“I’m to be yer husband.” He pulled her closer, close enough that she could see the wine staining his teeth, smell the rage simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure. “Ye’ll show me the respect I’m due.”
Leona’s eyes darted around the empty hall, searching desperately for an escape, a witness, anyone who might intervene. But there was no one. Keith had made sure of that. He always did.
“I didnae mean…” She forced her voice to steady, adopting the light, teasing tone that had sometimes cooled his temper. “Ye should ken by now that I often jest. It’s only me way.”
“I didnae laugh.”
His free hand slid down her arm in a mockery of tenderness, fingers trailing over her sleeve until they found her wrist. His thumb pressed directly over the scar hidden beneath the fabric, the thin white line he’d carved there three months ago when she’d tried to refuse his proposal outright.
The scar throbbed at his touch, a phantom pain that was somehow worse than the original cut.
“Ye remember what happened the last time I wasnae entertained,” Keith said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
Leona nodded, hating the tears that pricked her eyes, hating the tremor in her hands, hating herself for the fear that made her small and obedient.
“Daenae challenge me, Leona. I’ll nae warn ye again.”
“I willnae,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, searching her face for any hint of defiance, any spark of rebellion that needed crushing. Then, apparently satisfied, he released her arm and stepped back.
Leona stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the table. Her arm ached where he’d gripped it, and she knew there would be fingerprint-shaped bruises by morning, another secret constellation of marks hidden beneath her sleeves.
“Good.” Keith returned to his seat, picking up his wine as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just reminded her exactly how trapped she was. “Now, I have some news that might brighten yer mood.”
Leona remained standing, not trusting her legs to carry her back to her chair. “What news?”
“I’m holding Laird Ainsley in the dungeons.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. “What?”
Keith smiled, clearly pleased with her reaction. “Aye. Murdock Lyall himself. The great Beast of Ainsley, brought low and chained in our cellar. Poetic, is it nae?”
Leona’s mind raced.
Murdock Lyall.
She’d heard the stories. Who hadn’t? The warrior who’d survived his father’s cruelty, only to become something even more dangerous. The man who’d ended wars with his sword arm alone. The Laird who protected his clan with such fierce loyalty that enemies whispered his name like a curse.
“But… but me faither ended that war almost a year ago. There was a treaty…”
“And they have yet to pay us back for starting that war in the first place.” Keith’s expression hardened, mouth tightening into a thin line. “Yer faither was too soft. Too willin' to forgive and forget. But I’m nae him.”
“So ye captured him?” Leona’s voice came out higher than she had intended. “Ye kidnapped a laird?”
“Kidnapped?” Keith laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Nay, lass. He came willingly. Offered himself in exchange for his daughter.”
Something cold settled in Leona’s stomach. A daughter. Murdock Lyall had a daughter, and Keith had threatened her to lure him here. Used a child as bait.
“I would have taken his wee bairn,” Keith continued, swirling his wine. “But Lyall begged so prettily. Said he’d negotiate anythin' if I let her be. So here we are.”
“So ye want to start a new war?”
“Ye have little faith in me.” He set down his cup with a sharp click. “I want money. Reparations for what his faither’s war cost us. And when his clan pays the ransom, we’ll have more than enough gold to fund our own ambitions.”
He stood again, moving around the table until he was close enough to touch her. This time, Leona forced herself not to flinch, though every instinct screamed at her to run.
“And then we marry,” Keith said softly, his fingers finding her wrist once more. “And I’ll receive yer dowry, too. Quite the profitable venture, all told.”
