Chapter 2 #3
Erica forced a smile. It wasn’t the intensity of Laird MacKinnon’s unyielding gaze over James’ shoulder that made her skin prickle but rather the vow that James just made.
“I suppose we will see, right?” she replied, keeping her voice light.
His eyes brightened—he had surely mistaken her discomfort for coyness. “Aye, but I swear it to ye. I’ll say it in front of everyone—I’ll be yer husband by the end of the week. Nay one will stand in me way.”
He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
She stiffened. The gesture was intimate. Far too intimate for her liking. She tried to focus on the conversation, but her eyes drifted over James’ shoulder to meet Laird MacKinnon’s hard ones.
She watched him raise his glass once more, her gaze falling to his lips as he leisurely sipped on his whiskey. His piercing grey eyes had never left hers, but his expression remained unreadable.
Another shiver ran through her, and she quickly refocused on James, who was still speaking.
Oblivious to her distraction, his hand lingered on her arm, the pressure of his fingers growing.
“Ye are just so incredibly beautiful, Erica,” she heard him say, his voice dropping as if they were sharing a secret. “I will treat ye well, better than anyone else could. Ye’ll be happy with me, I promise.”
Her thoughts had again drifted to Laird MacKinnon—she had barely heard James.
Why is he lookin’ at me like that? And why can I nae shake the feeling that, despite everything, he understands me better than anyone else here?
Her eyes flicked back to Laird MacKinnon, who was silently daring her to look away again. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on James’s words, but it was no use.
For the life of her, Erica could not look away from the imposing figure of the man who would likely win the game tomorrow.
James’ grip on her arm tightened slightly, and she winced.
“James, please,” she said, gently tugging her arm free, “I think I need some air.”
But before she could take a step, a massive shadow fell over them.
Laird MacKinnon had moved and closed the distance between them. She hadn’t realized that she and James had moved so far away from where they had been standing earlier, but Laird MacKinnon was now standing directly behind James and commanding attention.
The air seemed to shift, and James’ expression darkened.
“Is there somethin’ ye need, MacKinnon?” he asked, his voice sharp with irritation.
Laird MacKinnon’s eyes remained on Erica as he said, “I was just about to ask ye the same thing, lad. It looks like the lass needs a break from yer company.”
James bristled at the insult. “We were havin’ a conversation. Perhaps ye should mind yer own business.”
Laird MacKinnon finally tore his gaze away from Erica. His jaw was set in a cold, unyielding way that sucked the warmth from the room. He didn’t need to respond. One look from him was enough to send a message—one that even James couldn’t ignore.
After a tense pause, James let out a strained chuckle and stepped back with a half-hearted grin. “I’ll leave ye to it, then. But remember, MacKinnon, tomorrow’s still anyone’s game.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration.
Erica exhaled, unsure whether to feel relieved or infuriated. She turned to Laird MacKinnon, her eyes flashing with a maelstrom of emotions. “That was rude,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “He wasnae doing anythin’ wrong.”
Laird MacKinnon raised an eyebrow, his expression as cool as ever. “To me, ye seemed like ye needed rescuin’. The way ye kept glancin’ at me while he prattled on, I thought ye were beggin’ for it.”
Erica’s mouth dropped open in indignation. “Beggin’? Ye think I was beggin’ for yer help?” she snapped, her temper flaring. “I was perfectly fine, Laird MacKinnon. I didnae need ye to swoop in and pretend to save me. Ye are just—just—”
“Just?” he prompted almost playfully, his lips curling into a devastating grin.
“A brute!”
Laird MacKinnon’s eyes darkened at the word. A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face, and he took a step closer to her. His tall frame towered over hers, and the air between them crackled with tension.
“A brute, am I?” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “Better a brute than a spoiled bampot who cannae keep his hands to himself.”
Erica’s heart pounded in her chest. His proximity made her skin tingle, every nerve alive with a confusing mix of anger and awareness.
She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “James isnae a fool. He might nae be… like ye, but that doesnae mean he would make a terrible husband.”
A slow, mocking smile spread across Laird MacKinnon’s lips. Erica’s eyes fell to his mouth as his teeth glinted in the low torchlight. “Aye, I’m sure he would bore ye to tears within the week.”
She glared back up at him, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I would rather be bored than married to someone like ye. Ye are an arrogant, overbearin’, entitled br—”
“Brute?” His expression shifted. The mirth in his eyes flickered out and was replaced by something more intense.
Erica’s breath caught in her throat.
He reached out, his hand gently but firmly tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. His eyes fell to her mouth before slowly rising to meet her eyes.
“And yet,” he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down her spine, “ye cannae seem to look away from me.”
Erica’s pulse quickened, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His touch was firm yet gentle. The heat of his hand, the smell of whiskey on his breath, and the fire in his eyes made her feel as though she were standing too close to a fire.
She hated the way her body responded to him, the way his presence seemed to stir something inside her that she didn’t understand. Silence fell between them as she wrestled with her conflicting emotions until, finally, she dared to take a step closer to him.
“Laird MacKinnon…” Her voice was surprisingly firm, and defiance flickered in her eyes.
“Me name is Hunter Buchanan. Feel free to use it, lass. I reckon that ye already do,” Laird MacKinnon interjected, a hint of playfulness in his dark eyes.
“I will never marry ye, Laird MacKinnon,” she said defiantly. “Nae if I have any say in it.”
His eyes bored into hers with a fierce reckoning, and his thumb brushed lightly against her smooth skin, sending sparks through her body.
“Aye, but that’s the thing, is it nae? Ye dinnae have a say in it, lass,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Tomorrow, Morris will lose, and ye will be mine, Erica Kilmartin. Whether ye want to be or nae.”
Before she could respond, before she could even find the words to fight back against his infuriating confidence, he released her and turned around, walking away with the calm authority that he always carried.
Erica stood frozen in place, her heart pounding, her skin still tingling from his touch. Anger, frustration, and an infuriatingly unsettling attraction swirled within her, leaving her breathless.
He cannae win tomorrow. There’s nay way I’ll marry that monster!