Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“I am goin’ nowhere with ye,” Amelia Black stated, her voice ringing louder and more assertive than Jack had anticipated.

He looked down at her, his curiosity piqued. He had not known what to expect from the sister of Noah Black, Laird MacAllen, but this woman had caught him off guard.

She was tall, willowy, with a cascade of golden curls that framed her face like a halo. Yet, it was her eyes that truly captivated him and held his attention—strikingly green, they reminded him of the deep, untouched forests where he would hunt. They held a fire, a defiance that he had not seen in any woman before.

And here I thought she would be hideous.

He had been prepared for her to look less… captivating, given how sheltered and hidden away she had been. In fact, he had not even known that Laird MacAllen had a sister until their meeting. He was pleasantly surprised to find her so bonny.

She might have been the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Amelia looked up at him, her fists clenched at her sides, her body poised in a defiant stance despite her shaking. Yes, he knew she was afraid of him, that much was clear, but her spirit… her spirit was fierce.

“I willnae go with ye,” she repeated firmly.

“Is this some kind of trick?” Noah demanded as he stepped in front of his sister, blocking her from Jack’s view.

This annoyed Jack more than he cared to admit, but he did not move nor bat an eyelash at the motion.

“‘Tis nae a trick,” he replied evenly, his tone matter-of-fact. “It would be an adjustment for her, and it would do her good to ken her lands—and her husband before the wedding.”

Noah’s brow furrowed, his gaze sharp with skepticism, but it was Amelia who spoke. She stepped around her brother, her eyes narrowed as she met Jack’s gaze. “Ye cannae be serious with such?—”

“‘Tis nae a debate,” Jack told her. “I willnae waver.”

“So, ye expect me to live with ye before we are even wed?”

Jack nodded.

It made sense to him, to establish some form of rapport that was not built on sheer terror alone. And he had no doubt that Amelia had been told so much about him, none of it good.

She, herself, could be just as much of a threat to him as he could be to her. Though, there were far worse threats looming on the horizon than a marriage alliance, and being enemies with his wife would benefit no one.

“And ye think this will earn ye me trust?” Amelia asked.

She stepped closer to him, her face upturned to meet his eyes. Though she was shorter than him, she carried herself in a way that made him wonder just who he had agreed to wed.

“Careful, lass. Ye’re mistaken.” he said calmly, refusing to look away. “‘Tis ye who must gain me trust.”

Her eyes narrowed further, and she stepped closer still, a brave step. She was so close that he could see the golden flecks in her pupils. There was a boldness to her, a courage he did not know many men to even carry, and yet here she was.

The image of pulling her close flashed in his mind, unexpected and unbidden. Jack was quick to blink it away before tilting his head to the side, feeling the subtle tug at the corner of his lips. He did not smile though, his face remained the stony wall he had always managed to maintain.

She opened her mouth, likely to hurl insults that no lady ought to speak, but her brother interrupted, his voice firm. “Ye will go with him, Amelia. Ye dinnae want today to turn into a bloodshed.”

As his words sank in, her brow creased, and she appeared almost… hurt. Jack found that he could not blame her. She stepped back from him, a flush rising to her cheeks as she turned to face her brother.

She stared at him for a few moments before saying, “Very well.”

Amelia looked over her shoulder at Jack once more, her expression almost blank. Almost. There was a hint of sorrow in those forest-green eyes, and her mouth appeared tight.

“I will go with ye, but I should like to speak to me braither first. Privately. ”

Jack nodded. It was a fair request. Without another word, he turned his back to them both and started for the stream. Each step away had him wondering just what was being said, but he did not bother to look back.

Ahead of him, Hamish slid from his horse and approached. “Well?”

He willnae like it.

Jack’s frown deepened as he stood across the stream from his man-at-arms. Hamish Stewart had been his closest friend, much like a brother to him, and he was bold enough to give his opinions—even when not wanted.

“She will be comin’ with us.”

Hamish did not mask his surprise; it crossed his face like a shadow over the moor. He shifted from one foot to the other and tilted his head, glancing past Jack to where Laird MacAllen and his sister stood talking.

He said nothing more of it, but it was clear from his expression that the very idea offended him. Jack could not blame his reluctance. After all, Hamish had suffered greatly at the hands of Clan MacAllen—losses that would likely never be forgotten and scars too deep to heal. But despite it all, Jack knew that Hamish’s loyalty would not waver.

Scanning the rest of his men, Jack frowned. “We leave soon.”

“Very well.” Hamish nodded, turning away and starting for the group.

Jack took a deep breath and then returned his focus to Amelia and Laird MacAllen. They were approaching him now. Amelia led a dusty mare by the reins, her posture rigid, and the set of her jaw firm.

Flames danced in her eyes, contained by duty and little else. As they approached, the heat from her gaze did not fade; she held his gaze until they were paces apart.

“I will have her things sent to Dougal Castle.” Noah’s voice broke the charged silence.

There was a new tension that Jack felt between the siblings. Just what did they talk about?

Amelia remained silent, and her expression turned surprisingly unreadable. With fluid grace, she hoisted herself into the saddle, the mare shifting slightly beneath her. Without a word or a backward glance at her brother, she urged her horse forward.

Jack watched as she crossed the stream with her head held high.

Hours. It had been hours since they had left the meadow. The sun had since dipped and faded into the horizon, replaced by a near-full moon. Its silvery light guided her along the worn road, with Laird Dougal at her side.

Behind them, the other men followed closely, and Amelia could feel their eyes boring into her back, their stares heavy. She did not have to look behind her to know that many, if not all, harbored resentment or distrust towards her—after all, she was a MacAllen amidst Dougals.

Every muscle in her body ached and howled in protest. More than once, the thought of urging Lily to bolt and fleeing into the night crossed her mind. But reality sank in each time. It was as harsh as the saddle beneath her; if the woods and the darkness did not claim her, she was sure Laird Dougal would.

Amelia’s entire body tensed up as Laird Dougal urged his horse closer, his hand reaching for her in the darkness. It took her a moment to see the glint of metal in his hand, but she quickly realized that he was holding a flask.

Despite her thirst, she hesitated. Accepting a drink from him felt oddly personal, a barrier crossed. Still, his words pushed her.

“We have another few hours, ye will thank me for it later.” His voice was flat, detached.

Frowning slightly, she took the flask, and she shivered as their fingers brushed for the briefest of moments. It was a spark against the cool night.

Amelia wasted no time taking a small sip. The whiskey burned down her throat, the burn strangely comforting. Taking a larger gulp before handing it back, she muttered a quiet “thanks.”

In the dark, she could make out his movements just barely. Laird Dougal tucked the flask into his jacket breast pocket and then made a soft clicking sound to his horse.

“Ye ride well,” he observed casually.

“Aye.” Amelia nodded, unsure if it was meant as a compliment or simply a fact.

She was confident on her horse. Lily had been hers for nearly a decade, and their daily rides had forged a bond and familiarity. And to think, her brother had insisted on her taking a carriage to the meeting spot. She was grateful, more than she could express, that she had refused.

She swallowed hard, not daring to let thoughts of Noah creep into her mind. The words he had said to her before she had left him there in the meadow were fresh wounds, and she did not want to think of them again.

“Do ye need to rest?” Laird Dougal’s question caught her off guard.

Is he concerned?

“We will rest ahead!” he called out, not waiting for her answer.

Amelia, admittedly, was relieved. She did need a rest, a long one preferably. As they had ridden, she tried to convince herself that she was fine and well, but riding through the night with an enemy clan was much more work than a casual ride along the seaside.

Soon, they came to a loch. The moon above was reflected in the water, which shimmered like a thousand silverfish at the surface. Amelia let out a breath and looked onwards. Beyond the water was the base of a mountain.

I hope we arenae goin’ over that.

Dismounting proved to be a challenge as her legs protested and seized, but somehow, she managed to get her feet on the ground. Amelia grimaced, pain shooting through her as she let out a low hiss. Thankfully, the sound was masked by the murmur of the waves lapping at the shore.

Laird Dougal was already at the water’s edge, guiding his horse for a drink. His frame was silhouetted by the moonlight, his dark features shadowed even more against the silver glow. Amelia did not allow herself to look at him much longer. Instead, she turned her sights to the men around them.

They all dismounted, stretching and talking quietly amongst themselves. Some tended to their horses, others shot Amelia the dirtiest of looks. There was no set of eyes in particular that seemed to despise her most, it was a collective effort and one she felt entirely through her core. Quickly, she turned away from them all.

They already hate me, and yet I am to be their Lady.

Her face flushed at the thought, her mind racing. Everything about this made her stomach churn and her heart beat faster. Even without seeing the other men, she knew that they were speaking quietly about her.

The only one who did not seem to despise her was Laird Dougal, but even then, she could not be sure. She had never met anyone to be so expressionless, so completely devoid of emotion. Even his voice was a flat tone, unwavering and firm. For all she knew, he could loathe her completely, and she would be none the wiser.

He had been right about one thing though—she was inwardly thanking him for the whiskey. Without it, she was sure she would be even more miserable.

Amelia shifted from one foot to the other, stretching her legs and feeling the taut muscles protest. She may not be one to swim, but admittedly, the water of the loch looked quite inviting, and she could imagine herself soaking in the shimmering glow of the moon.

“‘Tis nae much longer,” Laird Dougal said as he moved to her side.

Amelia was once again made aware of his size. She was tall for a lass. Most men did not have to look down at her, but he towered over her with ease. Her head barely seemed to reach his shoulder.

Stealing a sidelong glance, she could not help but wonder about her soon-to-be husband. She had been told much about him, about his savagery and his thirst for blood, and those thoughts lingered in the forefront of her mind as she took in his appearance.

The glow of the moonlight bathed his face, revealing a strong jaw and chin. His skin was surprisingly smooth, save for the new stubble that had framed his face. Amelia wondered if he had shaved to meet her. She wondered how her fingers would feel against his cheeks and…

Heat rose to her chest, and immediately, she turned away from him. She stared at the ground, wide-eyed as she cursed herself for letting such thoughts stir in her mind.

He was handsome, anyone with a set of eyes could see, but he was a monster . How many MacAllen men had he killed? How often had he imagined her brother’s head detached from his shoulders?

Amelia swallowed hard.

“‘Tis time,” he stated, his voice low but carrying to everyone.

Amelia moved to the side of her horse, gritting her teeth as she reached for the saddle. Hoisting herself up, she let out a not-so-quiet curse as her legs seized and ached. Determined, she tried again, nearly stumbling backward.

He moved quickly, so quickly that she did not have the chance to react or even think. Amelia felt his hands, large and firm, grip her waist as he lifted her. At first, she didn’t know what to do—she didn’t know what Laird Dougal was doing either, but then the realization dawned on her. She eased her way into her saddle, with his help, although quite awkwardly.

“Th-thank ye,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

If Laird Dougal heard her, he did not bother to respond.

She watched as he pulled himself onto his own horse with ease, his movements fluid and effortless. With a gentle kick and a soft clicking sound of his tongue against his teeth, his horse started onwards. Amelia watched, frozen in place, as he started along the shoreline.

One by one, his men fell in behind them, and she could feel their eyes, much like daggers, between her shoulders. She tried to ignore them, to imagine they were not there at all, but it proved nearly impossible.

They rode slower than before, and she wondered if it was for her own benefit. She could not complain, she was grateful to not push herself harder than she had to, and the lack of sleep was slowly creeping into her senses. Amelia longed for a warm bed, a hot cup of broth, and sleep.

But more than that, she longed for home.

Each step of her horse was a step further away from Carraig a’ Chuain . And she found herself wondering if she would ever return at all. Amelia glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she could somehow manage to escape and evade the men around her.

“I dinnae wish to hunt ye down.” The low growl jolted her.

Amelia turned quickly to face the Laird, hoping that her thoughts were not so easily readable on her face—but of course, they were. She could feel that he knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was tempted to do.

Perhaps I can outrun him.

Laird Dougal pulled slightly on the reins, urging his horse to ride closer to her own. So close that he could reach out to her if he wished, so close that he might grab her before she even had a chance to take off.

Leaning over the saddle, closer to her, he spoke in a low, rumble of a voice. A voice made of thunder. “I dinnae wish to, but I will. It would be easy.”

And she believed him.