Ella dug her heels into the dirt, pushing backward, and scowled. She was like a cornered wildcat, ready to spit and scratch if he tried to grab her again. Smooth skin showed above the collar of her black tunic, the fabric in stark contrast to the paleness of the graceful column of her neck. They’d landed in what his aunt would call a fairy ring, a wide circle of purple wildflowers, and one had broken off to dangle in the dark hair framing her face.

“Ye will wed me, and I will rule over both clans.” Wedding the Sutherland chief would cement the joining of their clans without slaughter. The conquering of her clan would ensure that his father’s sacrifice was not in vain, earn him respect as the new chief, and it would appease his curiosity about the fire that had roared to life within him with her kiss. He could also discover and kill the bastard who’d burned her family crest into her skin. Aye, the union was the right choice.

“Did you not hear me, you big, crown-wearing ox?” She shoved her gloved fist into his chest, making him want to strip it naked to see her delicate hand in the flesh. “I choose death,” she said, her bottom lip protruding the smallest amount. “A quick death, befitting a chief.”

He caught her hand, turning the palm up to slowly pull the glove off each finger as she tried to tug it away. “Apparently, ye choose very poorly,” he said, and tucked her empty glove in his belt. Her delicate fingers tapered to finely shaped nails, calluses built up where they rubbed on the bowstring, like the calluses on his own fingers. Her palm was bruised, the skin torn, likely from her grab onto the tree.

He let her snatch her hand back. “Poorly?” she asked.

“I have a poultice for the scrapes.” He pushed up, reaching under her arms to quickly lift her out of the clump of flowers before she could attack.

“I said death,” she said, jerking back from his hold once her feet were under her. She stood, her small hands fisted against her legs, teeth clenched. “I choose death.”

She was furious. She was beautiful. There among the flowers and trees, he couldn’t imagine issuing the order to his brother, Bàs, to execute the brave woman. She was rare, like golden horses from the far east. The thought of her pale and still like his father made his hand itch for his short sword to protect her. A Sutherland. The enemy. Not if she wed him. He would force the clans to unite under his rule and be victorious.

Shooting his hand forward, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers becoming a manacle. “Let me go,” she demanded, and struggled as he began to walk them back toward the battle.

Aye, the wedding was a good strategy.