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

Chapter 10

10

Arran paced around Gregory, his sword levelled to his friend’s, his eyes pinned on the man before him. He should have been focused on their practice duel, but his mind was on the woman he had left at her bedchambers the night before.

He had tossed and turned all night long, wondering if he had done the right thing. Should he have carried her into his bed, taken her as he so longed to? The way she had looked at him, it had been hard for him to tell if she craved it or loathed the very idea of it.

But he was sure that he would not take a woman who did not want him in return. He had nearly lost control when they had been alone together in the carriage, and, had it not been for Gregory’s interference, he might have made her his right then and there.

But he didn’t jump into choices like that without considering whether they were a good idea or not. And he had little in the way of a promise that she wouldn’t vanish as soon as she got the chance. After all, he had all but purchased her from her father. Why on earth would she want to stay with him? Wouldn’t she take a horse and run for the hills as soon as she was able? Leaving him behind, as so many people had in the past already?

Gregory darted towards him, and their swords came together in a clash of metal, the earsplitting sound filling the Keep’s main hall. Arran, almost on instinct, managed to deflect Gregory’s attack, but Gregory used a skilled maneuver to knock the sword from his hand, sending it clattering to the ground loudly. Gregory darted towards him, lifting his fist and feinting a punch against Arran’s jaw—letting him know that he had won, without causing him any harm, a long-practiced skill from when the two of them had been but boys.

“Where’s yer head?” Gregory demanded with his usual bluntness, as Arran went to pick up his sword again. Though both of them were skilled swordsmen and had been for a long time, they still practiced with each other regularly, a chance for Arran to turn off the usually racing thoughts in his mind, and focus on something more immediate.

“Nowhere ye’d like to come.”

“Aye, I’ll be the judge of that,” Gregory replied, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing Arran with open curiosity. “What are you thinking of?”

Normally, Arran would have been quick to cut off any line of questioning that went further than he wanted it to. He was a private man, almost painfully so, and he wasn’t afraid to enforce those rules on anyone around him.

But Gregory was different. Always had been, and, Arran suspected, always would be. The two of them had grown up together, and it gave Gregory a stark insight into Arran’s mind that nobody else had. He could tell when the other man was pondering on something serious, when something had drawn his attention, when something had wriggled under his skin to cause him discomfort.

It had been a boon to the two of them when they had been boys. They had often gone out hunting together, and their ability to communicate without speaking had been an enormous help in the quiet tracking of a stag who had evaded the capture of everyone else in the clan for weeks. They had spent two full days carefully tracking its path through the forest, keeping their distance until they were sure they could safely get a shot off each. They had fired into its neck, their arrows piercing its hide at almost the same instant and sending it dropping to the ground, dead, before it even knew what was happening. When they had carried it back to the Keep together, Arran could remember the looks on the faces of the older men, and the sense of accomplishment that had flooded through him for the first time he could remember.

Though Gregory had found far more comfort in the arms of women than Arran ever had, they remained close, even now. Arran, as the Laird, relied on Gregory to pass on to him the truth of what was going on in the Keep and the surrounding villages. As Laird, there was only so much that his people would tell him, grumbling to themselves in order to stay on his good side, but Gregory could find out the truth with ease. Even if their complaints were, sometimes, that Gregory had been bedding their loving wives.

“Is it her?” Gregory asked him. He hardly needed to expand on whom he was talking about. There was only one woman he would have mentioned to Arran, and that was his new wife, who seemed to have stayed hidden in her bedchambers for the entire day. Arran wished he knew what she was thinking, how she felt after their wedding. Had she been horrified to be known as his wife? Or had she craved more, as he had? He could have asked her outright, but he got the feeling that she would have hidden the truth from him. It was clear from the way she had performed around her father that she was intent on doing what she believed was the right thing, and he didn’t want her to give herself to him if that was the only reason why.

“It’s her,” Gregory remarked, answering his own question. “And why, if I may ask, are you no’ with her right now? Enjoying your first night together as man and wife?”

Arran shot Gregory a look, letting him know that the question was not up for debate. Gregory chuckled, shaking his head.

“I can think of a fair few men who’d like to take a pretty little English rose to bed, if you’ve got some issue with it.”

“It’s no’ that.”

“Then what is it?”

He fell silent, catching his breath, hardly able to bring himself to look at his friend. Gregory stared at him, waiting impatiently for an answer.

And that, of course, was when he came out with it.

“She’s not like her, Arran. Ye ken that, don’t you?”

Arran paused for a moment. Some part of him wanted to protest, but he could not find it in him to argue, even after all that he had already been through. Yes, Amelia might not have been like her, but that wasn’t to mean that she was entirely free from the weight of the doubts that he had carried in his mind for so long.

Before he could muster up a response, someone cleared their throat behind them. He flashed around, the sword catching the light for a moment before he gathered himself.

And there she was. Amelia. As though he had managed to conjure her by the very force of his imagination. She stood before him, her long hair pulled back into a heavy braid at the back of her head, her eyes pinned on his. Beside her stood Effie. He’d heard that the two of them had grown friendly in the short time she had been there, and he supposed it made sense, what with the two of them being roughly around the same age, even if he knew that was all she had in common with the servant girl.

Her eyes, as they met his, were difficult to read. He raised his eyebrows at her, silently telling her to speak.

“I need to talk to you,” she told him, her voice slightly nervous. Was she still so fearful of him? He wished he could wipe that from her mind, but he knew it would be far from simple. As far as she was concerned, he had snatched her away from everything that she had known all her life. Although he had kept her from the clutches of the man who had wanted to marry her, he could not imagine that a person like him would have made for much of a better prospect.

He slid his blade back into the sheath at his side. He could feel Gregory looking at him, but he ignored him pointedly. He was sure there was plenty more Gregory would have to say about all of this, but he didn’t need his friend’s commentary in that moment.

No, this was between them, husband and wife.

“Effie, Gregory, leave us,” he ordered, his voice sharp. Gregory chuckled, but did as he was told, and Effie dropped into a slight curtsy before she made her way to the door of the great hall.

Just like that, it was only the two of them. It was the first time they had been alone together since he had left her in her bedchambers on her wedding night, and he had to admit, there seemed to be a heavier weight between them now than there had been then. He lifted his chin, eyeing her for a long moment, silently indicating that she could speak whenever she was ready.

“What is it, lass?” he demanded.

“I want to see my family. My sisters.”

She threw it back at him like a market trader negotiating a price. He bristled. If she thought he was going to let her walk out of here when he had only just found a way to keep her in these walls, she had another thing coming.

“And why do ye think ye need that?”

“Because they’re my family,” she shot back. Her tone was clipped, her accent coming through more strongly than it had before, as though she was doing her best to remind him that she’d had a life before this, before him, an existence and a family that had nothing to do with what was happening here.

He shook his head, taking a step towards her. Visions filled his mind; of her, fleeing from the Keep and never coming back, leaving him behind before he’d even had a chance to make her his. No. He refused.

“This is yer home now,” he reminded her. “And yer family.”

She shook her head, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She was so small, they looked almost comical on her, instead of threatening.

“I deserve to see them. I’ve been here for?—”

Before he could stop himself, he reached out to catch her wrist, his fingers closing around her arm tightly. He could not let her go. He refused.

“Ye’ll stay,” he replied. Her breath hitched in her throat. Was she scared, or was it something else? The expression on her face made it nearly impossible for him to tell the difference. He wondered if she was even able to, either.

Because, as he stood there before her, staring back at her, he found himself torn between anger and a lust so intense he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to control it.