A protective instinct welled from deep in his gut and seized his chest. It was wrong, and it was dangerous, but it was as undeniable and inevitable as the coming night. This woman, this stranger Farah Blackwell had sent him, she was intelligent, capable, indescribably lovely …
And she was running from something. From someone?
Perhaps that was why her perceptive gaze disturbed him, caused him to wonder what those observant eyes saw when she looked at him. Why did he care? He’d not done so before. Why did he look down at her now and yearn to be the savior she so obviously needed?
Because he’d never been that to anyone before. Indeed, it had always been the opposite. He’d been the one to run from. The Demon Highlander. The man from whom there was no salvation.
Only pain.
God, but he was tired. Tired of the fear he read in the eyes of others. The deference. The expectation.
The English loved him for the atrocities he committed for their empire. His clan hated him for the atrocities committed by his father, but they needed his land, his business, to survive. So they tolerated him, and feared him, and obeyed him. Avoided his temper because his wrath had become legend.
But what if, just once, he inspired a different emotion? What if he used what made him hard and dangerous to protect something soft and vulnerable?
Someone rare and brilliant and beautiful.
What if, in return, he found the thing he sought most in this world?
Peace.
Testing the strand of silken hair between his thumb and forefinger, he tucked it behind the shell of her ear.
“Do ye know what this land was called before it was Wester Ross, before it was Scotland even? A name that is still whispered to this day?”
Her brows drew together, creating a little wrinkle of confusion between them. “I confess I do not,” she said carefully, her mistrust of this subject change apparent.
“Comraich.” He murmured the word with all the reverence it deserved. “It means sanctuary. Protection. People have been climbing the Bealach na Bà Pass to Wester Ross to hide for thousands of years.”
She caught her lip in her teeth, and Liam’s gaze snagged there. “Is that what ye’ve done, Miss Lockhart? Have ye come here in search of refuge?”
Her face turned toward his fingers, as though searching for the warmth they would find there. “I don’t know what to say.” Uncertain eyes met his, looking for direction. For assurance.
“Ye’ll find it here.” Liam could tell his words had stunned her.
“Why?” she breathed. “You cannot trust me.”
Did she mean that he should not trust her? Or that he was incapable? Something about the secrets held in her eyes brought to mind paintings of Renaissance angels hinting at the great, divine mystery.
Why, indeed?
Because he wanted her close. Because the sound of her soft and husky voice did things to him physically that the most exotic whores had failed to provoke. Because she’d only just done what no other seemed brave enough to do. She’d stood against his ire. Put him in his place.
She’d provoked the fire of his temper, of course. But then—somehow—she’d put it out.
“Because, in my blood, before I am the Marquess of Ravencroft, a British title given to my ancestors, I am the Laird of the Mackenzie clan of Wester Ross. Like I said, we lairds have provided sanctuary to anyone who seeks it, even our enemies, and especially against the British. Highland hospitality is our sacred duty.” Though he felt as though his smile would crack from disuse, he attempted one, and judging by the complete change in her features, he was pretty certain he’d succeeded.
Her eyes became impossibly wider and one breath of disbelief followed another. “But I am British.”
“Am I correct in assuming that so is whomever ye’re hiding from?”
After a protracted, level look, she nodded. Her first concession, which ignited a spark of hope.
He noted that her hand had relaxed from where she’d gripped his handkerchief, and he began to gently dab her palm. Once the dried blood was gone, it was impossible to tell where the thorns had punctured her.
“I thought you were going to—” She swallowed when he looked at her, and seemed to forget what she was going to say, so he concentrated on her palm. “I thought you were going to dismiss me.”
Not a fucking chance in hell would he allow her to leave.