Page 5 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 5

Murdoch did not know where else to take Cecilia, but he was well aware that he could not keep having a stern discussion with her in the entrance hall. Although they tried to hide, he had been keenly aware that servants were trying to observe and eavesdrop, no doubt drawn by his mother’s intrusion.

She’s too bloody soft with them.

He fumed silently, pulling Cecilia down hallway after shadowed hallway, deciding on a room where no one would bother him. Not even his mother.

“Laird Moore?” Cecilia said quietly, making him pause for a moment.

“What?”

“Ye’re hurtin’ me.”

He dropped her wrist as if it were wrapped in thorns, realizing too late that his grip had been responding to his annoyance, squeezing harder than he had intended. “Will ye walk sensibly, and nae chatter or bother me?”

It wasnae me intention to take me frustration out on ye, was what he actually meant to say, but it would not come out. After all, it would be a partial lie. She had caused this situation, she had rewritten her tale for his mother, and now he would have to endure her presence for a week because she had—no doubt deliberately—timed their arrival to coincide with a snowstorm.

Cecilia shrugged. “Of course—I wouldnae ken how to walk any other way. Unless ye find me gait amusin’? When I was a bairn, me grandmaither used to say that I trotted around like a wee horse, but I’m fairly certain I’ve grown out of it.”

“What did I just say about chatterin’?” he growled, marching on down the hallway, confident that she would follow him. After all, she still needed something from him.

Eventually, Murdoch stopped before the arched doorway at the end of a long, narrow corridor, designed to make it impossible for enemy soldiers to approach more than one at a time. Pulling out a key, he turned it in the lock and pushed the door open, standing with his arm across the doorway so that Cecilia would have to duck under it.

Instead, she stood there, waiting.

“Ye enter first,” he said coolly, observing her in the amber torchlight that flickered across her translucent skin.

She was a beauty, as his mother had pointed out. Even in her simple attire, with her hair covered, she was striking to behold. Perhaps that was why he had lifted her chin to make her look at him, feeling it was a shame for her to hide such a beautiful face by lowering her gaze to the floor. Or perhaps it was those eyes, impossibly blue, that did not deserve to be hidden.

He doubted he had ever seen a lass more beautiful, in truth. He had thought the same thing at Paisley’s wedding, even by just seeing her from afar. But it made no difference—as soon as the week was over, she would be gone, and he would be glad of the respite.

“I dinnae ken what’s in there,” Cecilia replied. “I think ye should enter first, to reassure me that it’s nae a dungeon.”

He fought to smother the spark of offense that ignited in his belly. “If I wanted to throw ye in the dungeons, I wouldnae be furtive about it.” He waved his hand into the room beyond. “This is me study.”

When she still would not move, he leaned forward, wrapped his arm around her, and whisked her into the room. He felt her attempt to resist, but she could not do anything against his strength.

“Is that how ye usually invite lasses into yer private chambers?” Cecilia muttered, quickly jumping out of his arm and wandering over to the roaring fire.

She crouched down, holding her palms to the flames.

With her back turned, he took a moment to gather himself. Maybe it was a mistake to ask for some time alone with her. She was not at all what he was accustomed to, and he was finding it difficult to adjust. Usually, women cowered at the sight of him— everyone cowered at the sight of him—so her confidence and indifference did not sit well with him.

“Ye were nae invited here,” Murdoch reminded her, making for his desk, where he sat down and waited for her to come to him.

She rocked backward, her backside landing on the rug with a thump. Apparently, she intended to sit on the floor.

“But I have been invited, M’Laird,” she said, a half-smile visible on her lips. “Yer maither has welcomed me and me aunt into the castle.”

“I can undo that if ye dinnae show proper courtesy,” he growled. “Get off the floor.”

She rolled her eyes, making his anger simmer. With a heavy sigh, she rose to her feet and dusted off her skirt, drawing his eyes for a moment to the swell of her buttocks.

Ye’ll nae tempt me. Dinnae try.

He looked away, pretending to search through a stack of blank squares of paper.

She approached with a slow sway of her hips, walking with all the elegance of a dancer. He noticed out of the corner of his eye but refused to give her the attention she clearly wished for, though he could not deny that she was an increasing contradiction of a woman.

What sort of nun, novice or otherwise, possessed such sensuality? What sort of pious lass made up a tawdry tale about him kissing her? Surely, she should not even know of such things if she had been in a convent for most of her life.

To conquer one’s enemy, one must ken one’s enemy.

“Sit,” he barked.

She did, folding her hands in her lap. “Yer maither seems lovely.”

“Me maither is none of yer concern.” He took out a quill and dipped the nib in the inkpot. “But ye are of grave concern to me.”

“I am?” She smiled, her eyes twinkling with a mischief that he did not trust at all. “I’m honored to be yer concern, M’Laird. Does that mean that ye’ll take responsibility for me temporarily? I promise I’ll be the best fake betrothed ye’ve ever had.”

His lips twitched, her exuberance both fascinating and infuriating. He allowed his mother certain liberties with her way of speaking because she was his mother, but why did this novice nun think she could talk to him as if she knew him? Was she like this with everyone?

She amused Camden. That cannae be a good sign.

Yet, he remembered wanting to know what the joke that had made Paisley and Camden burst into lively laughter was.

“When did ye arrive at the convent?” he asked bluntly, the tip of his quill poised to make notes of her life.

She sank back in the chair, her posture terrible. “I was ten.”

“Yer aunt was already a nun?”

“Aye, but she’s Maither Superior now. She wasnae back then.”

“Family?” he asked simply.

Cecilia hesitated, the good humor fading from her face. She turned her gaze toward the window, where fat flakes of snow were falling silently, sticking to the panes.

A sign of deceit? Murdoch silently wondered, for those who were about to lie or were in the middle of a lie usually could not look the other person in the eye.

“None but me aunt,” she said thickly, after a stilted pause.

“If ye lie to me, lass, I’ll?—”

“It’s nae a lie,” she shot back, her head snapping toward him. “I have nay family in this world but me aunt. I had family, but nae anymore. I trust ye’re capable of figurin’ out what that means.”

Ordinarily, Murdoch would not tolerate someone interrupting him, but he let her off. Clearly, he had struck a raw nerve… or she was a particularly gifted thespian, able to conjure the sound of true pain on a whim. He chose—rather generously, he thought—to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Is that why ye ended up at yer aunt’s convent?” he continued.

Cecilia shrugged. “Aye and nay. I was sent there for me own protection. Since then, I havenae seen me family again.”

“Protection?” Murdoch narrowed his eyes at her. “From what?”

She hesitated again. “There was… a general threat against the people of me clan. A lot of people were sent away, or fled, durin’ that initial upheaval.”

“Which clan?”

Her throat bobbed, her discomfort obvious in the way she shifted in her seat. The conversation had veered into a territory that left her uneasy, he could tell that much. But he did not yet know why.

“Clan MacDunn,” she muttered.

Murdoch barely managed to stifle the gasp that longed to escape his throat, his steely eyes suddenly seeing the woman before him in a different light.

Ever since the beginning of MacDunn’s rampage across the Highlands, Murdoch had been looking for an advantage against the wretch. But captives rarely talked, those who had fled the razed villages could not say much about the villain, and going into his territory was out of the question—many had tried, but all were dead, killed by the clan-folk who, inexplicably, remained loyal to MacDunn.

“Yer family were enemies or allies of Laird MacDunn?” Murdoch asked calmly, stifling his twisted delight.

Cecilia frowned. “Me faither was his second-in-command.”

Och, and ye walked right up to me doors.

Murdoch could hardly believe his luck, but he needed to proceed with caution. There was no way of knowing if Cecilia herself was allied to MacDunn. Who would suspect a nun, after all?

“I’m still waitin’ to hear what ye have to offer me.” He leveled her with a cool gaze.

She stared right back, brazen as anything. “The deal would be a fake betrothal until I can figure out what to do with meself. Since it’s obvious that ye have nay intention of givin’ me that, and this entire charade is just to toy with me, I dinnae have anythin’ else to offer.”

“Ye’d give up so easily?” he challenged, certain that surrender was not in her nature.

A woman did not traipse to a secluded castle in the dead of winter, knowing her story was a lie, if she had a propensity toward giving up.

“Nay, I just ken when I met me match,” she replied, resting her elbow on the armrest, her cheek on her palm. “Honestly, I should’ve picked a different laird.”

Murdoch shot to his feet, stalking around the desk to stand behind her chair. Leaning over it, his hands braced on both armrests, he whispered softly, “Too bad ye didnae. Now, ye’re at me mercy. For a week, at least.” He bent further, seeing her shiver as his breath tickled the curve of her neck. “And ye’ve just offered up exactly what I want.”

Cecilia sat rigid in the chair, her heart thundering wildly, her breaths traitorously shallow. She did not doubt that Murdoch had deliberately put himself between her and the door, hoping to intimidate her. And he was succeeding, for the most part.

However, there was a small, inexplicable part of her that shivered differently—not with fear, but with a strange anticipation, daring him to make his request.

If he bent his head a little more, his lips would touch me skin…

The caress of his warm breath tingled down into her bosom, and she closed her eyes briefly to savor the moment.

“And what might that be?” she managed to say. “I wasnae aware I’d offered anythin’. Indeed, I think I just said I dinnae have anythin’ else to offer ye.”

“Accordin’ to yer wee story, ye already gave yerself to me,” he murmured.

That’s what ye want? Och, I’m in enough trouble as it is.

“So, it wouldnae be of any benefit for me to ask for somethin’ I’ve apparently already had,” he continued, to her relief. “Nae that I’d request such base things, anyway.”

She put up a finger. “Just to be clear, it was a kiss I made up. And, as ye said, ye cannae have what ye’ve already had.” A shaky exhale left her lips. “So, if it’s nae anythin’ of that ilk, what is it ye want from me in return for a fake betrothal? What did I say that suddenly inspired ye?”

She could not figure it out, flustered as a thousand possibilities swamped her head. Regardless of her past fantasies, she did not want to have to give any part of herself to this man, with his rude tongue, his vicious eyes, and his obvious disdain for her.

Yes, she had some wilder notions, wondering what it would be like to be embraced by those powerful arms, imagining whether or not he would be as rough with his kisses and caresses as he was with his words, or if there was a gentler, more sensual side behind that mask. But those were harmless fantasies. The threat of him taking what he desired was a very real reality .

“In exchange for me help, ye’ll give me all the information ye have on Laird MacDunn and the clan,” he said, his voice a rumble that sent a half-pleasant shiver down her spine.

She blinked in surprise. “But… I left me clan when I was ten years old. I never so much as met the man. I wouldnae ken anythin’ about?—”

“We’ll go through yer memories,” he insisted sternly. “Ye’d be surprised what a bairn’s mind can absorb without realizin’ its importance.”

Considering what she had actually expected him to request, she reasoned that searching her memories for information was a small price to pay. At some point, she had some letters from her parents, but they had burned in the convent fire. Still, with some time, she was certain she would be able to recall what they had said in enough detail to appease Murdoch.

Nae that they’ll help ye at all.

But that was none of her concern.

“And in return, ye’ll pretend to be me betrothed?” she asked, to confirm.

Murdoch took her hands and held them down against the armrests of her chair, his own strong, calloused hands forming manacles around her wrists as he pinned her there for a moment.

“In return,” he muttered, “I willnae throw ye in the dungeon for yer offenses.”

He released one wrist and pulled her up by the other, apparently forgetting the strength of his earlier grip. She rose without hesitation and allowed him to usher her out of the warm study and back into the cold hallway beyond.

“Go to me maither. Ye’re in dire need of that bath she promised,” he said gruffly, not following her out. “And remember, ye only have a week to make yer end of the bargain worth me while.”

He slammed the door shut, and she jumped at the sound, feeling like it was not just the physical door that had been closed in her face.