prejudice was warranted. Lachlan Maclean, like her brothers, was inalienably proud and more primitive—less refined—than Lowland courtiers. An authority unto himself. He’d abducted her, after all.
But he hadn’t ravished her. Nor could she forget that he’d seemed to purposefully avoid killing any of Lord Murray’s men. Hardly the bloodthirsty warmonger she’d come to expect. Indeed, even though she’d stabbed him, he’d treated her with surprising courtesy.
His strength, control, and blatant sensuality were difficult to ignore.
Paradoxically, the very things that should repel her were the very things she found appealing. On a base level, she was deeply attracted to this man who’d abducted her. The type of man she’d avoided most of her life. But acknowledging the truth only hardened her resolve to leave this wretched place. She would never let him know the effect he had on her.
He held her gaze as she approached. As she drew closer, she could see that something was different. He looked tired and slightly pale. As if he’d been ill.
The realization struck. He had been ill. He hadn’t been ignoring her; he’d been recovering from his wound. He was human, after all.
She halted a few feet away from him, plastering her hands to her side before she did something embarrassing like reach out and touch his arm. “You’ve been unwell.”
His already gruff expression hardened. “No. I’m sorry you were confined to your room, but I had other matters to attend to.”
He lied. He was not the type of man to explain his actions. Obviously, he was too proud to condescend to weakness of any kind.
The same sense of regret hit her as when she’d watched him with the hot blade. She hadn’t meant to…
But she had. She’d wanted to hurt him. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilt or regret, but the truth was that it bothered her to be the source of his pain.
“I’m…” It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Her cheeks flooded with heat.
“You defended yourself well, Flora,” he said, acknowledging her discomfort. “The fault was mine. I underestimated you. But only once. Never again.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a warning. “Come, sit.” He indicated a seat at what must be the laird’s table, because it had carved wooden chairs instead of benches.
She considered refusing, but when platters of steaming bread and beef started appearing, she thought better of it. She’d hoped for an improvement from the meals brought to her room, but the fare wasn’t much better down here—bland and overcooked. At least it was hot.
They ate in silence, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but it made her self-conscious.
Finally he spoke. “You’ve been well treated?”
She finished chewing the bit of coarse brown bread that could use more salt and considered him over the rim of her ale. The combination of his dark, almost black hair and blue eyes was truly striking. She was glad to see that her nail marks across his cheek had nearly healed. “If you consider being locked in a small room for three days well treated. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my wits.”
Her response seemed to annoy him. “I’m afraid we do not have time for masques and revels at Drimnin.”
Clearly, he thought her just another spoiled courtier, and his barb was not without effect. The differences between their lifestyles could not be more divergent. But this time, she hadn’t been criticizing him. She ventured another glance and saw his frown. “That’s not what I meant. I hardly expect courtly entertainment, but I doubt even Highland women sit in their rooms for hours on end with nothing to do.”
He leaned back in his chair and paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re right, they don’t.”
The concession surprised her. Prompted by the apparent thaw in his temper, she decided to broach what had been on her mind for the past few days—leaving.
But he hadn’t ravished her. Nor could she forget that he’d seemed to purposefully avoid killing any of Lord Murray’s men. Hardly the bloodthirsty warmonger she’d come to expect. Indeed, even though she’d stabbed him, he’d treated her with surprising courtesy.
His strength, control, and blatant sensuality were difficult to ignore.
Paradoxically, the very things that should repel her were the very things she found appealing. On a base level, she was deeply attracted to this man who’d abducted her. The type of man she’d avoided most of her life. But acknowledging the truth only hardened her resolve to leave this wretched place. She would never let him know the effect he had on her.
He held her gaze as she approached. As she drew closer, she could see that something was different. He looked tired and slightly pale. As if he’d been ill.
The realization struck. He had been ill. He hadn’t been ignoring her; he’d been recovering from his wound. He was human, after all.
She halted a few feet away from him, plastering her hands to her side before she did something embarrassing like reach out and touch his arm. “You’ve been unwell.”
His already gruff expression hardened. “No. I’m sorry you were confined to your room, but I had other matters to attend to.”
He lied. He was not the type of man to explain his actions. Obviously, he was too proud to condescend to weakness of any kind.
The same sense of regret hit her as when she’d watched him with the hot blade. She hadn’t meant to…
But she had. She’d wanted to hurt him. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilt or regret, but the truth was that it bothered her to be the source of his pain.
“I’m…” It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Her cheeks flooded with heat.
“You defended yourself well, Flora,” he said, acknowledging her discomfort. “The fault was mine. I underestimated you. But only once. Never again.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a warning. “Come, sit.” He indicated a seat at what must be the laird’s table, because it had carved wooden chairs instead of benches.
She considered refusing, but when platters of steaming bread and beef started appearing, she thought better of it. She’d hoped for an improvement from the meals brought to her room, but the fare wasn’t much better down here—bland and overcooked. At least it was hot.
They ate in silence, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but it made her self-conscious.
Finally he spoke. “You’ve been well treated?”
She finished chewing the bit of coarse brown bread that could use more salt and considered him over the rim of her ale. The combination of his dark, almost black hair and blue eyes was truly striking. She was glad to see that her nail marks across his cheek had nearly healed. “If you consider being locked in a small room for three days well treated. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my wits.”
Her response seemed to annoy him. “I’m afraid we do not have time for masques and revels at Drimnin.”
Clearly, he thought her just another spoiled courtier, and his barb was not without effect. The differences between their lifestyles could not be more divergent. But this time, she hadn’t been criticizing him. She ventured another glance and saw his frown. “That’s not what I meant. I hardly expect courtly entertainment, but I doubt even Highland women sit in their rooms for hours on end with nothing to do.”
He leaned back in his chair and paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re right, they don’t.”
The concession surprised her. Prompted by the apparent thaw in his temper, she decided to broach what had been on her mind for the past few days—leaving.
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