Free The Highlander by Kerrigan Byrne Page B

as he listened to his steward’s reports intently. Only a fool would expect absolution from such a man. He was the sort that granted favor sparingly and forgiveness never.
    She’d do well to remember that.
    He was the Demon Highlander, elder brother to the Blackheart of Ben More. These monikers, they were not granted by the happenstance of birth or marriage, like marquess or earl, they were earned by means of ruthless violence and bloodshed. It was easy to forget that fact beneath the grand chandelier of this lofty keep. That was, until the fire in the hearth ignited the amber in his eyes, lending him a ferocity that even his expensive attire couldn’t tame.
    Suddenly feeling as though she’d taken refuge in a sleeping bear’s den, Mena drained the last of her wine much faster than was strictly proper.
    When dinner adjourned, she bade the children a fond good night and curtsied to Russell and the marquess.
    Rhianna attempted a curtsy, as well, and Mena put that on the list of things to practice with the girl. Andrew merely nodded at her and mumbled an excuse before hurrying away, not once lifting his eyes from the carpet. He was on the tall side of thirteen, and very slim, but his hands and feet were large and ungainly on his frame, hinting that he had the propensity for his father’s build.
    His aloofness distressed her, and Mena decided, as she made to slip away, that she’d use the next few restless hours in her bed thinking of ways to ingratiate herself to the boy.
    â€œRemain a moment, Miss Lockhart, I would have words with ye.”
    The vise winched around her lungs once again at Ravencroft’s command, squeezing them until her limbs weakened for want of breath. Turning toward him, Mena kept the length of the grand table between them. “Yes, my lord?” she answered, as she watched Russell Mackenzie’s retreating back until it disappeared around the entry, abandoning her to the terrifying presence of the so-called Demon Highlander.
    â€œForgive me, as I’m not the expert, but is it considered good manners to call a conversation across a room?” His expression revealed nothing. Not an eyebrow lift, a half-smile, or even a scowl. Just an unsettling stoic watchfulness that set every hair of her body on its end with absolute awareness.
    He’d not-so-subtly requested for her to approach him, but it sounded like a dare.
    Like a temptation.
    â€œNo, my lord, it is not.” Remembering Millie LeCour’s advice, Mena lifted her chin and forced her eyes to remain on his, summoning every iota of British superiority that had been beaten into her since she’d come to London as the Viscountess Benchley.
    The flames that reflected in his unblinking eyes licked his gaze with heat and, for a moment, Mena could truly believe that a demon stared out at her from those abysmal depths. He regarded her approach with the same sulfurous glare she imagined the devil used to survey his unholy realm.
    To compensate for her apprehension, Mena rolled her shoulders back, as though stowing angel wings, and traversed the length of the table with the deportment of a benevolent royal. Though she kept the corner of the table and one of the high-backed chairs in between them.
    She was being brave, not idiotic.
    Mena regretted eating quite so much at dinner, as the meal now rolled and tossed inside her stomach, and threatened acid that she had to desperately swallow. Despite that, she didn’t allow her gaze to waver, though it cost her more strength than she’d ever credited herself with.
    His eyes touched her everywhere, and Mena had to fight the impulse to cover herself, lest he know how exposed she felt in his presence.
    â€œWe’ve not had the opportunity to formally meet,” the marquess remarked. “I must say, Miss Lockhart, ye’re not what I expected.”
    Mena attempted a polite smile and fished in her blank mind for something witty and charming to say.