“Is that what ye believe?” Alasdair’s voice sharpened. “Then I cannae say I respect it. When I see a lady dragged through the garden paths like livestock, it troubles me.”
Elizabeth startled slightly as his hand reached out—not roughly, but with a quiet, steady strength and settled on her arm. A protective gesture. A claim.
Her skin tingled where he touched her.
“Let go of her.”
She wasn’t even being held anymore, but the air between her and Lady Grisham still felt heavy, poisonous. The older woman didn’t move.
“Let me repeat meself,” he said, his voice slicing through the silence. “Let. Her. Go.”
“I won’t do that, Your Grace,” Lady Grisham snapped. “You may be a duke of wealth and good repute, but you are not her family.”
Elizabeth stiffened. That word—family—always sounded wrong coming from Lady Grisham’s lips.
Alasdair’s lips curved slowly, mockingly. “Of good repute? I could have sworn yer face turns sour every time ye see me, Lady Grisham.” There was amusement in his voice now, dangerous, deliberate. “As for me not bein’ her family… that can change.”
Elizabeth blinked. What?
“W-what?” Lady Grisham sputtered.
But Alasdair was no longer looking at her.
He turned to Elizabeth fully then, and the world seemed to narrow. His broad shoulders cast her in shadow, but it wasn’t the darkness she felt. It was heat. Urgency. And something else she hadn’t dared name.
“Marry me, Elizabeth.”
Her breath caught. Her entire body froze.
It was not a joke. His voice was too steady, his gaze too intense.
The words struck her like a thunderclap.
Marriage?Now? Here?
Lady Grisham burst into harsh laughter. “Your Grace, I will say this respectfully, but you are insane!”
Elizabeth wanted to laugh too, to deny the moment. Surely this was another one of her fevered dreams.
But she couldn’t.
Because Alasdair wasn’t smiling. His eyes never left hers. And beneath all her panic, something strange curled in her chest: hope.
“Many people say I am,” he murmured, and though his tone was mild, the power in his words hit her square in the chest. “But me offer stands, Elizabeth.”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Think carefully before you regret this, Your Grace,” she said, and her voice trembled.
His jaw tightened, then eased. “I have thought of ye marrying another, Elizabeth, and it’s—” He paused, searching for the words. “Marry me. If ye daenae want to, say no. But at least choose yer fate. Ye deserve freedom. One thing I can promise ye is—ye’ll be free with me.”
Free. The word echoed like a bell in her skull.
Lady Grisham stepped forward again, venom in every movement. “Elizabeth, I hope you’re not considering an offer from a savage lord. You don’t know why he’s here, nor his true political allegiances. He’s not polished. You’ll bring scandal on us all.”
But Elizabeth wasn’t looking at her anymore.
She was watching Alasdair.
He didn’t flinch. “I cannae let ye suffer any longer,” he said, softer now, as if the two of them were the only ones in the garden.