Page 33 of When the Laird Conquers

“Nay,” Gordon replied. “The bastard hopes to be wed to some wealthy lass who willnae take kindly to him havin’ sired a bairn already. At least, that’s me understanding of the situation.”

Keith clicked his tongue. “I daenae understand the English.”

“Nor do I.”

“And ye say we’re nae allowed to kill the wretch if he comes here?” Mischief glinted in Keith’s eyes.

“The lass doesnae want him dead.”

Keith grinned. “What if it looked like an accident? Somethin’ nay one in England would question. Maybe he was tryin’ to climb these very walls and… och, nay! He slipped. Or what if he sought to bathe in the loch, didnae realize how cold it was, and tragically drowned?”

“He stays alive,” Gordon urged. “No accidents.”

Curling his lip, Keith shrugged. “As ye wish, me Laird.”

“It’s nae as I wish, it’s⁠—”

A sharp, panicked cry cut him off, a chill spearing through his veins as it echoed through the forest. “No! Stop! Please, no!”

Considering there were only two women residing in the castle at that moment, and just one had that crisp, English accent, Gordon didn’t hesitate. Dropping the little pot of red paint onto the ground, he took off into the trees, with Keith running right behind him.

Surefooted, he leaped over fallen trees and rotting logs, crashing through the undergrowth with all the speed he could muster. When brambles and briars sought to snag at his legs, he didn’t even notice the pain of their scratching thorns, tearing onward to reach the source of that frightened cry.

If those English bastards have got her, I daenae ken if I can keep me promise.

The thought throbbed in his mind like a heartbeat as he swerved around thick oak trunks and ducked below low-hanging boughs, his ears pricked for another shout.

“No! Don’t!” the cry came, spurring him onward.

It was coming from the loch.

He was almost at the tree line that surrounded the glittering body of water when he heard a loud splash. Running as fast as his legs would allow, he breached the edge of the forest and hurtled down the slope leading to the pebbled shore.

There.

Ripples pointed to where someone had gone under.

Gordon rushed to the shallows, just as Agnes’s head popped up, breaking the surface.

A frown lowered his eyebrows. He had expected to find her in distress, captured by the duke she feared, perhaps fighting for her life in the frigid waters of the loch. Instead, she looked… triumphant, swimming slowly back to the shore.

She had not seen him yet, and as she emerged slowly, wading out of the water, his eyes widened.

In her arms, she held what appeared to be a ball of brownish seaweed or some kind of algae… and her shift had turned almost completely transparent. What she was doing out here in so little clothing barely registered in his faltering mind as he noticed her dramatic curves, that hourglass that he had only seen in silhouette before.

Her pink, pert nipples tempted his gaze, allowing him to admire the full swell of her breasts. Meanwhile, the golden hair that had been pinned into a bun since her arrival now revealed itself in long, damp tendrils that fell almost to her hips.

He drew in a sharp breath.

All this time, he had been trying not to pay her any attention, insisting that he needed to keep away from her, only to stand frozen on the shore while temptation itself sauntered toward him, still oblivious to his presence.

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to notice, though she seemed rather more interested in the dark, wet lump cradled in her arm.

It was only as she reached the pebbles and stumbled a little on the uneven surface that her attention snapped up, her eyes meeting his.

Her soft, startled gasp set an inferno burning within him, one that could not easily be put out, not now that he had seen the majesty of her figure. It was seared in his memory, where it could only haunt and torment him, stoking a desire that could never be satisfied.

Damn ye. Och, damn ye, lass.