For a long moment, the laird glared up at him. Then, finally, he spat to the side. “Fine. She’s yers. Take the plump bitch and enjoy her.”
Plump?
There was that word again. Elijah had heard the lass being called it before, by Lewis and his men. Said like an insult. Like something shameful.
But looking at her—at her soft curves and full figure—Elijah thought she was perfect. More than perfect. She was every fantasy he’d never let himself have, standing in flesh and blood before him.
Focus. Ye have a job to do.
He stepped back, letting the defeated laird scramble to his feet. The man mounted his horse with poor grace, favoring his bruised ribs.
“This isnae over,” he muttered.
“Aye, it is,” Elijah said. “Now get out of me sight before I change me mind about lettin’ ye walk away.”
The laird spurred his horse and disappeared into the trees. Silence fell, broken only by the sound of the lass’s frightened breathing.
Elijah turned to face her.
Piper pressedherself against the tree trunk, watching the dark-haired laird who’d just defeated her pursuer with terrifying ease. Her heart was still racing from the run, from the fight, from everything.
He’s goin’ to hurt me. He’s goin’ to claim his “prize”.
But he wasn’t moving. Just standing there, looking at her with those intense green eyes. His sword was still drawn, still had traces of dirt from the fight. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, like the battle had been nothing to him.
He was handsome.
Piper hated herself for noticing, but she couldn’t help it. Strong jaw, dark hair that fell to his shoulders, a small beard that made him look dangerous and sophisticated at once. And his body—tall, muscular, powerful. The kind of man who could snap her in half without effort.
The kind of man her parents had just sold her to.
“What’s yer name, lass?”
The question surprised her. She’d expected demands, commands. Not… conversation.
“Why do ye care?” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, born of fear and exhaustion.
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Because if ye’re to be in me household, I should ken what to call ye.”
“Household?” Piper echoed. “Ye mean yer… yer bed.”
Now he did smile, though there was no warmth in it. “I mean me household. I’m nae one of these twisted bastards who thinks buyin’ women is acceptable. But for now, I need ye to play along. Understand?”
Piper didn’t understand. Not at all. “Play along with what?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Right now, I need yer name.”
She shouldn’t tell him. Shouldn’t cooperate. But something in his eyes—something that didn’t look quite as cruel as she’d first thought—made her answer.
“Piper,” she whispered. “ Piper Armstrong.”
“Piper.” He tested the name, and the way he said it—low and rough—sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. “I’m Elijah Quinn. Laird McMahon.”
A laird. Of course he was. Only lairds would have the money to participate in something like this.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
Piper flinched back. “Stay away from me.”
