Page 11 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

“Wait,” he said, reaching out to grab her arm before she could put more distance between them. To his surprise, the arm beneath the green silk was not soft, but firm, with a thin curve of muscle that he had never known a woman to have.

She looked down at her arm, where his curious hand still held her, then back up at him with an expression so stiff that he was sure it was only a mask hiding a firestorm of anger. With one quick pull, Margaret broke away from his grip with an ease that even some men couldn’t have accomplished.

“Laird Mackay,” she said, stepping deliberately just out of his reach. “It has been excellent to make your acquaintance. You’ll find your room at the end of this hall.”

Somehow, she made even her curtsey look angry and, with a quick spin on her heels, she finally accomplished storming away. Alexander watched her go, the unexpected firmness of her arm a tingling memory on one hand and the unexpected roughness of her hand—for he was sure now that he hadn’t imagined it—on the other.

Who the hell was Margaret Gunn?

At this point, all Alexander knew for certain about her was that she was unlike any woman he had ever met before. And, to him, that made her perfect.

3

Margaret slammed the door to her room so hard that the painting on the wall shook and slipped from its place, forcing Margaret to rush forward to slap it against the wall before it hit the floor. She glanced up to see Ann holding a basket of laundry, her nose creased as she smiled and tried to contain a laugh.

“So, how is he?” Ann pried while Margaret did her best to put the painting back into place.

“I forgot where the damn kitchens were,” Margaret replied as she took a few cautious steps back from the painting, as if it was now so precarious that her steps would be enough to make it fall for a second time. “He probably thinks I am a bloody fool.”

Ann sputtered a laugh. “I thought that may have been the case.”

Margaret sank herself into the chair, which she now was noting was made of leather. Her uncle must have been her father’s best customer. Since Alexander had pointed it out, she couldn’t help but see leather all throughout the house. In a way, she was grateful to Alexander, for she hadn’t felt her father’s presence so strongly around her since he had passed.

Alexander Mackay had been doing alright for himself until the end. For years, Margaret had heard stories about the cold and ruthless Mackays, and when she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man riding down the hill, she had wondered if it was too late to steal one of her uncle’s Clydesdales and make a retreat back to Thurso. But then, once he had dismounted and stood before her, she hadn’t been so afraid. How could she have been when he quivered before her like a mouse quivered before a cat, unable to stay still or show her a single pinch of confidence? If he was a fearsome warrior, as many said he was, he certainly knew how to hide it.

Margaret hadn’t minded thinking of him as a weaker man. At least she did not fear that sort of a man. She may have even come to care for him in an unromantic sort of a way if he had just kept his mouth shut and not proven to be the sort of noble lad that used his wealth to force relationships.

Isobel should have stayed, Margaret thought to herself. She’d think him perfect.

Ann came over and pressed a goblet of chilled water into her hand and then settled herself beside her. “So, will he do? I must admit, he seemed kind enough. And, if ye do not mind me saying so, he was handsome enough.”

Margaret pursed her lips. Ann’s assessment on his looks were not false. Alexander Mackay may have been one of the more handsome men Margaret had ever laid eyes upon, with brown hair that had been lightened to a point just shy of blond from long days in the sun and clear hazel eyes that looked more golden than brown. Though he was not as broad-shouldered as Rob Fraser, he was just as tall and far lither. And his smile, the few times she dared to look at it, showed off a pair of dimples over a chiseled jawline. They were not, perhaps, the classically impeccable looks that the Greeks would have memorialized in stone, but they were the looks that would make any number of women swoon.

She looked up at Ann, who seemed to know exactly what she was thinking about, and felt her cheeks beginning to burn. “Yes, he is handsome. But I’ll give him no more qualifications to be my husband than that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Margaret started, thinking of their argument in the hallway again with rising anger, “he expects me to be some mewling maid who begs for his noble assistance at every turn.”

“So, he expects Isobel?” Ann replied.

“Aye,” Margaret said, not sure why that made her feel a bit sick to her stomach. She wasn’t planning on letting him rile her this way. “And I am afraid that I am getting his hopes up, for I kept saying things that I imagined Isobel would say whenever he seemed about ready to realize that I am not the Laird’s daughter. But I canna do that forever. I would go mad.”

“As would I,” Ann replied.

“You ken, Gavin never had such expectations. Gavin gave me his own clothes to help me be anything but a silly lass like Isobel, rather than put me in a position where I must be like her.”

Ann sighed. “Why must you compare him to Gavin?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Margaret asked, a bit perplexed that Ann would dismiss the comparisons so quickly. Who else would she compare him to? Alan? That was hardly fair, for Alan made even the most deplorable souls look like angels.

“Because they are different people, Margaret, with different approaches to the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, Gavin—” Ann started before stopping and pressing her hands together. Then, with a deep breath, she restarted. “Look, ye are a merchant’s daughter, both in reality and in mind. Never have I seen you make a choice based on yer wants. Rather, ye make a choice based on what makes the most sense at the time.”

“Your point?”