Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Grant thought that Emma would look down or try to flee again. He did anticipate her gazing back at him, not with such fearlessness. He felt a tug in his belly, and he pressed his hands harder against the wall as he watched her blue eyes dance with an impishness that he wanted to taste and a curiosity he wanted to satisfy.

When she bit her lip lightly, he almost groaned. He leaned down further, but then he stopped, jerking back when he noted the tremble in her limbs.

Damn it all to hell.

He’d been trained to be observant—how could he not see for all that Emma was aroused, she was also terrified? The color had left her cheeks, and her shoulders drew in.

Och, lass.

Swallowing hard, Grant pushed off the wall and took a step back. He thought to take her hands but somehow stopped himself.

Madness and more madness. If she flees ? —

If she fled, he would let her go and ship her straight back to England in the morning. He could not keep playing this game, even if this felt like his last chance to prove that he wasn’t like his father.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

That was it, wasn’t it? Deep down, Grant feared that his future wife would be as remote and grief-stricken as his mother yet she would valiantly try to hide it.

But this fearless English lass, with her quick laughter and bright eyes, seemed to soothe the darkness inside him. He knew it was not fair to ask Emma Wells for help. But why else would Providence put her in his path?

To test me.

For, was this not something the old Laird would have done? Take without asking?

Suddenly, Grant heard a soft exhale, and he started as though it was the thunk of an arrow. He blinked, unsure what to make of the woman studying him.

Ye stayed, Emma. Ye could’ve fled…

“Why am I here, then?” Emma asked, and he noted the slight tremor in her lips. “Seven nights—what does that mean, My Laird?”

Call me Grant, he almost said, but he shook himself.

“Seven nights to teach me how to woo me English bride,” he said. “Seven nights where ye must spend time with me and help me become less… intimidatin’.” He wanted to cup her face in his hand. “When I found ye in those woods and realized who ye were, I saw me future. I saw me intended fleeing Banrose and then caught by villains.”

Her lips parted as she absorbed that and stepped back, clasping her hands together. “Oh…” she murmured. “I-I see that now.” Her gaze rose to his with a softness that made him step back. “I am deeply moved by your consideration, My Laird.”

Grant frowned slightly and folded his arms across his chest.

That wasnae a yes, lass.

Emma, though, seemed distracted, and he wondered what thoughts raced through her mind. She lifted her clasped hands to her lips, meditating, and Grant’s heart throbbed. He took another small step back.

Damn this lovely, distracting thing.

“So, when you said that you did not want to marry me, you meant it,” she said. “But you are also promised to another, under the Queen’s Edict?” Her blue eyes met his. “Yes?”

Grant nodded, and she let out a long exhale.

Silence fell over them for a moment.

Grant was about to ask her again when she spoke. “How did you know that I was also bound by it?”

He gave her a look, weighing his words before he said, “The way ye speak didnae do ye any favors when we first met, Emma. Nor yer manners or the way ye hold yerself. Nay matter how shabby yer raiment was.” He paused. “I imagine it would’ve been the same for the lady hidden away in the Craeghil Convent.”

Grant had indeed sought out McWirthe and gotten more of the story from him.

It turned out that Lady MacLarsen was indeed the long-lost daughter of the Earl of Cumbria and Fairisle Lakes. What a cruel bastard to do that to his own kin, and a superstitious fool.

While Grant respected the land and the woods, he did not believe in changelings and witchcraft.

Nay, he’d spent too much time with the kindly old women of this world, who patched him up on the road or gave him food. He’d also sat at the tables of common folk, hearing their tales, laughter, and songs. Sometimes, he even thought he should thank his father for letting him experience the richness of life.

Until he set off again, to earn his keep as MacCabe’s Blade.

“It made no sense.” The hitch in Emma’s voice snapped him out of his brooding. He stepped forward, but she did not seem to notice. “Why did my father do such a thing? How could he hide it?” She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. “I did not know she existed… did not know she would have to take my place.”

This time, his hand betrayed him and rested on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. She did not seem to notice at first, but then she glanced at it, at him, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Grant’s heart sank, and he felt a murderous rage toward the cunning old Earl. The English called them brutal, savages, and yet look at how they treated their own kin. He hated this—hated that they were both trapped, that she was fighting back tears, and that he could do nothing to comfort her.

Or maybe he could try. “Laird MacLarsen?—”

“The Beast of Briorn,” Emma cut in, with great bitterness. “Yes, I know the name.”

Grant put his other hand on her other shoulder, his temper flaring as he thought of the stern Laird MacLarsen, masked and terrifying to fools. But to anyone with sense and eyes, the man had a noble streak that spanned the world.

“Ye ken nothin’, lass. Ye prove that every time ye speak—and every time ye try to run.” He leaned down. “If ye ask me, ye shouldnae have run. Laird MacLarsen—the Beast of Briorn—isnae half as bad as I am, the Devil of Banrose.”

Emma shoved him back, and he let go of her. “I know enough,” she spat. “Why do you think I ran? And how can he be better if he married some poor novice, Lady or not, who grew up to be a holy woman?” She straightened. “I will not help you trick some poor Englishwoman.” Her eyes hardened. “Not that I think I can teach a brute to be a gentleman.”

“Careful, lass,” Grant snarled, his temper spiking even more. The spoiled, impertinent, ungrateful minx. “Maybe I shall take ye to MacLarsen and let him deal with ye.”

“Do it,” Emma scoffed. “I just saw you kill a man. How could I ever teach you not to intimidate a lady?”

Ye seem to be doin’ just fine .

“Ye ken that this isnae the way to thank me for savin’ yer hide, Emma,” he drawled instead.

She flinched at the mention of her name, and Grant felt it like a blade to the throat. But he pressed on.

“Ye dinnae have a choice. Nae when ye’re here, on me lands, at Banrose’s pleasure. Ye will help me.”

Emma’s eyes glittered like a frozen sea. “I will not . And you will let me go tomorrow morning—send me back to England and stop this farce.”

Grant’s patience snapped, and he prowled forward, his hands twitching at his sides. He thought Emma would run, but this impossible creature also marched forward and glared up at him.

For a moment, they glared at each other, and Grant was not sure what he would do or say.

Then, in a smooth voice that surprised himself, still low but less hoarse than usual, he said, “Are ye offerin’ to take yer fellow Englishwoman’s place, then, Emma?”

She sucked in a breath and went to step back, but he caught her chin.

“How verra gracious of ye. I didnae realize the English could be so generous—even after ye declared ye wouldnae help me.”

For a wild moment, Grant thought she might say yes, and his blood roared with triumph. And when had they gotten so close? He could see the darker blue around her pupils, the sensual curve of her eyelashes?—

“No,” she gritted out, even though something in her expression seemed to falter. Grant let her go. “I suppose you are right. I apologize, My Laird .”

Suddenly, Grant felt as though he were standing on a ship, with a storm growling overhead and waves crashing against the bow. His stomach churned, and he almost wanted to take back his words, to apologize as well, but he swallowed them. At the same time, he felt a ripple of amusement at her impudent use of his title.

Offering her an exaggerated nod and putting a hand to his chest, he said, “I accept such a humble offer, Lady Emma Wells. Would ye join me for dinner at seven o’clock tomorrow evening to continue our discussion?”

She did not answer, but merely gave an exaggerated nod in return, and Grant struggled not to roll his eyes.

“Wear something else, lass, if ye please,” he added, just to needle her. “Dressing gowns are hardly appropriate for gently bred ladies, even in the barbaric wilds of the north.”

As expected, her shoulders rose to her ears, and she glared at him. “I—I do not have any clothes. Everything was stolen on the road.”

Grant swallowed hard, half-wishing she knew what her fiery spirit was doing to him.

“Dinnae tempt me, lass,” he growled, showing a hand in his hair. “Ye shall have yer fancy gowns tomorrow. And good night—get back to bed.”

He started to walk away, then glanced back to see her sticking out her tongue at him.

His jaw dropped. No one in their right mind had ever stuck their tongue out at him since he was a small boy—never mind when he was the Laird or MacCabe’s Blade. At the same time, he suppressed a burst of wild laughter.

Was this lass real? Was her sister the same? Should he write to MacLarsen and ask for advice?

Emma flushed when he did not speak and took a step backward.

He slowly turned around and grinned at her, tilting his head to the side as he purred, “Och, and Emma? I wouldnae let me catch ye out of bed again tonight.”

At that, she spun on her heel and fled, but not before Grant saw the laughter and fury in her eyes.

It was no wonder that when Grant finally made it to his bed, he did not fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning.

And it was no wonder that right before he fell asleep, a certain thought crossed his mind.

I hope it took Emma just as long.