Chapter 3 #2
He ignored it.
He had to.
Because if he thought too long about the way her scent clung to him—smoke and sweat and something sharper beneath—if he let himself linger on the way she fought him like she’d rather die than submit, he’d lose the thin edge of control he was clinging to.
And Peadar MacGregor did not lose control.
And he would not now.
“Aye! Help me!” she shrieked at Tristan.
Tristan crossed his arms. “Nae gettin’ involved.”
Peadar started walking toward the horses, ignoring the fists pounding against his back.
“Ye absolute—mountain-sized—brainless—”
“Keep goin’,” he said calmly. “Maybe ye’ll run out of breath.”
“I hope ye fall intae a bog and die!”
Tristan murmured behind him, “She’ll fit right in with the MacGregors.”
Peadar almost smiled.
Almost.
Because under all the noise, all the fury, all the insults, he felt her trembling.
The horse was too large.
That was the first thing Kenina noticed as she stood beside it, staring up at the dark bulk of the animal and the man already mounted on its back. Too tall and too broad. It shifted beneath them, restless, as if it sensed the unease stitched tight between its riders.
She should have been thinking about escape.
Peadar swung up first with practiced ease, one hand gripping the saddle horn as he settled.
He looked as though he had been born there—long legs braced, body loose but ready, the sort of balance that came only from years of riding hard ground.
His shoulders were wide beneath his cloak and the solid line of his thighs braced easily against the horse’s flanks.
His hair had slipped free of the hood now, dark and wind-tossed, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
Firelight from the byre caught the hard line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble along it, the scars on his hands—old ones, pale and confident, like they’d been earned and never regretted. She swallowed at the thought of those hands around her waist earlier.
Her heart thudded, from fear, but not only.
She had been afraid. Furious. Humiliated. She had been prepared for pain, for cruelty, for desperation. What she had not been prepared for was this — the strange, unwanted awareness of him as a man. A stranger. A MacGregor. An enemy by blood and history.
And yet her body did not seem to care.
He reached back without looking. “Up.”
Kenina stared at the offered hand like it might bite her. It was bare, strong and scarred, fingers relaxed but capable. A hand that could pull her up—or pin her down. She imagined it closing around her wrist, her waist — imagined the weight of it — and her pulse skidded, fast and traitorous.
No. Absolutely not.
“I willnae,” she said, forcing her voice flat.
He glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting. and the look in his eyes caught her off guard. He was annoyingly handsome in a brutal, mountain-hewn way, the sort of man who looked carved rather than born and that had no business tightening her stomach.
“Then ye’ll walk.”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
“Walk where?” she demanded
“Tae MacGregor lands.” He nudged the horse into a slow step, then stopped again, turning just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were dark—deep-set, watchful. “It’s only a few days’ hard travel. Cold nights. Wolves if ye’re unlucky. Drummond’s scouts if worse.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“That’s geography.”
She folded her arms, as if it might keep her heart from betraying her. “Ye expect me tae climb onto a horse with ye after—after everything?”
After being bought. After being paraded. After being looked at like something men could own.
“I expect ye to decide whether pride’s worth frostbite,” he said. “I dinnae have a second horse.”
Her stomach twisted. Not just with fear—but with the awareness of how close he would be, how easily he occupied space, how solid he felt simply standing there.
“I dinnae trust ye.”
“Nay,” he agreed. “But ye trust Drummond less.”
That landed.
Her jaw tightened. She glanced once—only once—toward the distant glow of the barn behind them, where drunken laughter still leaked into the night. Where Torcull Drummond would be standing among men who saw her as a prize already half-spent.
Fear flickered through her—quick and bright and humiliating.
She crushed it down.
When she faced Peadar again, her breath left her in a sharp, angry exhale. He was still watching her, still waiting. Not pushing. Not retreating. As if he already knew which way she’d fall.
“Fine,” she snapped. “But if ye touch me—”
“I will,” he interrupted calmly, already shifting in the saddle to make room. “So dinnae pretend that’s the line.”
Her breath hitched at the thought of that. And she mentally smacked herself.
Her eyes flashed. “Ye are insufferable.”
“Aye.”
Her fingers curled into her palms. Slowly, stiffly, she stepped forward and let him pull her up. There was no grace in it—only anger and the unwilling awareness of how easily he lifted her weight. The contact burned anyway.
She landed in front of him on the saddle, perched and furious, spine ramrod straight.
God’s truth—she was acutely aware of everything.
The heat of him at her back. The breadth of his chest she refused to lean against. The strength in the arm braced beside her, corded muscle flexing as he gathered the reins.
He did not wrap an arm around her.
Instead, he braced one beside her, hand steady on the reins, leaving space where she expected possession.
Tristan mounted behind them. She heard him snort softly, like he found something about it amusing.
The world beyond the Grahams’ cursed barn was colder than she expected—so cold the air tasted like metal on her tongue as she rode in front of him, perched on the saddle because he refused to let her ride alone.
“Ye’ll bolt,” he’d said. “And I’ve had enough chase fer one night.”
She hadn’t answered. She didn’t trust her voice not to break, or snarl, or do something worse—something that would betray how tightly her nerves were wound.
Not while his arm was braced beside her, solid as a tree trunk, guiding the reins with maddening ease. Every shift of the horse forced her to balance, to be aware–painfully aware–of him behind her
Kenina kept her spine stiff, refusing to lean even a fraction of an inch against him. She’d rather shatter in the cold.
Behind her, she could feel him breathe. Slow and steady. The man had no right to be as calm as he was after dragging her out of a nightmare.
She hated that steadiness. She hated that it felt… safer than where she was coming from.
The forest swallowed the fading light, the scent of wet bark and frost-bitten pine pressing close. Somewhere in the distance, water rushed over stones—a river she didn’t recognize.
“If I’d meant tae run,” she said at last, trying for clipped dignity, but it came out strained instead, “you’d already be behind me.
He didn’t answer at once.
The horse kept its steady pace, hooves striking stone, leather creaking softly. Then she felt the vibration of his voice more than she heard it, low and close to the nape of her neck.
“Wasnae givin’ ye the chance.”
“I wasnae asking permission.”
“Wasnae givin’ any.”
She clenched her teeth. “Ye have a rare talent fer provokin’ people.”
“And ye,” he said, voice maddeningly even, “are loud fer someone who nearly got sold tae a man who eats fear fer breakfast.”
The words hit her like a thrown stone. Her breath faltered. She stared straight ahead so he wouldn’t see the way her throat tightened.
“I dinnae need ye remindin’ me,” she whispered.
His reply came softer. Not gentle—just less sharp. “I’m nae remindin’ ye. I’m explainin’ why ye stay on this saddle.”
She swallowed hard, staring at the frost-crusted path winding into the woods. “What are ye going tae dae with me?”
He didn’t answer at first. She felt him shift behind her, leather creaking, muscles tightening like he was bracing for something.
“Marry ye.”
She heard a strangled cough from hi companion behind them.
Her entire body went rigid. “Ye’re—what?”
“Aye.”
“Nay.” Her voice came out strangled. “Absolutely nae. Nay.”
“Ye dinnae have a choice, lass.”
She twisted as far as she could without falling off the horse, glaring at him over her shoulder. His face was too close—shadowed, sharp-jawed, eyes a startling, icy blue that flicked straight through her.
“Are ye mad?” she demanded. “Ye are a MacGregor. I’m Buchanan. We dinnae—ever—”
“We dae now.”
“Nay,” she said again, louder, fighting the sting rising behind her eyes. “I’d sooner throw meself into a ravine.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll catch ye.”
Infuriating man.
“Why?” she snapped. “Why in God’s name would ye—of all men— want tae marry me?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not even a beat.
“Tae block Drummond.”
Her stomach dropped. “What?”
“Also, he cannae touch a married woman,” Peadar said. “Nae legally. Nae without challengin’ yer husband. And Drummond likes challengin’ folk only when he’s certain he’ll win.”
She stared at him, horrified. “So ye would… take me… tae spite him?”
“Tae ruin him,” Peadar corrected, the words edged with something dark and old. “Spite’s a childish thing. This is more than that. Marriage makes ye mine tae protect. And ye’ll serve as witness when I bring what I ken to the king.”
Her throat worked. “And what am I then? A shield? A prize? A weapon?”
Peadar didn’t answer immediately. The horse kept its steady pace through the trees, hooves dull against frozen earth. When he spoke again, it was quieter—but no less firm.
“A witness,” he said. “And aye… a weapon too, if ye choose tae see it that way.”
She let out a short, broken laugh. “How generous.”
He ignored the bite in it.
“Drummond’s been daein’ this fer years,” he went on. “Nae with armies. Nae at first. He picks at the edges. He finds smaller clans with weaker lairds. Folk already pressed thin.”
Her eyes flicked to him despite herself.