.For a second, Innes could not respond, her fury so intense it made it impossible to think clearly. But, as soon as she had gathered herself, she launched herself after him, refusing to allow him to get away with such a claim.
“You have no right to keep my brother from me,” she called after him, tightening the cloak around herself as she followed him through the dimly lit corridor. “I ken that he is the reason ye’re doing this, but I will not allow you to take me from my family and—”
He turned to her, stopping dead in his tracks all of a sudden and nearly sending her crashing into him.
“I’ll do as I please, lass. Tomorrow, ye’ll be my wife. And I choose who my wife does and does not spend her time with.”
Fear grasped at her heart. She had not even entertained the possibility that she might truly never see her brother again after this, but the way he was speaking, it seemed he had already decided that she would never again be granted the chance to set eyes on him.
“All this charade just for that?” she exclaimed. “To hurt him?”
“Aye, all this charade,” he replied, sea-blue eyes flashing in the darkness. “To hurt him by hurting you.”
She wished she could contend with him, convince him that he was mad for even considering this, but she doubted it would have made much difference to him either way.
Everyone already thought of him as insane, and this was only proof of that.
What man would pick his wife based on how much harm he could cause?
Marriage was supposed to be a matter of love, not loathing, but he was already casting their union under the heavy weight of hurt.
“Just because Isobel did not choose you?” she threw back at him.
She wanted to hurt him now, and she knew it. Perhaps it was not fair of her to bring up the matter of his failed union, but given what he was doing to her, she would not hold back and pretend that she did not see what nonsense this was.
His eyes seemed to be almost black as he glared back at her, not ceding the ground.
“You may steal my vows, Lachlan, but ye’ll never have me,” she warned him. “You may take my name, but I will never submit myself to you. You will never own me.”
He moved, swift as the shadows dancing in candlelight, hand locking around her wrist before she could pull back.
“I own every part of you, lass,” he rasped to her, composure forgotten at her defiance. “From the moment you set foot in this Keep, I’ve owned every inch of you, you understand?”
She parted her lips, a retort already on the tip of her tongue, but something in him seemed to break.
Whatever composure he had been putting up for his men when she had first walked up to him was entirely forgotten.
His other hand slid to the back of her neck, catching her and drawing her close, his mouth finding hers with a barely restrained need that seemed to have been growing from the instant he had laid eyes on her.
For a second, she was too stunned to respond, too shocked to think of pulling back or protesting.
And, deep within her, everything she had tried to contain, all the emotions that she had wanted to keep under lock and key, suddenly broke the surface.
Rage, longing, want—all of it melding together to form some impossible mass within her that ached for nothing more than the feel of his mouth against hers.
He backed her towards the wall, hands on either side of her, scent heavy in her senses as their tongues came together.
He was the one who seemed to gather himself before she did. Drawing back, his breath harsh, he dragged his nose against her cheek, drinking in the scent of her for another moment before all of this was over with.
“I will take you as my bride tomorrow,” he told her, his words almost a hypnosis as he gathered himself. “And every inch of you, Innes…”
He trailed his hand along her waist, letting it settle there for a moment. His grip was firm, even now, and she could feel the roughness of his stubble against her jaw, leaving her craving more.
“… will be mine.”
And, with that, he drew back, stalking off down the corridor and leaving Innes in a helpless mess to gather herself as best she could. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingertips brushing over her lips, trying to make sense of whether that had truly happened.
His kiss felt impossible, like so much about him, like it must have belonged to someone else, someone different, someone capable of things that he could only dream of.
The Mad Laird.
The man who was soon to be her husband.
She was not sure she had entirely made sense of it yet, but, by this time tomorrow, she would have had to.
Because he was not going to take no for an answer in his quest for revenge.