Page 31 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)
CHAPTER 31
Murdoch longed to free Cecilia from her bonds, swoop her up into his arms and carry her out of there, but that would have to wait. For now, he preferred to use his anger—his unbridled fury. George had not only stolen his wife away but had also intended to harm her. Indeed, George might have taken Cecilia away from him altogether if Murdoch had not arrived in time.
And to think I doubted her for a second, thinkin’ she might’ve fled from me…
“Close yer eyes, lass,” he demanded more firmly. He did not want her to see just how beastly he could be.
She did as he asked, though she trembled on the table George had bound her to. She was not properly attired for the weather, her cloak was removed, and she was clearly frozen to the bone.
I’ll warm ye soon enough, lass.
“I trusted ye, George,” Murdoch grunted, stalking toward the older man.
George was frozen in fear, the poker shaking in his hand. It was always like that with councilmen—they talked as if they were courageous and would take up arms if there ever was a battle to be fought, but the truth was, they were all cowards when it came to actual fighting.
“As I trusted ye,” George retorted, snapping out of it. “Ye were supposed to wed me daughter. Ye betrayed me. This lass isnae even of our clan. She’ll die, M’Laird, and ye’ll only have yerself to?—”
He let out a scream as Murdoch drew his broadsword and brought it down hard on the poker in George’s hand. A warning of what was to come, a fate that George would not be able to escape.
A visible ripple vibrated through the metal rod and down the older man’s arm, a wince contorting his face. But there was one other thing about councilmen. When their lives were threatened, they could always muster some bravery.
George swung the poker wildly, stumbling backward as if some distance would make a jot of difference. He swung again and again until he was red in the face, his watery blue eyes wide with terror. All Murdoch had to do was walk slowly toward him with his broadsword raised.
“I told ye I would never marry Tara,” he said coolly. “It cannae be me fault if ye didnae listen when ye were told over and over.”
He swung his broadsword, the clang of metal on metal echoing through the cabin as it struck the poker. This time, George could not keep hold of the trembling object. It fell from his hand and clattered on the floor.
Murdoch moved quickly, swiping up the poker and driving it into George’s shoulder. It did not pierce the flesh—it did not have to. Murdoch just wanted George to feel the burn, to feel what Cecilia would have felt if that poker had touched her precious skin.
George howled, his hand flying to the hole in his shoulder. And as he did, Murdoch raised his sword and drove it through the man’s stomach.
Despite his reputation, Murdoch did not revel in prolonging people’s agony. He was no torturer. But George had to die for what he had done.
“Ye fashioned yer own noose when ye let yer ambition drive ye to do this,” Murdoch growled as he drew back his sword.
Spluttering and falling to his knees, George glared up at his Laird. “The council… will oust ye… for this.”
“The council willnae say a word. Only yer daughter will suffer, but nae at me hand. Ye’ve disgraced her today, George, and ye’ll go to yer grave kennin’ that. Ye should have never touched what’s mine,” Murdoch replied, driving his sword into George’s chest. A blow that no man could survive.
Bloodied and severely disappointed in the man he had once trusted, Murdoch sheathed his sword and searched George’s limp body for the key to Cecilia’s shackles. Once he had the key in his hand, he hurried to his wife’s side.
Her eyes were still closed.
“Ye can open them now,” he told her, carefully releasing her from her bonds.
Conscious that his hands were covered in blood, he tried to wipe it away before he took hold of her arms and helped her into a sitting position. He turned her around so she was perched on the edge of the table and gazed down at her.
“Did he hurt ye? Did he do anythin’ to ye?” he asked, his voice cracking.
She shook her head, though she was shaking from head to toe. “Nay. I am… all right.”
“Are ye sure?”
She nodded slowly.
Spurred on by an uncontrollable impulse, he bent to pull her into his arms. But her hands came up to stop him, and there was a hint of fear in her eyes as she did so. He staggered back as if she had shoved him hard, realizing what he had done—even with her eyes closed, she had seen the Beast within him. And she did not want to be touched by him.
“Come,” he said stiffly. “We should leave. Me horse is outside.”
He left ahead of her, careful not to make her aversion worse by offering her his arm or offering to carry her.
She eventually joined him outside and pulled herself into the saddle. He wished he could join her, hold her close as they rode back to the safety of Castle Moore. He wished he could kiss away her fear and embrace her with all of the relief that flooded his veins. Instead, he walked beside the horse, holding the reins, giving her the distance she so obviously needed.
“There’s nay harm done,” the healer declared, setting a cup of medicinal tea beside the chair where Cecilia sat. “All I’d say is make sure ye stay as warm as ye can, so ye dinnae catch a chill. And put that salve on yer wrists if they start to itch.”
Cecilia barely listened, watching Murdoch pace back and forth in front of the fireplace in the healer’s quarters. He had not said a word to her since they left the cabin, and she could not figure out if he was angry with her or if this was how he usually behaved after killing a man.
“I’ll leave ye to drink yer tea,” the healer said, casting a curious look at Murdoch before taking herself out of the room.
Cecilia picked up the cup and grimaced as she took a sip, surprised by the bitter taste. She waited for Murdoch to say something, anything, but the silence stretched on, and she knew that she was going to have to be the one to break it.
“Thank ye for rescuin’ me,” she said quietly.
Murdoch halted, turning to look at her. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed it.
A second later, he straightened up, his expression blank. “There’s a keep nae far from here. Ye can see it from yer chamber window. It’ll be prepared for ye in the next few days, so ye can move into it next week.”
“Excuse me?” She stared at him, not bothering to hide the hurt that was probably etched on her face. “Ye want me… to leave?”
What was the point in him coming to find her and saving her from George if he did not want her to be in the castle anymore? Was he really that angry with her that he was evicting her from her new home?
He would not look her in the eye. “After what ye saw today… after what happened to ye today, I cannae let ye near me.” He paused. “I couldnae protect ye, Cecilia. It was me duty, and I failed ye because I chose to keep a distance from ye. I have lost yer trust, and as such, I have lost any right to be at yer side.”
She blinked at him in disbelief. “What are ye talkin’ about? Ye saved me, Murdoch. If it wasnae for ye, I’d be dead in that cabin. Nor have ye lost me trust. I decided to venture off on me own, against yer wishes.”
“Nevertheless, I think ye’d be safer in yer own keep with an escort of yer own,” he insisted, shaking his head slightly.
“And I think that’s nonsense,” she huffed, rising from the chair.
“Ye were afraid of me,” he said, almost sadly. “It was the first time I saw ye so afraid, the way everyone else is. I put that terror in yer eyes, and I dinnae want to see it again. I’d… grown accustomed to ye nae bein’ scared of me, and I cannae undo what I have done.”
She moved toward him. “I wouldnae ask ye to, and I’m nae afraid of ye.”
“Perhaps ye should be,” he sighed. “I am the Beast, after all.”
She was about to tell him that she had not been scared of him but of the blood that covered his hands when he had tried to embrace her. She had not wanted George’s blood on her, that was all.
But before she could utter a word, he asked, “Do ye want to ken why I wear a mask?”
She frowned for a moment and then nodded. “I assume ye have an injury. Incurred when ye were a pirate.”
He laughed darkly. “It was long before I became a pirate.” He touched his mask, and for a second, Cecilia thought he might remove it. “I’m scarred under it. Me faither branded me with the flat of his sword, heated by the fire, because I dared to question him when I was a bairn. I was already a beast when I joined the pirates. Hell, I begged them to take me with them. And the fact that ye almost suffered the same fate because of me…”
Cecilia’s stomach dropped, her heart leaping into her throat, her eyes welling with sudden tears. As she looked at Murdoch, she saw the terrified child he had once been, expecting a father’s love but receiving nothing but a permanent scar. She wanted to go to him and embrace him, hold him tightly, but as she took another step forward, he moved away.
She remembered something Paisley had said during her wedding celebrations.
“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?”
Lennox had also said something similar, alluding to the fact that Murdoch had been through a lot.
Of course he was cold and dismissive and did not smile or laugh. Who would, when they had been through something like that? And being branded was likely just a tidbit of what he had suffered at his father’s hands. Aileen, too.
“Is that why ye keep pushin’ me away?” she asked softly, for he was doing it right now, putting up his walls. “Is that why ye never wanted to marry and why ye dinnae want to have bairns of yer own?”
Murdoch turned his back on her. “Me faither’s line ends with me. I willnae risk passin’ his madness on to me bairns or subjectin’ me bairns to a similar fate if his madness catches up to me.”
“But ye wouldnae do that,” Cecilia argued, approaching him with caution. “I wasnae scared of ye—I am nae scared of ye because I ken ye’re a good man.”
When she touched his shoulder, he flinched and walked away from her. “I’m nae a good man. Do ye think me clan would be so afraid of me if I was? I can be a good laird, aye, but I willnae be a faither. I wouldnae give me faither the satisfaction of havin’ any sort of legacy. As I said, his bloodline ends with me.”
She stared at the back of his head, trying to make sense of what he was saying. In truth, it did not sound like he thought his father’s madness was contagious, but more like he wished to have vengeance in any way that he could. The former, she could have accepted. The latter, it angered her. It felt too much like giving up, and not at all like Murdoch.
“Well, I think ye’re a fool if ye’d rather get revenge on a dead man than have a future with me, where ye might just find that ye can be happy,” she said curtly. “I think ye’re a fool for nae wantin’ to get yer revenge by bein’ happy and by nae bein’ the faither that yers was. But what do I ken? Ye willnae even believe me when I say I’m nae the least bit afraid of ye.”
Murdoch kept his back to her, saying nothing.
“I think ye should leave and think long and hard about what true justice looks like,” she continued. “Until me residence is ready, I’ll be stayin’ with Paisley. If ye dinnae want me at yer side, I willnae force ye.”
He turned, refusing to look at her, not saying a word as he walked past her and left the healer’s quarters. He was pushing her away again, and, this time, she feared it might be for good.
If only there was a tonic or medicinal tea to erase what ye’ve been through…
Her heart sank as the door shut behind him, leaving her alone once again. She might have been gifted in the art of persuasion, but she could not undo a wretched childhood that had already shaped him into the man he was.
Some things simply could not be changed. Yet, she hoped, prayed that distance would not tear them apart, but somehow bring them together again.