His fingers unfolded, only to wind around her other wrist before she could move. He stared into her eyes, a few inches away. She could see the lines and flecks of darker blue in his irises. The fingers of his free hand caught at the back of her mask where ties held it in place over her hair, deftly pulling the knots free.

Very well, let him see her. Let him be shocked, his face pinching in disgust as it had when she was a girl at the festival and he had realized she was a Sutherland. She waited, ready to act. Heart pounding, she forced herself to breathe as he dragged the leather mask free, throwing it below.

The late morning air felt like a splash of cool water against her hot skin, but a flush burned through the relief as he stared at her, his gaze taking in every inch of her face, pausing on the puckered scar. As she fought the urge to turn away, her free hand rose involuntarily to pluck at the loosened hair at her temple. Ella watched for the tight look of revulsion that had haunted her girlhood nightmares after the festival. Time moved forward with the pound of her heart, but his grip only tightened as if anger made his muscles turn to granite. If her hideous scar couldn’t shock him into loosening his hold on her, what would?

Her gaze dropped to his full mouth as his lips parted. She’d heard tales of Cain Sinclair’s conquests with women, how they gladly crawled into his bed. His prowess and skills as a lover were as much a part of his legend as the lies his father spilled about God sending his sons to conquer the world. Her face grew hotter still as she remembered the foolish stories she’d woven in her head as a girl, stories about him sweeping her away from her cruel life at Dunrobin.

The lines between his brows deepened as he inhaled, fury growing in the clench of his teeth. His voice was deep, like a rumble of advancing thunder over a mountain ridge. “Who is the foking bastard who dared to brand ye?”

…

Cain’s blood raced with the heat of renewed vengeance. The raven-haired woman standing strong and proud before him had been maimed with a round mark that had been burned into her skin along the left side of her face at the crux of her jaw.

Keeping balance by leaning against the limb separating them, Cain raised his free hand to gently turn her chin with his knuckles so he could better see the mark. It was the size of a large signet ring used to seal parchments with wax. For such a clear picture, she must have been held immobile while the metal seared her flesh. He leaned in closer to spy the shape of a mountain cat. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “’Tis the Sutherland crest.”