Page 60 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“Is yer enemy,” she finished for him with finality, feeling that sinking sensation, as if he pulled away an increment.

He shook his head, adding cryptically, “Is our salvation and our curse. A peace we vie to achieve. Angel, make no mistake, I want to keep ye.”

Her throat thickened as if a reflex and she blinked away. “But?”

“But there’s a lot at stake.”

“More stakes…” She glared back at him, disentangling her hand to cup his face. Why must he keep tugging on her heart? Coming for her, then receding as she tried to hold on? “Then tell me. We can face it together.”

His jaw pumped.

“Does it have to do with yer obligation in Inverness?”

His eyes flashed to hers so sharply, she knew she’d just touched on something important, because that tick beneath his ears flexed. Aye, whatever was in Inverness was a secret. Her eyes roved over him in the sunlight and she began to caress the tattoos across his chest. Slowly, he relaxed, though faint as it was, there were…words? Aye. Etched upon him, scrawled into his flesh.

Ragged scar tissue once made with, perhaps, a knife? The letters had been transformed into fish and whales and sea serpents. She hadn’t noticed them before, but her attention narrowed upon them now.

She traced the scar tissue, her brow pleating deeper as she deciphered what she dare not believe. Stretched and pulled over the years as he’d likely grown, filled out into a man, her stomach dropped.

Son of a demon lay beneath the sea serpent designs, so well hidden, only an eye attuned to subtleties would see it.

She lifted her eyes to his, to see that his were closed as if absorbing her touch. My God, she wanted to cry for him.

“Torm, who did this to ye?” she breathed.

His eyes sprang open at her question, hard and lifeless obsidian. He captured her hand and yanked it away as if he were that man she’d first met who loathed to be touched.

“An enemy.”

“Who?”

“’Twas long ago, lass. I was a lad. Leave it.”

He wrapped her tightly to his chest, resting his chin atop her head, which only made illness roil within her. The harsh way he’d just reacted made her wonder. He said he wanted to keep her, and then in his next breath he shut her out again. She wasn’t going to let him.

“It was when ye were four and ten, nay? Is that when ye left France? Torm, something happened to ye then. I wish ye’d trust me enough to tell me—”

“Leave it.” He growled this time. “I’ll nay taint yer ears with that madness—”

“Nay spare me of the truth because ye fear”—she clenched her nails into him, to shake sense into him—“if ye want me, ye must be honest with me.”

He pulled back enough to look down at her, calculating. Already it seemed as if he had one foot in the stirrup, ready to leave.

She dug her nails in harder, and commanded him as he did her. “Speak.”

“Our ship was reaved,” he bit out. Left it at that as if done.

His hand holding hers had turned to iron.

“That’s nay good enough,” she insisted softly.

He swallowed hard, jaw pumping. “Owe and I were only lads.” And as he forced these words out, the rest slowly began to flow. “The fighting in France had grown dangerous. Our monastery was burned and all our studies went up in smoke. Owe’s paintings, my portfolio. We barely escaped with our mither, but the monks…”

Brighde’s throat went dry, suddenly not wanting to hear but knowing she must.

“Our sire summoned us home. If we could get within Stornoway, we’d be safe, he said. We passed Ireland.” He paused, as dread pitted in her gut at his foreboding silence. “Sailed into the Minch. Niall captaining. The enemy balingers came out of nowhere. Owe and I,” he snarled, clearing his throat hard, “we had no idea what to do. We had no training.” Moisture made the obsidian shine. God, she wanted to love his pain away. Extract this poisoned arrow from his heart. “We’d been destined for universities, nay for battle.

“Niall’s men were prepared to die to protect the laird’s heir and spare, shouting in this tongue we did nay yet understand. The bloodshed.” He shook his head. She felt him swallow hard as he tucked her head against his throat and his next words came out as a rough croak. “I’d never seen anything like it. My mither was screaming at us to go belowdecks.” His grip on her pained the roots of her hair. She dared not tell him to relent his hold and withstood the ache. “They grabbed her.” Oh God. “She fought free and-and…” His voice was tremoring. Body vibrated, shaking as his fingers knotted harder in her hair. Had he ever said this aloud? “Pitched herself overboard so they’d nay, they’d—fok,” he gritted. “And then they pinned me down and—”