Page 1 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 1

Six Months Ago

“What are ye doin’ here?” Paisley Callum, soon to be Lady Cairn, shrieked excitedly as Cecilia slunk into her bedchamber.

Cecilia grinned and put a finger to her lips. “Ye’ll summon the guards, yellin’ like that. And I’d rather nae be dragged back to the nuns kickin’ and screamin’ before I’ve had the chance to celebrate yer nuptials.”

She hurried over to where Paisley sat up in bed, picking at her breakfast, and climbed into bed with her and helped herself to a quarter piece of toast, thickly slathered with butter.

“How did ye get out?” Paisley whispered, putting her arms around her friend and hugging her tight. “I wasnae sure if ye’d be able to. Camden said he’d had words with yer aunt, but she wasnae willin’ to let ye out of the church for the occasion. Said it wasnae seemly or somethin’ and kept remindin’ him that ye’re supposed to be a closed order. ”

“Och, if I had a coin for every time she said that, I’d be a wealthy lass, indeed,” Cecilia snorted. “She doesnae ken I’ve snuck out, and she’s nae goin’ to either. I left a note sayin’ I was goin’ to pick mushrooms. As long as I come back with a basket full of ‘em, she’ll nae question it.”

Paisley quirked an eyebrow. “Ye dinnae think yer aunt will ken it’s a lie?”

“Och nay, she’ll undoubtedly ken it’s a lie, but she’ll prefer the fib to the truth, and after she’s sentenced me to hard labor for a couple of days, all will be forgiven.” Cecilia grinned, chewing happily.

It was good toast, far better than the convent’s measly daily breakfast of watery, oversalted porridge.

She leaned against her friend’s side, and the young women sighed in unison, sending them both into a fit of giggles. A lot had changed since they’d first met eleven years ago, dumped at the convent within days of each other. They had immediately bonded over their newness and their fear of being in unfamiliar surroundings, with no idea of when they might be able to leave again. If ever.

Paisley was three years older than Cecilia, but Cecilia liked to think they had shared the role of replacement older sister—she offered up the wisdom of the world to Paisley, and Paisley worried over her when she had pushed those worldly boundaries a little too far.

“Ye’re gettin’ married,” Cecilia murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “Ye’re goin’ to be a Lady. Och, and he’s more handsome than any of the shepherd boys I’ve met. If I wasnae yer dearest friend, I’d be sick with envy.”

Paisley paused, glancing at her with something akin to concern. “Ye’re nae, are ye? Ye mustnae be.”

“Of course nae!” Cecilia waved a dismissive hand. “I couldnae be happier. Ye’re a lucky lass, Pais. And who kens—maybe I’ll find meself a Laird to throw me over his shoulder and steal me away from the convent at the festivities later. Ye’d best believe I’ll be keepin’ an eye out for such a man.”

After the fire that had ravaged the convent, the nuns had moved—at Camden’s insistence—to a church in a nearby village. Temporarily, of course, until the convent could be rebuilt. But without the cloisters and the high walls of the convent to give the illusion of a prison, Cecilia had become even more restless with the entire idea of taking vows and being stuck in that place forever.

If an opportunity presented itself to ensure she never had to go back there, she could not promise that she would not seize it with both hands.

“So, if ye ken of any,” she added with a smirk, “make sure ye push ‘em into me path tonight. Och, and I’ll need to borrow a dress. I cannae very well attend yer weddin’ or the celebrations after in me novice’s clothin’. It rather gives me away.”

Paisley smiled. “I ken the perfect one.”

“Man or dress?”

“Dress,” Paisley replied with a thoughtful frown. “Ye’ll have to let me think about the other.”

Cecilia swallowed the last bite of her toast. “Nay, I’ve changed me mind—ye just think about how ridiculously happy ye’re goin’ to be.” She rested her head against Paisley’s. “That’s me only wish for ye, for as long as ye both shall live. But I hope he kens that if he does a single thing to upset ye, I’ll be at his heels like a dog with a bone.”

Paisley laughed, her giddy smile a balm to Cecilia’s restlessness. “I’ll tell him, though I hope it doesnae scare him off.”

“If it does, he’s nae the man for ye,” Cecilia replied, putting an arm around her friend and hugging her close, savoring the last moments of their sisterhood and praying silently that not too much would change.

The convent had been bearable for all those years because of Paisley. Even the last month of her absence had been bearable because Cecilia had known her best friend would eventually come back, but that foray into the outside world was permanent now. Without her, Cecilia did not know what to do—finally take her vows or damn it all.

Sipping a cup of heady, honey-rich mead that, ironically, had been sent as a wedding gift from the nuns, Cecilia jabbed Paisley lightly in the ribs, whispering, “Who is that broodin’ bear?”

“Who?” Paisley shouted above the din of the musicians and their lively tune.

Cecilia rolled her eyes and laughed. “Discretion, Pais. Discretion!”

“Sorry.” Paisley chuckled behind her hand. “Who are we lookin’ at?”

“Him.” Cecilia subtly tilted her head toward the far side of the Great Hall, to a shadowed corner where a lone figure sipped his drink with all the displeasure of someone trying to become impervious to a particular kind of bitter poison.

He had been in that corner since the dancing and singing began, apparently refusing to involve himself in the merriment. Nor had Cecilia seen him say much to anyone throughout the entire evening, just eating his food, drinking his drinks, and generally making anyone near to him too afraid to even ask if he liked the taste of the roast pheasant.

He towered over the other guests, including the three Lairds he had deigned to utter a word to, with an unkempt mane of raven black hair and stony gray eyes that glared from behind a black leather mask that covered the top half of his face. Whether he was just wearing it for the occasion or he wore it always, Cecilia did not know, but she was intrigued to discover what it was that he felt inclined to hide.

From where she was standing, he did not look grotesque. Far from it. Intimidating, perhaps, but the kind that sent a pleasant little shiver through her veins.

His sharp eyes turned toward the two women, and he bowed his head slightly. Paisley bobbed her head in response, but Cecilia did not, flashing him a grin instead. His eyes hardened, and his upper lip curled as he looked away with cold disapproval.

“Did ye mean Murdoch? Am I lookin’ in the right direction?” Paisley whispered.

“I mean that burly tree of a man with the blisterin’ scowl,” Cecilia replied, smirking.

Paisley chewed on her lower lip. “Aye, that’s Murdoch. Murdoch Blaine, Laird of Clan Moore. He’s… a strange soul.”

“Strange how?”

Cecilia observed his short beard, following a corded neck down to his broad shoulders and a barrel chest that pushed the fabric of his saffron-yellow léine to its straining limit. The imposing muscles were tragically half-covered by the plaid sash draped over his shoulder.

So much man. I bet his hands are the size of me head.

He was certainly an exciting change, compared to the wiry shepherds she was used to—the only men aside from the abbot and his acolytes, who were permitted to come close enough to the convent for a clandestine conversation or two.

“He’s very… stern. Doesnae say too much unless it’s about duty. Keeps to himself,” Paisley replied. “In truth, I dinnae ken him very well, but he works often with Camden. That bein’ said, I dinnae think he’d pair up too well with ye. Ye’d be desperate to hear a jest quickly enough.”

Cecilia tilted her head, wishing that the feasting table and her vantage point were not hiding the man’s lower half. “I dinnae ken. I reckon I could coax a smile onto that frosty face.”

“Och now, what’s this mischief?” a masculine voice rumbled from behind the two women, arms sliding around Paisley’s waist. “A married lass and an innocent, wee nun shouldnae be whisperin’ about deadly men like him. I hear that his sharpest glare has actually killed a man. The man was already dyin’, mind ye, but I’d swear it was one of Murdoch’s scowls that made him give up the last of his will to live.”

“Camden, there are people watchin’,” Paisley said shyly, her face lighting up, her cheeks flushing a happy pink.

Camden kissed her shoulder. “Let ‘em watch, the wee degenerates.”

Cecilia chuckled at the scene, overjoyed for her dearest friend. It appeared that Laird Cairn had not only swept Paisley off her feet, but he had also brought her out of her shell too. In all the years Cecilia had known her friend, she had never expected to see Paisley so… free. That , more than the husband, was something to envy, for though Cecilia took liberties and behaved mostly as she pleased, she was not free in the same way.

And I probably never will be…

“How’s yer man, Laird Cairn?” she asked, putting on a smirk. “I heard ye were keen on enlistin’ me into yer archery squad after I hurled that conker at his head.”

Camden chuckled. “Bruised in pride and skull. He’s here somewhere if ye’re in the mood to frighten him a second time. I wouldnae mind seein’ what ye’d pick for yer weapon of choice.”

“It’d have to be one of those chestnuts over there. I’m a creature of habit, M’Laird,” Cecilia replied. “Usually, in more ways than one, but yer dear wife saw fit to lend me a dress.”

Camden and Paisley both laughed at that, so utterly in love that their eyes sparkled in unison, their amusement aimed at Cecilia but their attention fixed on each other.

Camden clearly could not keep his hands off his wife, and she seemed so relaxed in his embrace—a world away from the bashful, embarrassed girl who would turn bright red and gasp at the stories Cecilia used to tell of her exploits in the outside world.

“Och, and I’m nae a nun yet,” Cecilia added. “Nor that innocent, truth be told. Or wee—I’m taller than most. Do ye have trouble with yer sight, M’Laird, or can ye nae concentrate on observation when ye have the most beautiful lass in the world in yer arms?”

Camden quirked an amused eyebrow. “Och, I like this friend of yers. Why did ye nae tell me that ye used to keep such wicked company, love? Sharp as a dagger, this one.”

“Or blunt as a conker,” Cecilia quipped.

Paisley laughed softly, reaching out to hold Cecilia’s hand. “I’ve got the rest of our lives to tell ye all about the years we spent together, though she tells the stories best.” She paused. “Ye will come back to see me, Cecilia, will ye nae?”

“Me aunt can try to stop me, but she hasnae succeeded before,” Cecilia replied, giving her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “All she’s done is enhance me talent for escapin’.”

With a mischievous smile, Camden cast a glance at Murdoch Blaine, who was staring out the Great Hall windows as if there was not a raucous celebration of love and merriment in full swing. A staunch and severe guardian, so tall and muscular that Cecilia had no choice but to wonder what it might be like to be crushed against him in a feverish embrace.

He wouldnae be gentle with me, that’s for certain.

Her mead-addled mind wandered, sending a pleasant, little shiver through her.

“Aye, that settles it,” Camden declared. “A lass like ye shouldnae be curious about an ogre like him. Ye’d drive yerself to madness tryin’ to get a laugh out of him. The only person I’ve ever seen make him smile is me wife, a few hours ago at our weddin’, and even then I’m nae certain it wasnae just the wind tuggin’ his grimace in a different direction.”

Cecilia looked back at Camden. “Fear nae, M’Laird, me curiosity has already waned. While I relish a challenge, I have to ken I have a hope of winnin’, and that man over there doesnae seem to have a speck of fun in his giant figure.”

“Nay, I dinnae think that’s fair,” Paisley protested quietly. “Please, be nice to him—that goes for ye too, Camden. I dinnae think he looks like he’s nay fun. I think he looks like someone who has been through… a great deal. Ye dinnae end up that way if ye’ve had a happy life, ye ken?”

Camden feigned a pout. “Should I be jealous, love?”

“Of course nae,” Paisley replied, pretending to roll her eyes. “I just… think he might nae be so grim if he kenned more kindness. And with the three of ye other Lairds married, me love, it’s goin’ to be harder for him now. He doesnae have anyone, doesnae want anyone, and… maybe he feels that loneliness more keenly than ye’d think. I doubt it helps that everyone calls him ‘The Beast.’”

Camden nuzzled her neck, murmuring, “Ye’re too sweet for yer own good, love. He’s made his lonely bed—he can lie alone in it, just as he wants, grumpin’ and grumblin’ at his leisure.”

“He doesnae have a wife?” Cecilia asked, perhaps more curious than she had suggested.

Camden snorted. “He bursts into flames at the mere mention of havin’ one. If we hear of him gettin’ wed, there’ll be an omen first—snow fallin’ in Hell, the seas dryin’ up, birds fallin’ from the sky, me wife bein’ kissed in public without blushin’.”

“Och well, maybe Murdoch and I have one thing in common, after all,” Cecilia said, clasping her hands together as if to pray, adopting her most pious expression, though she did not have her novice nun’s wimple and habit to complete the picture. “Even if I wasnae a novitiate, ye’d have to bind me by me arms and legs and haul me down the aisle.”

They all laughed at that, the sound and the merriment worth every jot of punishment that Cecilia might receive for sneaking out. She had forgotten how nice it could be, to be around those whose lives did not revolve around the hours of this prayer or that prayer; to be around people who knew how to enjoy themselves, who lived for the sake of living, milking every drop of joy and experience from life.

But while ye all get to continue in this world, I’ll have to return to me own…

The vocation of being a nun had never called to her, despite her aunt’s best efforts. And Cecilia knew why. Although it was impossible, in the back of her mind, she had always assumed that she would one day go home, as her father had once promised.

“Ye might only be there for a few months, and even if it turns into years, they’ll pass by in nay time at all. Then, ye’ll come back here, and it’ll be as if ye were never away.”

She had never forgotten those words, clinging to them long after they were made hollow, turning them into rebellion.

Struck with sudden sadness, Cecilia turned her head toward the windows, not wanting Paisley to see her anything but joyful. But instead of the dark world beyond the panes, her eyes met the steely, glinting glare of Murdoch.

Her heart jumped in fright, his fierce gaze not just meeting hers but piercing right through it, right through her , giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘shooting daggers.’ Maybe that man in Camden’s story really had given up his will to live, being on the receiving end of a look like that. So cold and withering.

Though it went against her very nature, she dropped her gaze first, not wanting him to see the sheen of tears in her eyes either. But even as she pretended to observe the dancers, whirling around in a near-violent reel, she still felt the burn of his gaze. A singeing, prickling feeling up the back of her neck, like a lit taper brought too close.

Aye, that is a warnin’ and nay mistake.

As if the heavens themselves had unleashed a devil as a last resort to make her see, at long last, that the only place for her was in the convent, near no man at all.