Page 37 of Laird Of Her Heart

Fury scoured him.

He doubted he’d ever been so enraged. But then, he’d never felt so betrayed.

Odd that. Living in the highlands, surrounded by clans who stole his cattle and raided his crofts, beset with neighbors who would not think twice about kidnapping a wayward lass or lying straight to a rival’s face…he’d never felt so betrayed.

Probably because he’d trusted her. Against his better judgement, he’d trusted an outsider.

He would never make that mistake again.

Without a word he led her to his tent. When she slowed, dragging her feet, he took her arm in a firm grip and hustled her along. He didn’t have much time before his wrath worked free, before his rage erupted, and he didn’t want his men to see him like that. Didn’t want them to see him flay her.

It would only incite them. They were all furious with her as well. No telling what they might do or say if he did not remove her from their presence.

A man’s horse was inviolate. It was an unwritten rule they would never be touched or harmed or stolen.

Anyone who dared to break such a convention knew his peril.

Horse thieves were hanged.

The thought of her pretty neck snapping beneath the weight of her crimes horrified him. It did not, however, supplant his anger.

He pushed her into the tent, with perhaps too much force. She skidded backwards and landed on the pallet. She stared up at him with wounded eyes, but he refused to feel a hint of remorse. She’d landed on the soft furs, after all. The furs where, but a few hours earlier, they had tangled.

He had to look away. His glance fell on the whiskey.

With harsh movements, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a stiff draught. It burned on the way down.

“Dominic—”

“Silence!” She dared speak? Did she not know what menace she taunted?

She lurched back as though he’d slapped her; a sliver of guilt skewered him. He brushed it away. Weakness was foolish. He should have known.

“What are you going to do with me?” This she asked in a tiny voice, one that made him shudder.

He stared at his drink, refused to look at her. “That depends on whether or not we find the horses.”

“If you don’t?”

“You’ll hang.”

She made a noise, something strangled and wounded. “Hang?”

She would never hang. He wouldn’t allow it. But she had to understand the weight of what she’d done. Not only had she delayed a very important journey, she’d committed the most heinous crime of all. “’Tis what we do with horse thieves.” He dared a glance at her. “Is this not so in Seattle?”

“We don’t have many horses in Seattle.”

He wanted to ask how they got around in this mythical place, but he didn’t. He did not want to engage in a conversation with her. He did not want to diffuse his ferocity. He could not allow himself to be fooled again.

“We hang horse thieves here.”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“Did you no’?”

“I just hid them. You’ll find them.” Her lashes flickered. “Eventually.”

“And did it occur to you that we may no’ find them?”