“I cannae imagine this land without ye in it,Sassenach,” Lachlan added, his voice roughening slightly. “And I cannae imagine meself in it if… if ye are gone.”
Marian’s throat tightened.
She had spent so long feeling unwanted. But now, Lachlan stood before her, bloodied, breathless, and utterly certain that he wanted her. And it had nothing to do with duty.
A tear slipped over, and this time, she did not try to stop it. She lifted her hand slowly, pressing it against his cheek, even though her body ached.
“I have nothing left, Lachlan,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “No family, no home… Nothing to offer to your name.”
Lachlan’s gaze softened, something fierce and unyielding flickering beneath it. He shifted his weight off his injured leg as he leaned closer to her.
“I daenae care,” he insisted. “Ye are enough for me.”
Marian let out a small, broken laugh, shaking her head slightly as more tears fell. She could still feel the burn marks on her wrists throbbing, the ache in her ribs where she’d struck the table, and the sticky warmth of blood drying at her temple.
She was a mess, covered in dirt and sweat and her uncle’s violence. And still, Lachlan looked at her like she was something precious.
“You are asking me to marry you in the middle of a battlefield,” she murmured.
“Aye,” he replied without hesitation.
“And you want me to give you an answer,” she said, a weak smile tugging at her lips.
“Aye,” Lachlan said again, taking her hand. “But ye daenae have to answer right away.”
Marian nodded slowly. Her chest ached as she swallowed, and her hand drifted to her side, pressing against the pain as she winced.
Lachlan’s eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows knitting together. “Let’s get ye out of here,” he murmured, his tone leaving no room for protest.
His arms slid around her, lifting her carefully out of the carriage, and her fingers curled slightly against him. She wanted to refuse him. To insist that she could walk on her own, especially with all his men present. But the words wouldn’t come.
In truth, she did not think that her legs would hold her up if he set her down. The thrill that had kept her upright was fadingfast, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and pain that seemed to pulse through every inch of her being.
So she let him carry her. She let herself be cared for, perhaps for the first time in her life, even though she had never trusted anyone enough to do so before.
“Lachlan,” she whispered, noticing his slight limp as he carried her toward his horse. “You are hurt.”
He blinked, as though the thought had not occurred to him at all, but he did not slow down.
“I can barely feel it, Marian,” he said quietly. “Nae with yer pain.”
Lachlan lifted Marian atop his horse with more gentleness than he’d ever done anything else in his life.
His eyes narrowed slightly as her hand went to the torn area of her sleeve, and he mounted behind her, swearing at himself in Gaelic for not having a cloak or plaid.
He pulled his tunic loose at the collar, wrenching the thick fabric halfway free before wrapping it around her shoulders, covering her bruises. It was clumsy, but it was warm. And it was better than nothing.
He turned to face Finn, his expression flat as he gestured toward Edmund’s body. “Take care of that,” he said coldly.
Finn nodded. “Aye, me Laird.”
Lachlan did not bother to look at the corpse. He would not give the bastard even that much consideration. His body would disappear quietly, and no one would ask questions about what had happened to Lord Edmund Norton. The English bastard had come to the Highlands and died on his way. That was all anyone needed to know.
He pulled the reins gently, and his horse moved, slowly at first, until he made sure that Marian was settled firmly against him.
The breeze brushed against their faces as they rode in silence, with nothing but the steady rhythm of his horse and the uneven cadence of Marian’s breathing breaking the quiet of the night. Lachlan adjusted his grip on her slightly, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist while the other held the reins.
They rode in the dark, her damp, matted hair brushing against his jaw. Some of his men followed at a respectful distance, their horses’ hoofbeats a steady echo through the darkness.
