Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Emma knew it was futile, knew she had finally been caught—and by the man she’d barely escaped from before, who now was poised to ruin all her and Helena’s plans—and yet she shouted and kicked at him.

She twisted and flailed, kicking at him. “Let me go.” Emma got one hand free. “I order you?—”

Emma squeaked as a strong arm pinned her against a hard, muscular chest, and her feet kicked helplessly in the air. He caught the hand that swung toward his face. Her eyes darted up, expecting the same snarl she’d seen on the Highlander’s face when she’d left him fighting that horrible big brute, but instead?—

“You dare laugh at me?”

Emma wanted to yell at him, I had to get my stockings wet because of you, but somehow, she resisted. Meanwhile, the Scot shook with amusement, soft chuckles escaping him. Then his hand squeezed her wrist and sent a pleasurable shiver through her.

However, when he set her down, she tried to hit him with her fists. With actual laughable ease, he caught her hands, and gave her a stern look. But his smile betrayed him.

Emma’s mind raced as she stopped fighting, trying to think. What would Helena do? Helena was the reason she and Emma had made it this far. She pictured Helena pacing, her glasses flashing as she looked out the window, and drumming ink-stained fingers on the pane.

Once folks realized that Emma had run a few days before her wedding, word got out that the Queen would reward whoever found her. And so, Emma had spent the past week evading hunters as she tried to get to Helena.

Emma also could not be sure that Matthew Wells had not orchestrated the whole thing—for how else could sketches of her suddenly appear in every town a week ago?

Trying to calm down, Emma made to speak, but the Scot suddenly let her go.

“I can reward you more than the Queen, Sir,” Emma blurted out. She held up her wrist and showed him a fine, diamond-studded bracelet. “This could buy you an entire castle.”

The man stilled and cocked his head, some of the amusement leaving his face. She shivered, waiting. Then, he slowly shook his head, his smile dimming.

And Emma knew she had taken the wrong gamble.

“What—what do you want, then?” she asked through numb lips, even though she suspected she knew the answer.

In response, the Highlander tapped a finger on her nose, and she flinched.

I wanted to catch ye, lass—and I have, she read in his eyes.

“No—no, you don’t,” Emma protested as he took hold of her upper arm and pulled out a length of rope. A strangled squeak escaped her. “Please, the Queen’s Edict is unreasonable, and I would make a poor wife…”

She faltered. Her words tasted like a lie. His green eyes gleamed at her, and she felt a strange flutter in her breast. What had she been saying? Why did he make it so hard to think? Heat rose in her face, and she shook her head.

“I…”

A treacherous little voice whispered in her head, H ave you not wondered what would’ve happened if he caught you?

The Scot’s shoulders relaxed, and his hand with the rope fell. Emma found herself wishing he would speak and tell her what he was thinking in that too-handsome head of his. She had never imagined that—he truly was the comeliest man she’d ever seen.

Would it be so terrible to be his wife?

He took a step toward her, as though he’d heard that thought, and she stumbled backward. She nearly fell, and he caught her, but she wrenched herself free.

“I’m—I’m not sorry I ran.” Liar, liar, liar, whispered that voice in her head. “I can—I’ll do anything. So, please. ” Her voice broke. “Don’t do this.”

The man hesitated, something flashing in his eyes, and Emma remembered then, as she’d made to run away from him the first time, how she’d sensed his inner conflict. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her; he didn’t want to do this—she’d known that in her bones. She even knew it now.

And yet…

Suddenly, he pulled back, standing in front of her. The rope vanished back into his bag, and his hand went to his sword. Emma opened her mouth to speak, but he held out a hand, his entire body radiating awareness as he stared around the woods. A tingle went up Emma’s spine, and then he turned, hauling her over his shoulder and sprinting through the woods.

She barely got out a breath, amazed by his strength and silence, before she heard a distant shout. The Scot tensed up and then began moving faster, and Emma felt a curious burst of fear. Eyes wide, she decided not to scream. Instead, she found herself searching the woods.

Some bandits or those same men who’d attacked him now hunted her as well. Was it those same men from before? Emma was suddenly glad that the Highlander, again, had found her first.

Still, when that feeling had faded and he had gone almost a mile down the coast, now hopelessly far from Helena and the cottage, Emma was seething again. When he put her down, she immediately tried to flee, but he swung her around and backed her up against a tree.

“ Let me go ,” Emma said, as a snarling leopard came to her mind, one she’d once seen as a girl in a menagerie in London. “Now, Highlander.”

The Highlander flashed his pearly white teeth—Emma could not tell whether it was his answering snarl or a grin. His eyes raked across her face and a strange burst of heat ran up her spine. He made a faint Scottish sound in the back of his throat, one that sounded satisfied.

Then, Emma found herself being forced to walk, with one of his big arms around her waist.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked now, even though she suspected it was yet another question she asked in vain.

Why won’t you speak?

And why was she so curious to hear his voice?

Again, the Scot did not answer. Emma swallowed hard. Perhaps he was taking her somewhere to do something terrible.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, and he shot her a surprised look.

Something flashed in the man’s eyes, and his jaw clenched, and he jabbed his hand ahead of them. Emma’s eyes followed his finger, and she blinked several times. A large, rambling building stood on a small hill, a plume of smoke rising against the pink sky.

“A tavern? You think this is the time to break bread, Sir?”

The Highlander snorted and began walking again. His grip on her was slightly looser, so Emma could have wrenched herself free. But she did not.

Instead, Emma let this man bring her to the tavern. Inside, it was warm and well-lit, almost surreal after her panicked run through the woods. Meanwhile, the domestic scene seemed to heighten the wicked threat that hung around the Highlander like a heavy fur cloak on a king.

More than one patron bobbed their head in a nervous show of respect, and a heavyset man mopping at his forehead offered them a soft “Good morning. Welcome to Morgana’s Table and Tavern.”

The Highlander led Emma to a round table near a window that overlooked the rolling hills and rising sun. Then he pushed her gently toward a chair, and then took up his own, shoving it around so that his back faced the wall. Then, he made a gesture with his hand, and immediately, the tavern man, who’d been bobbing along in their wake, hurried off.

Emma watched him go, then looked at her Highlander. His gaze roved through the room until he noticed her staring. At that, he offered her another one of those slow and smoldering smiles, and then—of all things—a wink.

Outraged, Emma was about to rise from the table when two barmaids appeared next to them, setting plates of food and drink on the table. Emma, used as she was to the fine meals at her parents’ manor, gaped at the feast in front of them. Eggs, meats, breads, treats, and a tankard of ale.

A barmaid poured her coffee, then murmured, “Please let us know if you need anything else.”

Emma forced herself to nod as they hurried off, casting nervous looks over their shoulder. When Emma looked to the Highlander, she noted his face was serious, yet she also suspected he was fighting a smile.

“Thank you,” she said, wondering if perhaps she was the mad one.

Yet, some deeper instinct would not let her fear this man. Or—as her stomach growled then—perhaps she was just starving.

When she looked back, the two barmaids had fled.

Does he even notice how afraid people are of him? Is he pretending not to? Emma watched him prepare a plate of food. Or does he want them to?

Emma swallowed hard, as she suspected it was the latter. About to demand again that he tell her why she was here—and who on earth he was—he suddenly placed the plate of food in front of her.

“For—for me?” she blurted out, and he nodded. “Why?”

It was the briefest of moments, less than the span of a breath, but Emma thought she saw his eyes soften, and a star seemed to burst in her chest, showering her with dizzying, diamond-like sparks.

Then he looked away and Emma was sure she must have imagined it. She chided herself for being so foolish. And with nothing else for it, she tucked in. She could plot better on a full stomach.

Maybe I can still make it.

The food did revive her, but the longer she sat there, the more her body and heart ached. All that effort, all the running and plotting to get to the coast, and she was here instead.

Emma looked down as tears burned in her eyes and exhaustion washed over her.

When she looked back up, the man had taken her plate and put more food on it. Then, he poured her more ale and pushed it toward her. Emma, who preferred delicate teas, shook her head, and the man’s lips twitched.

“I couldnae believe it when Clyde said ye had a lass with ye, but here ye are, Me Laird.”

Emma froze, watching the Highlander watch her, his lips quirking up into a smile, and all she could feel was her heart drumming as rapidly in her chest as it had during her sprint through the woods. Part of her almost swore that he could feel it, too, and that he was savoring her reaction.

You are a laird?

He inclined his head, clearly reading the question in her eyes, and then turned to the curvy, matronly redhead, who was nearly as tall as him, beaming down at them.

“Mornin’, lass. I’m Morgana, and this is me place. ‘Tis nice to meet ye. Though ye are a bit disheveled, hm?” She winked. “Have yerself a night, then?”

“No, no,” Emma said, flushing at the woman’s implications. “Nothing of the sort.”

Meanwhile, the Laird raised an eyebrow.

“Och, Ronson, dinnae mock the poor thing.” The redheaded matron gently slapped his shoulder, then spoke in rapid Gaelic.

The Laird furrowed his brow and stood up, nodding once.

Someone called Morgana’s name, and she sighed and waved a hand before she hurried off, leaving them alone again.

Emma shoved back her chair and stood up too. “You are a laird?”

The Highlander dipped his head in a slow nod, and a different kind of smile spread across his face as he stepped closer. One that Emma didn’t like, for it was cold and shadowed by the glint in his eyes. Then it was gone, and he tilted his head to the side as though asking, Now, ye ken why I shall nae let ye run off again?

Emma almost nodded. Her vision seemed clearer now, and she wondered how she had not seen it before. For all the danger he exuded, all the wild, she saw it now. He held himself like a King.

“What—what do you want with me?” A harsh breath escaped her lips. “Do you mean to marry me, then?”

At that, he seemed slightly surprised and shook his head.

Laird Ronson released her, and she felt dazed, relieved and terrified. If he didn’t mean to marry her, then what did he intend to do with her?

Emma’s legs tensed up as though preparing to run. The Laird’s eyebrows flew up, and the green of his eyes began to dance with unholy amusement, as though daring her to.

Lifting her chin, Emma said, “What, do you need a pianoforte player, then?” She tossed her head. “I suppose you’ve heard that I am quite good.”

The man’s lips pressed together, and a dimple popped in one cheek, but he shook his head solemnly.

Emma felt a strong urge to kick him in the shin. “Tell me, then. For…”

What good am I to a laird?

At that moment, a wicked voice seemed to whisper in her mind, A wife.

She flinched and shook her head.

No, he’d shaken his head. He did not want to wed her—but he wanted something. So, Emma stepped forward, mustering what courage she had left. Reaching out, knowing she was crossing a line, she took Laird Ronson’s hand.

After all, had he not held her already? Had he not saved her life? Surely, such proprieties had fallen wayside in this strange place they found themselves.

“I beg of you, Laird Ronson. I’ll do anything if you help me escape the Queen’s Edict.” She bowed her head. “Anything.”