“Yes,” Court said firmly, but damn it all, he’d hesitated a slight second and Niall knew it. Something was off with him, his reaction to her unique. He was as confounded about it as Niall was.
“Damn it, Court, if you hurt her, you’ll never be right. Look at Ethan—that’s as wrong as a man can get.”
Court’s eldest brother, Ethan, was a fearsome man in both looks and deed, and his fiancée’s mysterious death had only fueled the rumors surrounding—
Shrieks interrupted his thoughts. From inside sounded Annalía’s screams, punctuated by loud crashes and all the men cheering.
They heard it just as they were dismounting. He and Niall shared a look, then ran into the house. They found Liam standing outside a room, egged on by thirty raucous Highlanders, as he raised his arms over his head and advanced under a barrage of vases, candleholders, shoes, and boxes. An outraged screech sounded with each hurled object.
Court elbowed through the men, who now cheered him and slapped his back to see him alive, until he reached Liam. Court tapped him on the shoulder and cocked his eyebrows, and Liam happily backed away. The men grew quiet.
Court almost felt sorry for her as he assumed his most threatening expression and readied to enter. He put himself in the line of fire, barely dodging a crystal vase filled with packing straw, but he never slowed his ominous stride toward her.
He caught her eyes, saw her in a clinging fire-red dress, with her hair curling and free and her breasts nearly spilling out, and his jaw dropped. In a thunderstruck tone, he said, “Anna?” just as she brained him with a candleholder.
Aleix woke late in the night to the sound of many footsteps descending the stairs. He rubbed his eyes, frowning into the darkness.
The guards never came this late. Comprehension stabbed at him, and he knew why they would this night.
He was about to be executed.
“Papa.” Olivia’s voice? She sounded as though she were on the stairs as well. “Perhaps you shouldn’t act hastily with Llorente.”
“What do you mean?” Pascal asked.
“I believe this is a very delicate time. The prisoner is beloved by these people.” Her voice was laced with disgust. “His execution could be the catalyst they need to rebel again.”
Aleix shook himself. She was right. It would enrage them.
“And this could be the last straw for Spain.” The footsteps halted outside his room. “You know they are on the verge of retrieving their deserters. If they decide to become involved…”
Damn it, Aleix thought, that’s what I’ve wanted for months.
“What do you suggest?”
“We must not act rashly. I know it was infuriating that she was taken, but instead of killing her, I suggest you retrieve her and carry out your plan to marry, solidifying your claim. Afterward you can dispose of Llorente, supplanting him in the people’s affections.”
Retrieve? Taken? Perhaps they had some ally who’d prevented the nuptials. His heart leapt at the thought. The first hope he’d felt in days.
“But she’s tainted,” Pascal said. Tainted?
Olivia asked, “Do you think the Highlanders will use her?” Those animals took Annalía?
“It doesn’t matter if they do or don’t—she’ll be ruined in everyone’s eyes. Our guests will see to that.”
Aleix struggled not to yell, struggled not to ram his head against the walls in rage. Why would the Highlanders do that when they worked for Pascal? When they’d defeated Aleix and his men not two weeks ago for the bastard.
“The benefits of marrying her will still outweigh the detriments. Think of Spain, Papa. And if she does carry a child, she can have an…accident and you can marry again.”
A pause. Alex could picture the general’s thoughtful expression. Finally, he said, “I suspect it’s too late, but I will try.”
“I think that’s a wise decision.”
“You always were my most cunning child, Olivia. Cold, just like me.”
“Yes, Papa. Just like you.”
That bitch.
Annalía could see MacCarrick’s expression turn menacing, his body tensing as he rubbed his temple. She snatched a pitcher from the straw-lined crate and readied it to throw.
“Doona think of it,” he warned in a rasp, scowling at her weapon.
She reared back her arm, just about to hurl it.
“I said”—he seized one wrist, then the other in one hand, then set the pitcher down—“no.”
“And I’ve told you,” she bit out as she kicked his knee, “to go to hell, bèstia!”
Still holding her wrists in a manacle-like grip, he set her away so she couldn’t reach him with her pointy slippers and doubtless so he could gape further at her dress—the Pascal special she’d been trapped in. When the two ruffians had carried her inside this hovel and had set her on her feet with her hands bound, displaying her like a prize, she’d been forced to watch in horror as her breasts had nearly spilled out in front of all these men.