Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Ibeg your pardon?”
The courtyard fell silent as soon as the words left her mouth.
Marian glared at the furious Highlander as if he’d just insulted her at a London tea table.
It did not matter that he had a sword in his hand or that he was merely a few feet away from her.
She was a gently bred English lady, and no one could speak to her in such a manner. Especially not on her land.
Who does he think he is?
The Highlander stared down at her from atop his horse. He furrowed his brow, somehow managing to deepen the creases that ran alongside the ghastly scar on his forehead.
For a second, his expression shifted from fury to curiosity, but his frown returned as quickly as it had faded once he realized she was waiting for him to repeat himself.
“Ye heard me, lass,” he said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “What are ye doin’ on me land?”
Lass? The nerve of this man!
Marian scoffed. “Your land?”
She had traveled a long way with a singular hope that she would find her inheritance and make a home of it.
Glen Carrick was supposed to be empty, waiting for her. And yet, now she stood in front of the castle, arguing ownership with an ill-tempered Highlander in the rain.
She slipped a hand into the fold of her skirt, her fingers closing around the folded paper she had tucked there earlier.
“What is she doin’?” one of his men asked.
The Highlander tightened his grip on his sword, aiming it toward her. “Show yer hand,” he ordered her, as if she were one of his subjects.
Marian wanted to protest, but the rain was getting heavier, and she needed the dispute resolved as soon as possible. Besides, there was a sharp sword waiting to slice her throat open at any moment.
One wrong move, and he’ll kill me.
“It is just… paper!” she stuttered. “A summary of the deed to the castle and parts of the MacLeod lands. To prove my inheritance.”
A few of his men burst into laughter, but she ignored them, unfolding the deed as carefully as she could, even in the rain.
“Yer inheritance,” the Highlander repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. “And who are ye?”
Marian raised her voice so it carried clearly across the courtyard, holding out her copy of the deed for him to read.
“I am Lady Marian Whitcombe,” she announced, holding her head high. “Daughter of Lord George Whitcombe and Juliet Norton, and rightful heir to the late Lord George Whitcombe, my father, who inherited this estate from his late grandmother, Lady MacLeod. The deceased—”
“Laird.”
Marian blinked once. The interruption had been so sudden and so rude that she almost didn’t catch it.
“Excuse me?” she sputtered.
The Highlander lowered his sword slightly, rain dripping from the tip.
“Laird MacLeod,” he repeated slowly, staring at her like she was supposed to know what that meant.
Marian stared back at him, confused. “No, sir. You must have misheard me. I said, Lady MacLeod. My great-grandmother, bless her soul. She passed before I was born, but she was—”
“Laird MacLeod,” the Highlander interrupted her again, this time pointing toward himself with his free hand.
The realization slowly dawned on her.
“You are… No… That cannot be. MacLeod lands have been without a laird for months now, and the issue of the inheritance…” she trailed off as her mind scrambled to make sense of the situation.
The Highlander stared at her as if she had lost her senses, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile.
One of his men said something in Gaelic, which made the others break out in more laughter.
“English colors in Glen Carrick,” another man jested. Her face must have turned red because he pointed at her, snorting. “Yer faither must be rollin’ in his grave!”
Marian swallowed. She couldn’t let them see how hard the words hit her.
Her father was the most important person to her, dead or alive. And she would fight for his name by claiming his inheritance for herself, not by giving in to the crude teasing of Highlanders.
I cannot back down.
“My Lady.” Lilly gently tugged at her sleeve. “Perhaps… perhaps we should return to London for now. We can come back with your uncle and some of our own men,” she whispered shakily, her eyes fearfully scanning the fierce Highlander and his men. “You are but one lady, and these men…”
“No, Lilly.” Marian turned to her. “I do not need anyone’s help in claiming my father’s inheritance. It is my duty.”
Laird MacLeod raised his hand, and his men fell silent.
He dismounted his golden horse in one swift movement, his dark eyes fixed on her. His boots struck the wet ground with a heavy thud, echoing across the courtyard.
He approached her slowly, cornering her like a predator did its prey.
Marian did not step back. She held Lilly’s hand and turned to face him, keeping her gaze on his. She stood straight against the strong Highland wind, even as her maid shrank beside her.
Her skirt snapped at her ankles. The rain whipped harshly at her face, dripping off her chestnut-brown hair. And yet she did not move. She did not lower her gaze.
Laird MacLeod’s frown deepened. His eyes flicked briefly to her soaked skirts before he looked away. Marian could see the veins in his temples bulge as he clenched his jaw.
He lifted his head, running his fingers through his hair to brush back the damp strands that had fallen over his face. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, returning his gaze to her face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He took a step closer to her, and the rain seemed to quiet around them, at least to her ears.
Standing so close to the man was oddly intense.
Marian was short, so most of the gentlemen in England naturally towered over her. But all that experience could hardly compare to how she felt in the moment. None of the men she had known in England ever made her feel so small.
She kept her chin high. Her chest rose and fell harder than it normally did, and she found her fingers curling tighter around Lilly’s trembling hand.
The Laird was looking at her, and she couldn’t help but look back at him.
The scar on his forehead glistened in the rain, adding a certain depth to his face that she couldn’t quite understand. His dark eyes captivated her, drawing her in against her every instinct.
The sharpness of his jaw, the way his tunic clung to his broad shoulders, and even the way the rain clung to his hair gave him an untamed air.
Like a beast in the wild.
Marian swallowed. She had forgotten herself, staring at him so openly that she didn’t notice the way he tilted his head to look at her.
His eyes narrowed slightly as they traveled from her face to her gloved arms, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. The exposed sliver of skin on her upper arm, the way her drenched dress clung to her chest and hips in the places that curved…
Good heavens.
Her pulse quickened with the strange, thrilling awareness of his attention, and she felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment.
Perhaps it’d be wiser to leave, for now.
The thought made her chest tighten.
In London, disagreements were often settled with courts, with wills and lawyers. Not with unsheathed swords and armed men standing in the rain.
But she had not endured three weeks of miserable travel only to turn back at the first challenge. She would not surrender to the Highlander simply because he looked stronger.
No. This land belongs to me.
She cleared her throat. But just as she was about to speak, he took another step forward. There was barely a foot between them now.
Marian planted her feet firmly on the ground. She did not move when the Laird suddenly reached forward, even as her heart raced wildly in her chest.
The thought was absurd. For a second, she assumed he was going to take her hand. But instead of grabbing it, his fingers caught the edge of the wet paper.
The deed.
He lifted it slightly, scanning the words with a smirk before giving it back to her. His gaze returned to her, darker now than before.
“Ye’ve got courage,” he said quietly, then his expression hardened. “But courage doesnae make lies true.”
He turned away from her, walking back to his horse.
“Ye’ll leave me land, Sassenach,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “or I’ll throw ye out meself.”
Marian’s chest tightened with embarrassment and anger. Despite the cold wind blowing against her skin, she suddenly felt hot.
How dare he?
“No,” she answered in a quiet tone that made him stop in his tracks.
Laird MacLeod turned around, his eyebrows drawing together. He clearly hadn’t expected the firmness of her response.
Marian lifted the deed again, water dripping from the edges of the page. “I do not know who you believe yourself to be,” she said evenly, “but this estate is mine.”