Page 49 of Enchantment of a Highlander

She did not encourage him, she did not speak, lest he be put off from saying what he intended.

“My da scared me when I was a boy.” A humorless smile winked across his lips, one full of self-disgust. “He’d yell so loud it made me jump, and his fist was so large it was as though he had boulders for hands.”

He curled his hand into a fist in front of him and stared at it.

“He dinna like my mother. Their union was one between two warring clans, an attempt to bring peace after centuries of battle.” He snorted. “The marriage never stood a chance, aye? From the start they were enemies. My mother was a saint with me and everyone else, but with my da…”

He shook his head and smirked. “She was a harpy. She contradicted him in front of his men, she goaded his anger, she challenged him. He dinna take it well and solved the issues with her the way he solved his issues with me.”

A deep ache squeezed to life in her breast. It was difficult to picture Alec so young. Even more difficult to imagine him vulnerable.

An unfamiliar longing tugged at her, urging her to go to him. Before she could offer her condolences toward the memories Alec shared, he spoke once more. “I’ve no ever hit a child or a woman. Last night was the closest I’ve ever come.” He strode toward her.

The heavy fall of his boots on the floor echoed off the walls of the empty room. He stopped in front of her and regarded her with such torture in his gaze, her throat went even tighter.

“Celia, I was wrong and I’m deeply, deeply sorry.”

She put her hand on his arm. It was automatic, that foreign movement, and came without pause from somewhere inside her.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Celia repeated.

He looked down at her hand as if he were as startled as she.

“And I dinna ever want to.”

His skin was warm beneath her touch, the flesh firm and the muscle beneath it taut.

Her heart fluttered to touch him so and her mind swam with memories best left forgotten.

Being in this castle, surrounding herself with people and speaking to them at length—it was all breaking down the defenses she’d spent too long constructing.

Though everything in her screamed against it, she pulled her hand from his arm. She wanted to rub her fingertips together, to savor the sensation of his skin against hers.

“What was different about last night?” she asked.

The light dimmed from his eyes and the shadows on his face seemed more prominent. “I drank whisky. A lot of whisky.”

She remembered him yesterday, dressed incredibly fine with his hard jaw scraped smooth. Their conversation had not gone well, and he’d been on his way to see Laird MacDougall. The chill of the room finally got to her and made her skin prickle.

“Why?” she asked, but she was almost afraid of the answer.

He stepped back from her and dragged a hand down his face. “Yesterday wasna a good day. No that it’s an excuse for any of this.”

“Was it your meeting with Laird MacDougall?”

“Apparently walls dinna just have ears, they’ve tongues too.” He smirked and shook his head. “Aye, my meeting with Laird MacDougall.”

Her heart beat a little faster and she found herself scrutinizing his face in an effort to see something he might not be saying. She saw only exhaustion.

“Did it not go well?” she prompted.

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

She waited.

He lifted his brow. “It isna yer concern, Celia.”

He was right, of course, but the bluntness of his response stung like a slight.