“Wasn’t it you who informed me you were different than they are?” she accused.
Liam blinked, momentarily speechless. No one dared to speak to him like this, not in decades. He’d thought this wee lass a timid English mouse. And though her heart-shaped face was leached of color, her eyes burned with a lovely jade fire, fueled by her defensive indignation.
“Mr. St. James treated me with more respectful deference and gentlemanly conduct than you have since the day I arrived at your keep, my laird, and he kept his hands to himself.”
“How do I know that?”
She’d looked so guilty when he’d accused her of being a liar.
“You have my word as a lady.”
“I trust no one’s word.” Besides, she was no lady. Merely a governess.
“That’s no fault of mine,” she quipped. “What was it Shakespeare said? ‘Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.’”
Liam’s head snapped to the side, as though she’d slapped him. He couldn’t look at her for a moment, couldn’t see the fire in her eyes match the heat burning inside of him.
He’d not be responsible for what he would do next.
Gritting his teeth against his conflicting emotions, he pressed forward, forcing her to step back again, retreating toward the walls of the keep. His demon temper wanted her cornered. Wanted her helpless and trembling before him.
He wanted her to beg. Wanted her to kneel. He. Wanted …
Her.
Beneath him. Above him. He didn’t care. The thought of her with another man, with that man, caused his Mackenzie blood to simmer with dominance.
For such an intelligent lass, she wasn’t smart enough to fear him. He needed to change that, for her own good.
He was a monster, after all. A demon. And it was best for all involved that she stay out of his way.
Though … hadn’t he sought her out?
Pushing that troubling thought to the side, he gave her the look that had sent the most powerful of men to their knees. “If ye wish to retain yer position here, or if ye want Mr. St. James to live with his hands attached to his wrists, ye’ll make certain they stay away from yer person. I’ll not have ye keep company with the likes of him.”
“I had no further intention of doing so,” she stated, her eyes widening as her back found the stone wall of the keep, impeding further retreat. Yet she stood against him, her chin lifted haughtily, and her shoulders thrown as far back as the wall behind her would allow. “Regardless of my intent, you don’t have the right to dictate how I spend my free time, or with whom!”
The leash on his temper snapped and roared to the surface. “Like hell! I am laird here!” He threw his arms out wide to illustrate the scope of his domain before gesturing at her. “And whilst in my employ, ye will mark me when I order ye to—”
Her reaction turned the flames of his temper into shards of ice. Heated words crowded his throat, suddenly filled with shock and remorse, and turned to ash.
The woman didn’t just cringe or wince, like someone who’d been startled, when he’d gestured at her.
She cowered.
The bouquet of blossoms scattered to their feet as her hands flew up to protect her face, chin tucked tightly against her chest, and her lovely eyes squeezed shut. Bracing herself. Preparing for him to strike her.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
From one of her trembling, splayed palms little crimson dots of blood revealed a terrible truth. She hadn’t been fearless in her defiance as he’d initially assumed …
She’d been brave.
Clutching the flowers with white knuckles, she’d not even winced as the thorns had pierced her delicate flesh.
Because the entire time she’d stood against him, she’d been too terrified to notice.
All suspicion and—he finally admitted to himself—jealousy drained from him as he watched her courage likewise desert her. As the haze of red receded from his vision, he noted the details that supported her story. She smelled like the sea and the forest and late-summer herbs. Beneath that, the unmistakable smell of a wet dog clung to her damp bodice.
Her skirts were soiled and damp, but her blouse remained clean and her hair was undisturbed in its intricate coiffure. If she’d had a proper go with Gavin St. James, she’d be a disheveled mess. An image of her danced into his mind, lips swollen from rough kisses and her luxurious hair wild and spilling down her back. Naked flesh flushed with passion and begging to be touched, tasted, nay, worshipped.
“Christ,” he whispered.
Never in his long, regret-filled life had he felt like such an unmitigated arse.
Liam tried to stop. Told himself to turn, to march away and leave this conversation for another time. But somehow he was reaching for her again, his fingers circling her wrists with all the infinite gentleness he could muster.
She gave little resistance as he pulled her hands away from her face, revealing her pale, pinched features.
And the haunted eyes of a refugee.
He’d seen the same look on the faces of victims from the Orient to India and Africa. The question in their forlorn gazes lurking behind the exhaustion and despair.
Are you going to be the next one to hurt me?
Hurting people was something he’d always excelled at, something his superiors in the military had noticed right away. They’d honed him from a violent youth into an efficient weapon and had unleashed him upon their enemies. Pain became his arsenal and his ally. In his long life, he’d hurt so very many.