Page 23 of When the Laird Conquers

“It is only fair,” she said eventually, after dabbing her mouth and taking a little more time to annoy him. “A contract is nothing if only one party has all the control.”

He raked his fingers through his beard, the corner of his eye twitching. “I daenae remember readin’ the word ‘fair’ in yer book, lass. And a favor isnae a contract. Ye came to me; I didnae offer an arrangement.”

“I shall be sure to inform the writers of the almanac to add the word in the next edition,” she said, enjoying herself. “Perhaps I shall add it myself. Something like, ‘Fair and willing to offer protection to the needy, with an exceptional cook but a rather dreary castle.’ Yes, something like that.”

A grumble sounded in his throat, like an angry dog that was still deciding whether or not to pounce.

“Now, where to begin?” she continued. “Ah yes, rule number one…”

I’ll never leave me windows unlocked again.

Gordon poured more wine for himself as Agnes offered up her ‘rules.’

“… you must allow me to help with the running of the castle, now that I am here. It really is dismal. Nothing too wild, just some fresh flowers, some restoration of the tapestries, some new paintings perhaps, and a few additional servants.”

He didn’t respond. Her audacity made it impossible.

“Helping to bring some grandeur back to this castle is the least I can do to return your kindness,” she added, blushing.

His lip curled at her choice of words. Kindness? Is that what she thought it was?

“Rule number two: we are to have dinner together at least twice a week,” she said, either oblivious or indifferent to his irritation. “That way, we can discuss any matters that need to be discussed. I can tell you how my endeavors are faring, and you can tell me about the clan, or nothing at all, whichever you prefer.”

“Ye ask for so little,” he remarked dryly.

She ignored him. “Rule number three, and perhaps the most important of all: we need to be seen together, my Laird. If Edwin is to truly believe that I am the bride of the Mad Laird, then people need to believe we are actually betrothed. It must naturally spread throughout the villages, or Edwin will smell a rat, and he may be foolish enough to come here thinking he can make an offer for my capture.”

Gordon had no need of money and would never accept an Englishman’s offer of anything, but the idea of sending her out of his castle was momentarily tempting. She was bolder than he had thought, a certain degree of impudence hiding behind her cheery smile and sparkling eyes.

It made him uneasy that, despite himself, he found it so entertaining, so compelling. Her subtle resistance against his authority toyed with his mind, urging him to make her want to submit.

I wouldnae mind seein’ just how brave ye are, lass.

He gazed at her, a smirk on his lips. “And what’s yer grand plan, eh? Do ye mean to take the Mad Laird on a picnic? Will ye feed the Wolf wild strawberries and stroke his fur? Will ye kiss the cruelty out of the Cruel One and undo years of legacy?”

She almost choked on the mouthful of wine she had just supped, her eyes bulging in shock. Banging lightly on her chest, she recovered quickly and, avoiding his eyes, muttered back, “I am just saying that we need to make this betrothal convincing, regardless of whether it is real or not.”

He pushed back his chair and got up, taking his time to walk around the table to where she sat. He didn’t need to look at her. He could feel her eyes following him, hear the shallow shift in her breathing, sense her entire body tensing up… but whether in fear or anticipation, he couldn’t be sure.

He came to a stop behind her chair, his hands resting on the wooden back.

“Will ye be caught in the shadows with me, lass?” he growled, her ragged breaths making the wolf inside him howl with need. “Will ye press yerself against me by the trainin’ yard, for all the men to see? Will ye gasp as I lean in”—he did just that—“and whisper things in yer ear to make ye blush? Will ye sit in me lap when I invite a gatherin’ of people here? Will ye wriggle against me, so all who see ye ken that ye’re desperate to be alone with me?”

A soft moan threatened to tip him over the edge of his sanity, turning him into the Mad Laird she believed him to be.

His hand slid around her throat, feeling the rolling motion of her swallow against his palm.

“Perhaps that’s too much for now,” he said thickly, taking hold of her chin with his other hand and turning her head to make her look at him. “So, ye can start by meetin’ me gaze, lass.”

Her eyes gleamed in the low light of the dining hall, her breath short and sharp, her bosom rising and falling in a taunting rhythm, the promise of a fresh moan seeming to dance on the lush curve of her lips.

She held his gaze, just as he had asked.

He could have lost himself in those striking green eyes, could have lost himself entirely in her. It would not have taken much to lift her onto the edge of the table and finish his meal with the taste of her, sweeter than any dessert. How loudly would she cry out her euphoria? Who would hear her in a castle so empty?

Like waking suddenly from a sorceress’s trance, he dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists.

“Ye should add one final rule, lass,” he warned.