Emma frowned. “Ye daenae?”
He tilted his head. “Nay. I’ll do something worse. I’ll marry ye.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’ll marry ye,” he repeated, calm as if discussing the weather.
She stared at him, unsure of where exactly to steer the conversation now.
“I… I embarrassed ye, me Laird,” she stammered. “Running like that. Ye daenae want a bride who runs from her wedding, do ye? Ye might wish to find a bride who… who doesnae run. A bride who wants to be seen with ye.”
“I already have a bride, and that is ye.” He leaned closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Ye belong to me, whether ye like it or nae, lassie.”
She yanked her arm again. This time, he let go. She stumbled back a step and rubbed the spot where his hand had been. Warmth lingered there.
“Is this how all yer courtships proceed?” she asked sharply. “With running and threats?”
He met her eyes without flinching. “Ye would be surprised. But if this ends in marriage, I’ll call it a success.”
Her pulse spiked. “Ye think this is success? A wife who wants nothing to do with ye?”
“I think it’s the truth,” he said. “Ye ran, I followed. Now, we speak plainly.”
She folded her arms. “Plainly enough to call it madness.”
“Madness keeps the clans from killing each other,” he pointed out. “Peace has stranger roots.”
She hated that his calm voice made sense. She hated even more that she wanted to hear him speak.
“Why?” she demanded. “Ye could just let me go without following me. Why nae do that?”
“Because I keep what is mine,” he declared. “And ye, at this point, are mine.”
The silence between them grew, and the wind brushed the trees above, carrying the smell of damp earth. Her heart continued to beat too fast.
“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “I am just yers now?”
He studied her face. “Aye. But ye’ll find that I keep what’s mine safe.”
She blinked, startled by the softness beneath the words. “Safe,” she repeated. “Is that what ye call this?”
“It’s what I offer. Ye would be surprised that I am nae the monster ye seem to think I am.”
Her throat tightened. “This isnae some decision ye can make, me Laird. Ye seem to think that yer words, for some reason, can claim me.”
He stepped closer, his eyes unreadable. “Ye are mine, whether ye like it or nae. It is up to ye to take this with grace or with anger, but ye belong to me now.”
She glared up at him, her jaw trembling. “And if I choose anger?”
“Then we live with it,” he said quietly. “I’ve lived with worse.”
CHAPTER 3
He studiedher face for a moment. She looked ready to argue, yet too tired to begin. The path lay dark and narrow, a ribbon through trunks and roots.
“Come with me, lass. Enough of this,” he urged.
She groaned. “I’ll follow. Ye have knocked the breath out of me, so I cannae run again.”
