Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Margo stared at Laird MacLeod momentarily unable to sort her words out. He had spoken without looking away from his side. When she stepped closer, she saw that he was stitching a wound shut, but it infuriated her that he couldn’t even spare her a glance.
“You will not even look my way?” she asked, not caring to temper her voice. The storm outside raged on; the thunder rumbling overhead seemed to mirror the storm of emotions brewing in her chest. “You came to my home demanding payment. You had a choice! You did not have to take me or my sister.”
She was breathing heavily, her hands balled into fists at her sides as if she were a child. It took all of her strength to keep from stomping her foot petulantly. He seemed perfectly content to carry on without acknowledging her properly.
Who raised him? My mother was the most well-mannered woman I’ve ever met, so I know that they teach manners in the Highlands.
Finally, the Laird lifted his head enough to meet her gaze. He lifted an eyebrow, his long hair sliding forward, a strand hanging in front of his predator’s eyes making him look even more intimidating. It was as though a wolf were watching her, waiting for his moment to strike.
“You just stood by,” she continued, though she had lost a bit of her confidence with him looking at her as though he would devour her at any moment.
One of her hands touched the pendant still tucked against her breast. “You just stood idly by while my father negotiated my little sister’s future!
While he negotiated my future! Surely, debt paid in human lives is not the answer. ”
“It would do ye well to remember,” he began roughly, the timbre of his voice making her stomach turn in a way she didn’t quite understand, “that I never asked yer father for either ye or yer sister. I requested that he paid his debts, and I accepted the payment I was given.”
Her rage bubbled even more violently. It collected in her throat, burning as though it were an acid. How could anyone speak of another person as payment? She was furious with the Laird, and resentful towards her father.
“Ye danae ken the intricacies of the contract,” he continued, shifting his attention to the half-finished stitches at his side. “It was either yer comfortable life or hundreds of mouths unfed. I made the decision that a Laird should make.”
She stood there, the swell of indignity stealing her voice. The only thing she could do was watch as he expertly pressed the needle through his skin. She could tell he was grimacing, just from his side profile, but he did not flinch once.
When he tied off the thread, he rested the needle between his teeth. It was a barbaric gesture, one that made her feel as if she should look away. The part of her mind fighting for her survival kept her eyes carefully on him. She felt like a prey animal faced with a bigger, stronger, faster beast.
I’ve never seen something so… savage.
Finally, he set the needle aside, slipping his doublet back over his shoulders. Then, he turned his gaze on her . This time, instead of lingering on her face, his eyes drifted down her body.
The attention felt hungry. It was as though he were devouring her form under her chemise. She wrapped her arms around herself, attempting to hide herself. Even though she knew it would be smart to keep silent now and obey any instructions he might give her, Margo refused to make this easy for him.
“I will never surrender,” she said, somehow keeping her voice from shaking. “I do not care about the contract that you speak of.”
“Surrender?” he scoffed, leaning in close to speak directly into her ear.
He was quiet, each word low and deliberate.
He could practically hear her pulse fluttering.
Her throat worked around a thick swallow, and he tracked it with unconcealed interest. “I never said a thing about ye surrenderin’.
I danae need yer surrender, Lady Margo.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again.
She held his gaze, unblinking. “Ye will be mine to take if I wish so.”
He saw the way fear clouded her vision, the shiver that went through her, and the flush of her cheeks. His hands twitched at his sides, the desire to pull her against him overwhelming. Her form was so lithe that he knew she could not fight him off.
Before he could stop it, the thought crept in: she would be all too easy to claim. She would look perfect like that; his in every possible way. It was an animalistic, instinctive desire. His control wavered when her eyes flicked to his jaw, then his chest again.
Ach, I’m soundin’ like me father. God help me.
Forcing himself to step away, he cleared his throat. “But what truly interests me,” he said, his hold on himself tightening like a noose, “is whether ye’ll spend the entire journey fightin’ me or nae.”
He drew in a ragged breath, exhaling it with a deep growl. She frowned up at him, unmoving in the face of the sound as if it did nothing to deter her. She was far too brave and motivated by her anger.
I respect yer spirit, lass. But ye are goin’ to be a terrible temptation.
“I might,” Margo said, more composed now that he had given her a bit of space. Her arms tightened around her body, a fragile shield against him, though she knew he could break through it with ease. “It depends.”
“Aye?” His gaze dropped briefly to her perfect, plush lips. “Then perhaps I should find that pretty mouth somethin’ better to do.”
It seemed as if the world went silent as soon as the words left his lips. The thunder outside paused; her breathing faltered. The crackle of the fire in the corner felt too loud for the space.
“I willnae touch ye, Margo Abbot,” he said finally, stepping back from her. “But ye will obey me.”
She said nothing, but she lifted her chin a bit higher. She was going to make herself a problem, he could already tell. It was the most dangerous thing she could do for herself, yet he knew that no amount of explanation would sway her.
For a long moment, he was sure that she would turn and leave. Her breathing was still ragged, but she was issuing him a challenge. As much as he wanted to rise to it, he had stifled the instinct. He wouldn’t be the beast everyone thought him to be; that he knew himself to be.
“Each of us chose duty,” he told her. “Now each of us must live with it.”
With a final nod toward her, Cameron stepped around her body. He could feel her eyes on him and hear the sound of her nightgown swishing around her ankles. It was like a siren song, and he wouldn’t let himself be taken out to sea.
“Ye should get as much sleep as ye can, Lady Margo,” he said without turning around. “We will be leavin’ the inn at first light.”