Laird MacLeod turned around, his eyebrows drawing together. He clearly hadn’t expected the firmness of her response.
Marian lifted the deed again, water dripping from the edges of the page. “I do not know who you believe yourself to be,” she said evenly, “but this estate is mine.”
CHAPTER THREE
No one had expected such audacity from the Englishwoman. Not even Lachlan MacLeod.
He watched her, her chest rising and falling in the rain, rain dripping down her hair and onto her dress.
For a moment, he couldn’t determine if he was irritated or intrigued.
“Bold wee thing,” Finn, one of his men, muttered loudly enough to distract his thoughts.
The others murmured in agreement, an undercurrent of amusement and disbelief lacing their Gaelic words.
Lachlan straightened his back, his eyes darkening as he took her in.
She stood barely to his shoulders, her traveling gown soaked through and clinging to her body in all thewrongplaces. Her chestnut-brown hair dripped water, tangling in wet ropes down her back as the rain whipped against her red cheeks. Mud splattered up to the hem of her dress, and she shivered lightly.
And yet, her blue eyes glared at him, daring him to do his worst.
Her defiance struck him in a way only a few things could.
She raised her chin, holding out her damp copy of the deed, as though she truly believed that the piece of paper could bend the world to her will.
Lachlan frowned.
She isnae afraid.
Not only were the English forces constantly trying to suppress the Highlands, but now they also had the nerve to send one of their own to claim his inheritance barely months after his father’s death.
She was no match for him, and yet she dared to pose a threat to him and to the land his clan had worked hard to protect over the years, glaring at him like she had no intention of backing down.
Stubborn English lass.
He took a step closer, keeping his voice low and dangerous. The English were selfish, cunning, and disloyal—he’d learned that much from his English mother when she fled at the start of the war.
He couldn’t let Marian Whitcombe think she had a chance.
“Is it now?” he asked quietly, pointing to the piece of paper in her hand. It was starting to fall apart under the rain, folding and tearing at the edges. “Ye place a mighty trust in that flimsy scrap, lass.”
She shifted from one foot to the other before handing the torn copy of the deed to her maid and reaching for her reticule.
“I have better proof,” she said coolly, pulling out sealed papers untouched by the rain. “My uncle sent me as the rightful next-in-line heiress. The Crown confirmed the claim?—”
“The Crown,” Lachlan scoffed, interrupting her with open contempt.
She continued, ignoring his interruption as if it were a minor inconvenience. “—and with my father’s passing, the estate transfers legally to me.”
She extended the documents toward him, and he hissed. The Crown had contributed nothing but troubles to his cause, and now it was the English lass’s leverage.
Useless piece of paper.
He took a step toward her, ignoring her outstretched arm and the document in it. Accepting it would mean acknowledging that English authority could rewrite centuries of Highland blood, and he wasn’t about to do that.
He leaned in until he was close enough, answering her in an even tone despite the blood boiling in his veins. “That land behind ye has belonged to me clan longer than yer kingdom has worn a crown. Tell your Crown it has nay claim here.”
Marian stiffened at the Highlander’s words.
