Page 16 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)
CHAPTER 16
“Ambushed in me own study,” Murdoch muttered furiously, navigating the strangely empty hallways of his castle to the one sanctuary he had left. “The bastards. As if I dinnae give them enough of me time—they come and bother me when they havenae been summoned!”
He was beginning to think that Cecilia’s arrival at Castle Moore had put something otherworldly in motion that had not merely turned his world on its head but had turned everything around him upside down too. His councilmen barely seemed scared when they had knocked on his study door to disturb him, and their requests and demands had been far more forthright than he cared for.
Of course, they had left his study like startled rats, scuttling away as fast as their legs could carry them, but something had made everyone bolder. And Murdoch did not like that change one bit.
“Someone’s in a fine temper,” Lennox called out as he emerged from one of the branching hallways, a grin on his face.
Murdoch did not even stop, marching right past the man. “If ye have time to talk, perhaps I need to consider replacin’ ye with a more diligent man.”
“Och, ye dinnae mean that.” Lennox fell into step beside him. “I heard ye had visitors in yer study this mornin’.”
Murdoch almost drew to a halt. “I sent them on their way.”
I had to… If I let Cecilia stay in the study a moment longer, I would have done things that I wouldnae be able to undo.
Blood rushed in his ears as he thought about her, the sound of her gasps and sighs echoing in his mind, pouring fuel onto the blaze of his frustration.
By dismissing her, he had hoped that the simmering in his blood would stop, but it had not. Now, he feared that it would not even when she returned to the convent; that she would be stuck there in his brain, robbing him of sleep and sense and reason until he lost control entirely and became a babbling madman, sequestered to his tower for the foreseeable future.
“This isnae a friendly interruption, M’Laird,” Lennox said, frowning. “As part of me duties, I thought it wise to ask if anything was amiss.”
Murdoch glared at him. “Why would anythin’ be amiss?”
“Because the councilmen came to yer study at such an early hour,” Lennox replied as if it was obvious. “Is there trouble in the territory? Is that what they were comin’ to tell ye?”
Murdoch returned his gaze to the end of the long hallway, cursing himself for jumping to conclusions.
Of course, Lennox meant the councilmen visiting the study. Of course, Lennox was doing his duty and had every right to come and find his Laird if he thought something was afoot. There was no man better for the job than Lennox, but sometimes it was easy to forget when he behaved like such a fool.
“Nay trouble but the usual squabbles,” Murdoch grumbled. “They thought it of vital importance to disturb me in order to inform me that they’d appointed MacGill as their leader when I cannae be there. And then?—”
He stopped sharply; he could not even begin to talk about their other request. It would only make his blood boil again.
Lennox bowed his head. “So, I dinnae need to instruct the men?”
“Nay. What ye can do is leave me be,” Murdoch gritted out. “Do yer work and dinnae trouble me.”
Lennox nodded slowly, putting his hand on Murdoch’s shoulder in an overly familiar gesture. “I’ll do that, M’Laird. And, with all the respect in the world, I hope ye’re goin’ to yer tower to rest. Ye need it.”
“Are ye tryin’ to say somethin’?” Murdoch barked, leveling his man-at-arms with a fierce stare.
But Lennox merely sighed and shook his head. “Aye, M’Laird. I’m tryin’ to say that I’m worried about ye. Ye need to sleep. And if ye like, I’ll stand guard at the bottom of the staircase to ensure nay one disturbs ye.”
Murdoch relaxed a little, shaking off the bristling irritation that prickled through him.
In all the years he had known Lennox, the man had been the closest thing to a friend he possessed. Lennox meant well, even if he did not always go about things in the right way.
“That willnae be necessary,” Murdoch said more evenly. “But let it be kenned that I dinnae want anyone comin’ up there. Unless somethin’ is on fire or MacDunn has crossed the borders, I’m to be left alone.”
Lennox cracked a small smile. “I’ll tell ‘em, M’Laird, and I’ll make sure to tell the councilmen twice, so they’ll understand.”
Murdoch nodded his thanks and walked away from his man-at-arms, reaching the narrow door that led to the winding staircase. The climb, however, did not sap him of his strength as it should have. Instead, upon entering that sacred space, he felt refreshed and renewed, his eyes falling on the cloth-covered sculpture that required his attention.
Time always lost all meaning when Murdoch was up in his tower, invested in a new piece of work. He barely noticed the passing hours through the slitted windows, relying mostly on the glow of lanterns, their illumination more predictable than sunlight.
As such, he had no idea if he had been in there for five minutes or five hours when he heard footfalls on the staircase. Whoever it was, they were not taking pains to be quiet.
His back stiffened at the sound, his hammer and chisel poised, a curse word rolling off his tongue as the tower door flew open.
For this, I’ll have ye sit in place of the straw man for archery practice, Lennox.
“Ye’re nae permitted to be in here,” he said, not turning around.
“I dinnae care,” came a fierce voice. “The worst ye can do is to send me back to the convent, and ye’ll do that soon anyway. So, if ye dinnae mind, I’ll say what I have to say and go where I please.”
Murdoch lowered his hammer and chisel, annoyed that Cecilia had disturbed him as he was about to carve the first indent of her collarbone. Rather, the sculpture’s collarbone.
“Be very careful with yer next words, lass,” he warned. “There are worse punishments if ye dinnae speak to me with respect.”
“Frankly, ye can stuff yer respect!” she all but shouted, the scuff of her footsteps suggesting she was pacing. “Ye’ve shown none to me, and it works both ways.”
He still did not turn around, though he tried to picture her pacing back and forth in front of the door. Was she pink-cheeked with the anger that laced her voice? Was she glaring at him with those beautiful, impossibly blue eyes? Was she trembling, despite the foolish courage in her words?
I cannae even argue with her…
From their first meeting to now, he had not behaved as he ought to. So, he let the silence stretch on between them, knowing her well enough by now to be certain that she would scramble to fill it.
“Why did ye nae tell me that ye were involved with Tara MacGill?” she rasped. “Did ye enjoy humiliatin’ me? Did ye get a twisted thrill from yer disloyalty to yer actual betrothed? Did ye relish leadin’ a novice nun into temptation, then kickin’ her back out on her arse again? Och, why did ye nae just say ye were betrothed from the start?!”
Murdoch dropped his tools and spun around on the low stool, watching as the clatter of the hammer and chisel made her jump. But her fright was short-lived, her eyes ablaze with fury as she shot him her best glare.
“Betrothed?” He got to his feet, moving closer to her. “Another baseless accusation, I see.”
Her eyes widened. “Baseless? I heard it from the lass herself! Are ye goin’ to stand there and deny it?”
“I wouldnae concede it when it’s nae true,” he replied coolly, noting the way her gaze flitted to his bare chest.
He had never liked to work with his shirt on, feeling like it got in the way as he tapped the details into the sculptures.
Her throat bobbed as she backed up to the door. “She said ye were keepin’ it secret. She said ye hadnae announced it yet, then I heard her faither say he was goin’ to mention it to ye. It doesnae sound untrue to me.”
“Tara said I was her betrothed? She named me?” Murdoch was strangely curious to hear the answer as he moved ever closer to her.
He could not help it. He was ‘the Beast,’ and she was the little rabbit that had cornered herself. How could he resist?
Cecilia hesitated, furrowing her brow as she looked away from him. “Well… nay, but it couldnae be anyone but ye.”
“Aye, MacGill mentioned me reconsiderin’ marriage to her,” Murdoch growled, hooking his hand under her chin and raising her gaze to his. “And I kicked him out of me study with the rest of the councilmen for darin’ to suggest it.”
She blinked up at him. “But?—”
“But nothin’, lass.” He rolled his tongue across his lower lip, ravenous for her. “I’ve never cared a jot for Tara. She’s nae even a good scribe. Unfortunately for her faither, me taste in lasses has grown very specific over the past few days.”
Her breath hitched. “Oh?”
“Dinnae ‘oh’ me now, lass.” He bent his head, bringing his lips to within a breath of hers. “What was that ye were sayin’ about punishment? What would ye say the punishment should be for another false accusation?”
Her chest rose and fell frantically, her eyes shining with a reflected hunger. He knew it should have bothered him that she was not afraid, but her fear was not what he wanted. Yes, he wanted her screaming, but in a very different way.
“Well?” he prompted, his hand sliding down her chin to wrap around her throat.
He applied the faintest amount of pressure and relaxed his fingers again, resisting the urge to groan in the back of his throat as her breath caught—a gasp of anticipation that sank into his veins, possessing him with a madness that only the taste of her would satisfy.
She said nothing, prompting him to try something else.
Sliding his hand further down to her bosom, he grabbed the neckline of her dress and tore it without effort. Her gasp was louder this time, and as he lowered his head and took her pert nipple in her mouth, he sucked hard. She bucked away from the door, her hands shooting out to grasp his arms, her fingernails sinking into his flesh.
Better…
Releasing her nipple, he bit down on the supple flesh of her breast. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to strike a fragile balance between pleasure and pain. A visceral display of what he wanted to do to her—that devouring her body and soul would be the only suitable punishment for her accusation.
She cried out, her voice cracking as she murmured, “Nay, Murdoch!”
He pulled back sharply, staring at her in concern. For though his tastes were particular, he was not someone who enjoyed a woman without her consent. Certainly not a sorceress like Cecilia.
“The dress,” she panted, clutching at his shirt to pull him back to her. “It’s nae mine. Ye cannae tear it. Yer maither… lent it to me.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “A pity ye had such a mishap on yer bedchamber door. I’ll have a guard come and fix the rusty nail there tomorrow.”
She frowned, and then her eyes widened in understanding. “A pity, indeed,” she whispered. “I like… this dress.”
“I dinnae,” he grunted, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her away from the door.
He walked backward, holding her, until the back of his calves touched the three-legged stool he had vacated. Keeping her guessing, he let go of her and quickly moved behind her.
Taking a step backward, he took in the shape of her figure and the sculpture beyond her, noting where the waist was too wide and the swell of her hips did not slope at quite the right angle. But, of course, he could not be entirely sure of the details while she still wore that dress, and he was nothing if not a perfectionist when it came to his sculptures.
“What are ye doin’?” she asked in a breathy voice.
“Thinkin’ of what to do with ye, to ensure ye never falsely accuse me again,” he replied, closing the gap between them once more.