Ariella halted as if the word itself had turned to stone around her feet.
The voice had come from the shadow by the corner of the keep. From the place where the light of the lantern did not quite reach.
Her fingers tightened convulsively around her bundle.
Slowly, she turned.
A man stepped out from the darkness.
He was taller than Frederick, broader in the shoulder, the bulk of him filling the space as if he were made for it. The scant light caught on the planes of his face, on the rope of an old scar that carved a pale line from brow to jaw. Another jagged mark disappeared into his beard. There were more, she saw at once. Faint ridges at his throat. A slash along his temple. His eyes were a deep, unreadable green, hard as river stones in winter.
The Beast of McNeill.
Ariella’s breath hitched.
This was no smooth, laughing younger brother. This was the laird himself.
And he had caught her in the act of running.
2
Ishould never have ridden this late.
Maxwell Murdoch felt irritation settle between his shoulders like a weight as he crossed the courtyard. The journey had taken longer than expected. He had intended to arrive before dusk and oversee the formalities himself, to make certain Hunter did not charm the wrong lass or, worse, say too much.
Instead he rode in under a black sky and a cutting early winter wind.
And now, as if to crown the night, there was a lass creeping across the yard like a thief.
Not creeping. Running.
His attention caught the pale shimmer of her cloak, the way she clutched a small bundle to her chest as if it were treasure. Her skirts dragged through the dirt. Her breaths came in sharp gaspsthat seemed too loud in the cold. Every movement screamed panic.
This was Hunter’s bride.
Maxwell stepped out of the shadows and gave a single command.
“Stop there.”
She froze. Slowly, she turned toward him. Moonlight slid over her face and for a moment his breath stalled, nae from admiration, though she was undeniably bonny, but from recognition. Frederick’s description had been accurate: small and curvy, black hair, hazel eyes bright as firelight. And young. Far younger than he had expected.
Disappointment coiled tighter in his gut.
Another lass unfit for the burdens ahead.He knew she was ill at the signing, but this young of a lass was not what he was expecting.
Her fingers clenched around her bundle, knuckles white. She swallowed hard. “I was merely…”
“Runnin’, Lady McIntosh. Ye were runnin’,” he finished for her. He stepped closer, his stride unhurried but absolute. “And quite poorly, at that. Ye are lucky the guards did nae have sharper eyes. I should speak with yer braither about that.”
Her chin snapped up. “I was nae running. I was…”
“Leaving,” he supplied. “In the middle of the night. With nothin’ but the cloak on yer back.” His gaze dropped to her slight frame, her trembling hands. “Aye. Foolish, at best.”
Her lips parted on a gasp of outrage. “I am nae foolish.”
“I see a lass in the yard with nay escort, nay horse, nay plan,” he said. “What would ye call it, then. A midnight stroll?”
She stiffened. “I had reasons.”
