The Laird’s Runaway Bride (Charmed by the Sassenachs #1)

Chapter 3

3

As the hooves of Finch thundered against the damp path beneath them, Arran couldn’t help but notice the way she stiffened in his arms with every jostle.

His arms were around her, holding on to the worn leather reins as he took them towards the inn where her family were staying, but his mind was full of questions. What was a girl like her doing out in the woods alone? Was she fleeing from something? And was he carrying her right back to whatever it was she had tried to leave behind?

He couldn’t help but notice the way she had shivered when she’d first climbed on top of Finch, the large horse that Arran had ridden for the better part of a decade now. A gray and white beast with dark speckles around his throat, he had been a wild foal, but Arran had taken the time to tame him, and he had been rewarded for his patience. Now, Finch galloped like the wind, as though he knew that it was urgent.

But the speed of his run let the cold air rush over her body, and, with little to cover herself, she had to draw back into him to try and ward it off. Not that he took much issue with her closeness, at least now, that the scent of her hair, of her skin, filled his senses, stirring in him a desire he’d not felt in a long time—if ever before.

She seemed tense, he could feel it written all over her body. There was something she was dreading about what she was to face when she reached her family again, and he knew it. But what? What could she have done that was so bad, she feared her own family might not forgive her for it? He struggled to believe that someone like her could have caused so much harm…

He brushed the thought aside—a foolish notion, and he knew it. If he had taken the way people looked at face value, judged them purely on their beauty and grace, he’d not have lasted long as a Laird. Her elegance, her soft, slim body, the curve of her waist against his arms, none of it meant anything. Not truly.

Nor the fact that she seemed to fit into his arms as though she had been made for him. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road ahead, as the sight of the village made its way into view. It was nothing more than a small farming town, one of the handful that filled out his land, a collection of small houses surrounding an inn which looked as though it had stood there longer than the hills, judging by the frayed stonework that covered the falls. Several large hills sat ominously on the horizon, draped in a low fog that could have contained any number of creatures or men alike.

There were a handful of lights glowing against the dimming sky, and he knew the inn would be warm and safe. Perhaps he would even earn a flask of ale for the trouble of bringing her back after she had fled.

He slowed Finch to a canter and then a trot as they approached the inn, and he noticed how she drew back into him, pushing herself against his chest as though trying to lose herself there, to hide out from whatever was waiting for her inside. He hesitated for a moment, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue. He knew he could have offered her a chance to leave.

He hopped off the horse and offered her a hand to help her down. She hesitated for a moment before she slipped her small palm into his, allowing him to aid her off the horse. For a moment, the two of them stood there, a few yards from the inn, and she clutched on to him as though she could scarcely bear to let go. Her eyes bored into his, and he felt a stir of protectiveness rise through him—a ridiculous thought. She could have been a spy or a trespasser, any number of villainous plans in that pretty little head of hers, and just because she was looking at him like that didn’t mean he had to give in.

“Ye’re ready?” he demanded gruffly, pulling his hand back sharply. She seemed a little shocked by the tone of his voice, but then gestured down to what she was wearing.

“I can’t go in like this,” she pointed out. He’d hardly thought of that, but she was right. They’d make all kinds of assumptions about what he had done to her if she walked in wearing his clothes, and he knew better than to cause more trouble than he likely already had. He grimaced.

“Stay here,” he ordered her. “I’ll find yer father. What does he look like?”

“He’s… a plump little man,” she replied, and he almost laughed at the tone to her voice. “And I’m sure he’ll be angry…”

“Angry, aye?” he remarked, sounding amused, as though the mere thought of him being angry was entertaining.

“Yes, and he’s a very… powerful man,” she added, finding herself slightly defensive, though she didn’t know why. “You should be careful?—"

A chuckle escaped his lips.

“I’ve handled far worse than him over the years, lass.”

He eyed her for a long moment.

“Put your dress back on,” he ordered her. “And come in behind me. I dinnae need them thinking I took yer honor out there.”

“Oh…?” she murmured, and then the reality of what he was saying seemed to hit her. “Oh!”

Her cheeks flushed a little pink, and she averted her gaze, clearly not quite able to wrap her head around the notion of what he was proposing. He, himself, was doing his best not to consider it either, for he could all too clearly imagine what her naked body would have looked like if they laid together, the softness of her skin. Though he did his best not to linger on it, he could still picture the way the water had clung to her pale neck, like dew on a flower in the morning.

He turned his back to her, gritting his teeth, forcing those images from his mind. He hardly knew this girl, this Sassenach and, soon enough, he’d be rid of her. There was no point allowing his imagination to get the better of him.

The inn before them was buzzing with activity already. He wondered, briefly, if her family had sent forth scouts to try and find her, but he brushed that thought aside at once. The land was difficult to navigate at the best of times, let alone the woods where she had decided to lose herself. He could imagine it would have been all too easy for them to get lost out there, and most of the sensible men would have declined the offer outright.

“What’s yer name?” he asked her, as it suddenly struck him that he had no idea how to address her.

“Why does it matter to you?”

He smirked. She had a fair fire to her, he had to admit that, and he admired that she was so sharp in the way she spoke to him. There were many who did everything they could to grovel at his feet, intent on getting on his good side and proving that they were worthy of his benevolence. He always found himself with much more respect for those who spoke bluntly.

“Amelia.”

She finally blurted the word out, and he tested it inside his head. Amelia . Yes, it seemed to suit her, the sound of the word, like the rush of a river over rocks.

He glanced around, to see her having slipped the dress on beneath his cloak. Though it was still slightly damp, and clung to the outline of her breasts in a way he couldn’t ignore, he jerked his head towards the inn.

“Come, lass. Keep yer kin waiting no longer.”

She bristled slightly at his tone, and it was clear that she was far from used to being told what to do, especially by the likes of him. But, seemingly already resigned to her fate, she dropped her chin to her chest, and allowed him to lead her through the doors.

Inside, the place was warm and bright, full of chatter and conversation. A few glanced up when Arran stepped inside, though most of them, knowing what was best for them, averted their gazes again just as quickly. Arran scanned the room for someone who matched the description of her father, and, sure enough, he spotted a man barely taller than his chest and about as round as an acorn standing in conversation with another person. The man he was talking to was clearly a local, with a heavy drape of tartan over his shoulders, the creases around his eyes speaking to a life that had been lived long and hard.

All at once, the noise in the inn fell away, silence suddenly settling in around them. He noticed that everyone seemed to have turned to look at him—no, not at him, behind him. He glanced around, and sure enough, there she was; Amelia, standing just a few yards away from him. Her jaw was set tight, and her chin was raised, as though daring anyone here to say something to her.

He glanced back towards the man she had identified as her father and, sure enough, his face had paled to a sallow gray at the sight of her. Her sisters hung in the back with her mother, clearly having been warned to keep their distance from her. His thinning hair was a mess, as though he had been running his hands through it non-stop, and his green eyes, the same as Lily’s, were pinned to her with a rage she wasn’t sure she had ever seen before. As the quiet hung in the air of the inn, he stalked towards her, his expression twisting into utter disgust. Arran, without thinking, moved to stand beside her; though he knew little of what their quarrel was, he didn’t like the thought of leaving this woman to deal with her father alone.

Even though he knew he should have been back on his horse and into the night by now, leaving all of this far behind him.