“Suit yerself, lass,” he said idly, kicking the horse to make it gallop. He wanted to make it to the castle main by daylight, and it was a bit of a ride.
It was a few hours before the lass opened her mouth again.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” she asked, her voice strained.
“Me castle,” he said simply.
She huffed out a breath. “Which is yer castle?”
“I will tell ye if ye give me yer name.”
“Me father’s maid used to tell me nae to give out me name so easily,” she said stiffly.
“Was she afraid of the faeries, then?” he asked, chuckling, finding the lass’ anger cute. His own sister, Lottie, was afraid of the faeries. She put out sugar water and flowers for them outside her window every morning.
“Aye,” the lass said, turning to look at him. The line of her jaw and nose was pleasing to him as the failing sunlight passed over her features. “Isnae everyone?”
“I’m nae,” he said simply.
“I suppose ye arenae afraid of anythin’.”
“I’m nae afraid of little lasses, even when they look at me like they want to bite,” he said, and the lass huffed out another frustrated breath.
“I bite harder than ye think,” the lass shot back, and Fergus had to fight not to smile.
It felt strange, stretching those muscles. The lass hadn’t said word one about his scars, hadn’t looked at him with horror or pity. Other than Aiden and Lottie, Fergus hadn’t had someone look at him like he was a man in years.
Maybe that was why he was so fascinated by this girl.
“Tell me yer name,” he said again, and the lass shut her mouth with a click.
She did not respond.
“If ye arenae goin’ to give me yer name, what shall I call ye? Lass? Little mouse? Sweetheart?”
“Ye call me sweetheart, and I will have yer bollocks,” she spat at him.
“Careful, little mouse. Threats from the likes of ye daenae frighten me; they excite me. Ye’re feisty. I like that in a lass.”
She closed her mouth, her lips thinning.
“Ye’re really nae going to talk to me for this whole long ride? It’ll take us until tomorrow mornin’ to get to the castle.”
She stiffened, her shoulders straightening. “Who are ye to just take me like this?”
“Laird McCloud, at yer service,” Fergus answered with a smirk. “But ye can call me Fergus. All me friends do.”
The world tilted beneath her feet.
A laird.
Power clung to him heavier than the sword in his hand. There would be no running now—only obedience or consequence.
She turned to face him, visibly paling, but she did not respond.
“I’m nae yer friend.”
“Nae yet. Ye daenae ken me well enough. Besides, I plan to pay ye well, lass; daenae ye worry about that.”
