Chapter 5
Panic was something reserved for animals in Hannah’s mind. It was what rabbits did when they sensed the encroaching fox in the grass.
The premise was something she had always told herself at balls back home when she felt nervous, or in the dark of the familiar country estate of her maternal grandparents.
But at the thought of coming face to face with Alan Black again, Hannah felt much like a rabbit in the wild with the way her heart pattered uncontrollably at the mere possibility of seeing Alan.
Hannah was on her feet, facing the door head-on as the man in chains was brought in.
She hadn’t even noticed that Laird Magnus had moved around the table and was at her side then.
Why was he there? Was he afraid that Alan might attack her?
Her brain couldn’t make sense of it, nor did it try to for more than a second—for her entire body, mind, and spirit were locked onto the chained man.
The guard grabbed his dark hair in a fistful and forced his head backwards, revealing his face at last. For a moment, the similarities were enough to make her knees weak—and then the picture before her gained clarity through the panic.
It wasn’t Alan himself, but the man was definitely familiar to her.
Familiar enough that Hannah wasn’t put at ease that it wasn’t Alan.
“Who is this?” Magnus demanded, still at her side.
“He will nae tell us his name, but he wore this about his neck,” the guard said, throwing a scrap of black tartan onto the table. Alan’s personal tartan that he had his closest guards wear.
Hannah watched Magnus as his eyes narrowed and he approached. “Yer face is familiar to me. That does nae bode well for ye. Now tell me, where is yer master?”
The man sneered and spat at Magnus’s feet. Hannah watched with wide eyes, waiting for the violence to erupt. There was hardly anything Hannah could think of that was more disrespectful than getting spat at, and she was certain a Laird wouldn’t take it lightly.
And yet, Magnus didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look down at the puddle of spit at his feet. “Are ye Douglas or Kirk?” he demanded. So, he knew the names of the men closest to his brother; Hannah wasn’t sure what to make of that fact.
“I’ll tell ye nothing,” the man said, spitting again. “Ungrateful boy, playing Laird while yer big brother’s away.”
Magnus’s eyes narrowed. “Kirk, then. Shall I remind ye that I ken yer family?” There was a threat laced into his words that made Hannah’s bones grow cold. Would he truly hurt this man’s family if he didn’t talk?
Kirk chuckled darkly. “Do yer worst. I ain’t telling ye anything.”
Hannah believed him, the look in his eyes let her know that he would let the entire world burn before he gave up his loyalty to Alan Black.
She shouldn’t have been so surprised considering she knew Alan’s men were just as cruel as him, since they could so easily lend a hand in her torment—but the thought of letting his own family burn for the sake of keeping his master safe twisted her stomach in a new way.
Alan and his men had managed to find a new way to surprise her with just how vile they could be.
Magnus huffed. “Fine then. Tell me at least what Alan was doing with the Sassenach and perhaps I’ll go easy on ye.”
Her eyes went wide with alarm, her jaw going a bit slack as she stared at the back of Magnus’s head.
She couldn’t believe that he was using this lead to get information on her, especially when she had just told him her story; a fabricated one, but he didn’t know that.
Kirk looked to her then, and a smirk appeared on his smarmy face that made her almost flinch.
She hated that she recognized him and that the sight of him made her have a reaction—they didn’t even deserve to take up a place in her mind, let alone own her fear.
“Go to hell,” Kirk said to Magnus. Selfishly, a little relief flooded her veins. She wasn’t sure why it felt good to hold her identity so close, so secret, but something in her gut just begged her to; at least for the time being.
A sharp, pained inhale sounded from Kirk as Magnus swung forward and punched him directly in the stomach. Kirk crumpled slightly, though still held upright by the guard. “Last chance,” Magnus warned.
Kirk scoffed and eyed Hannah closely, as though weighing the risks. And then, she saw it, the gleam in his eye that told her he decided to give her up because it wasn’t like she was worth getting punched over. “She’s Laird McTavish’s English bastard, his only child,” he announced smugly.
His words were a punch to her gut. All of the air left her in a pained gasp and she could feel herself starting to tremble ever so slightly. She couldn’t explain why, but she knew that her true identity being revealed was going to unleash hell upon her life. She could sense it.
Magnus looked back at her as he still towered over the prisoner, a dark smirk appearing on his face. “Nae a petty thief after all, are ye, Lady McTavish?” he chuckled. All she could do was glare at him, fear tightening around her throat.
Well, that certainly explained some things—like how the hell an English lass ended up in the Black clan territory. There were still many unanswered questions, like how in the world Alan had smuggled her in without anyone seeing, but it answered another one: motive for her capture.
The Black and McTavish clans were neighbors and had been feuding for generations, and he had heard tensions had reached an all-time high while he was away with his warrior duties.
No doubt, Alan had kidnapped her as some sort of way to get back at her father.
The true travesty of it all, was that it complicated things further for Hannah.
Something that not even Alan was privy to at the moment.
But that wasn’t the most pressing matter at hand.
Magnus’s eyes darkened as he took in the smug look on Kirk’s face as he watched fear begin to rattle Hannah.
A sneer pulled onto his face as he realized how much Kirk was relishing in her unease and how he had likely done that many, many times before that moment.
Grinning and laughing along with Alan as they unleashed untold horrors onto Hannah and the people of his clan and Keep.
Without warning, Magnus brought his fist up again, punching him in the same spot in the gut as before. The man groaned and grew slumped in the hold of the guard. “Waste of life,” he murmured to the man before landing another punch.
Kirk lifted his head with that smirk still on his face and opened his mouth to say something—but Magnus didn’t give him the opportunity.
Taking the roots of his hair in hand, he lifted Kirk enough to bring him right back down.
His face collided with the table once—twice, Magnus smashing him down again—and blood poured from a now crooked nose.
The man in chains flopped to the floor, groaning loudly.
A swift foot was brought to his side by Magnus, kicking him with more might than necessary for a man that was already on the ground.
The difference between Magnus’s violence and his brother and his men, was that Magnus did it for justice and honor. Kirk and the other scum did it for their own sick thrills.
And then, Magnus returned the favor Kirk had bestowed on him upon their meeting just minutes ago.
He spat on the floor, right next to his head, glaring in disgust at the creature before finally looking away.
“Take him away. Be sure he’s put in the dungeon.
No rations for a couple days, see if that motivates him to talk,” Magnus ordered Angus.
Angus nodded and headed out of the room, roughly dragging the prisoner along with him.
Magnus headed back around the table but didn’t bother to sit back down.
Instead, he merely snatched up his goblet and took a few greedy gulps.
What a damn mess this was turning out to be.
He should have remembered that McTavish had once had an English wife, but it was so long ago and he hadn’t known they had a child together. Rubbing at his face, he sighed heavily.
“My Laird, please,” Hannah pleaded from across the table.
“I hadn’t any business with my father,” she began.
It made his chest tighten, assuming that Alan had made his hatred for her father all too apparent during her time in captivity.
“I hadn’t known him but a day. A single day.
I don’t have any business with him or his affairs. ”
“Enough,” he muttered. He needed a moment to think.
“Your brother killed my father,” she added in a hasty manner. His eyes locked onto her now, seeing the anger and pain taking shape on her face. “Can you not see that I have suffered enough pain, enough loss at the hands of your family?”
Magnus winced at the words. How was it that he hadn’t even heard of McTavish’s death?
He grimaced as he realized just how much his brother had managed to keep from his ears.
And seeing the anguish on her face as she told him all this…
The brave Laird had to look away. It only made guilt pang in his stomach even more for what he was about to tell her.
She went on, desperation in her voice, “Please, give me an escort back to England. I don’t care what you do with his clan—”
“Nay,” Magnus said firmly. He looked at her with something dangerously close to pity. “Ye’re staying here and… we will be wed.”
Hannah moved back as though he struck her, her eyes wide with alarm and disbelief. “Excuse me?” she breathed, eyes searching his face for explanation. “You cannot be serious.”
He only gave her a deadpan expression, showing her without words that he was deadly serious. And then he turned to leave the room, “See that she gets back to her room safely,” he said to one of the servants.
And then, a hand was on his, snatching it and pulling him back around.
He stared down at the woman who he had just declared his betrothed and drank in her familiar fury that was now morphed into something overwrought.
“Just like that? You’re going to declare me your war bride and walk away? You expect me to just accept that?”
He took a step closer to her so that they were only a deep breath away from being chest to chest. Their eyes were locked in a battle that Magnus lacked the words for.
It was almost like they were trying to subdue the other with mere glances with the way righteousness and rage glimmered in hers, and authority and certainty burned in his.
“The King has ordered our clans to marry to end this feud between our families. So, whether ye like it or nae, Sassenach, ye will be my bride,” he told her, his voice a firm, low growl to indicate there was no room for debate. His word was final, because it was as the King commanded.
“I might be of his blood, but he’s never been family to me!
Please believe me! I haven’t anything to do with this bloody feud.
” The woman that had been a wildcat in his mind from the moment he laid eyes on her was suddenly pleading with him.
He hadn’t known her but a day, but he had interacted with her enough to know that begging wasn’t something that came natural to her.
In the wake of seeing this fierce, audacious woman reduced to something nervous and pleading, Magnus felt himself soften internally.
For that split second, he wanted to give in, to set her free and not get her roped into these political games anymore.
But, he couldn’t. Not when he had so much to gain from a marriage to the McTavish clan, and so much to lose if he didn’t stabilize his role of Laird.
And it was cruel, but Hannah was the one that would have to pay the price for him creating harmony within his clan.
“Blood is connection enough to McTavish for my claim as yer husband,” he said quietly. His voice dropped low enough for only her to hear, “Curse yer faither for ever bringing ye here. Curse me as well, if ye wish. None of it will change the fact ye will be my bride.”
He turned to leave as she stood there in silent fury and shock.
Crowding her wouldn’t do him any favors, and so he would give her space to process this news.
Though admittedly, he was a little pleased with the revelation.
It meant that he got to keep this strange woman around for longer and bear witness to her calm wrath.
For the good of his clan, he would marry her—whether she liked it, or not.