Page 10 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

10

T he cold stone biting through the thin fabric of her shirt served as a reminder that what had just happened was real . It really had happened.

Keith’s weight shifted above her, but before her mind could fully register what had just happened, he was already pulling away.

The heat of his body left her in a sudden wave, and Ersie fought the ridiculous ache of its absence. Her hands, pinned just moments ago, were now free.

He stood, his breathing ragged, and extended one large hand toward her.

She hesitated. The ground beneath her wasn’t the reason she was reluctant to rise.

“I… This was wrong, Me Laird,” she said, not quite able to meet his eyes. Her voice was tight, choked with emotions she couldn’t afford to name. “But I thank ye for the sparrin’ session.”

“Is that what ye call a sparrin’ session?” he asked, his voice low and thick with something more dangerous than humor.

Ersie froze, and her head snapped up. Her glare could have lit kindling.

But Keith only stared back, unmoved. The barest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Her jaw tightened as his amusement set her entire body ablaze, though not with anger. “If I were tryin’ to seduce ye, Me Laird, ye’d ken it.”

His gaze swept over her again, slower this time, deliberate. She felt it linger on her waist, her heaving chest, her slightly parted lips. His gaze darkened as she bit her bottom lip.

“I ken what ye were tryin’ to do, lass,” he said. “I only wonder if ye realize it, or if ye are just trouble in a pretty shape, stumbling about with a blade and a mouth that could undo kingdoms.”

Ersie’s breath hitched—not in surprise. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to strike him, and his eyes tracked the movement. For a moment, neither of them moved, and the air between them crackled.

“ Stumblin’?” she asked finally.

“I thank ye for yer help,” he said, ignoring the bite in her tone. His hand was still outstretched toward her, steady as ever. “I hope this doesnae change yer mind.”

His eyes fell to her lips and then met her gaze once more.

“Nay,” she said, taking his hand at last and letting him help her to her feet. “As long as we dinnae… repeat that, I’ll be happy to help.”

She brushed herself off and straightened, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered on her face—not with possession or amusement, but something more dangerous.

Keith exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. For a moment, the only sound was the wind skimming over the stone of the training yard and the rasp of their breaths. She was still close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, and it made her gut twist.

“Well then,” he said finally, “if ye are still happy to help, we still need that man…” Pausing only for a moment, his eyes fell to her lips again. “Unless ye think those lips of yers can coax more out of a man than mine could.”

Her eyes flashed, not with anger but with scalding heat all the same. She opened her mouth to respond but closed it just as quickly, chewing on the inside of her cheek, watching him. Watching the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. The way his chest rose and fell with steady ease.

Finally, she tilted her head, smirking slightly. “What? Are ye thinkin’ of stormin’ the gates of every enemy clan ye have ever had?”

The muscle in his jaw fluttered. “Nay—but that wouldnae be the worst idea.”

“In fact,” she said, exhaling audibly as she reached for her sword and slipped it back into its sheath with practiced ease, “I think we should go to the village. Meet some of the people there.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Ye’d be surprised how much more folk speak when it’s nae a laird askin’ them.”

He didn’t argue, but merely nodded. Though his eyes never left hers.

“We’ll talk about it over breakfast,” he said at last, his voice rough around the edges. As she turned to go, he called after her, “Wear a dress, Lady Ersie.”

She stopped, stiffening. Then, she turned her head just enough for him to see the glare in her narrowed eyes. “If I do, it will be to spite ye.”

She didn’t wait for his answer. She left him standing on the training grounds, still feeling the burn of his lips on hers, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest.

“Wear a dress.”

“Och! I’ll wear a dress—to me funeral!” she said through gritted teeth as she passed through the stone archway and into the silent keep.

In the early morning hush, the quiet rushed over her—not empty, just expectant. Ersie moved through the corridors with lighter steps, her thoughts drifting easily back to the clash of steel and the press of lips in maddening succession.

The flickering torches cast long shadows on the walls, and her boots echoed faintly against the polished floors.

She crossed the long gallery that led to the staircase, but then paused. Curiosity tugged at her. The door on the right side of this wing had never been pointed out, and in an instant, she found herself pushing deliberately through it.

The large door clicked shut, and to her surprise, it did not open into a corridor, but a large room.

The room was lined with tomes of various faded colors, a dark and unlit hearth, and a tall, looming, massive painting.

A portrait.

He is everywhere…

Younger but no less fearsome. His image drew her in, her feet moving without thought. His inky black hair was wind-swept, and his dark green riding cloak flared behind him like the wing of some battle-worn bird. His eyes were unmistakable. Cold. Steady. Unforgiving. And the sword gripped loosely at his side was the same that met her blade only moments ago.

She forced herself to blink, her heart hammering loudly in her ears. Ersie had closed the distance between her and the portrait, and now she was close enough to reach out and touch him.

He is…

She tried to form words about the depiction of Keith Dunn, Laird of Clan MacAuley, but fell woefully short. Her fingers grazed the large golden frame and nameplate, her eyes never leaving his until finally, a movement beyond the window pulled her gaze away.

It was Lucas. He seemed to be walking toward the training grounds, but Ersie somehow knew better—Lucas Dunn was no warrior. Not in the way Keith was.

Lucas bore similar features as his brother but was not handsome in the same way. The younger Dunn’s features were obviously sharp, and he had inherited the same cheekbones, but his was a more evident beauty—one that would be burdensome yet useful.

Her eyes swept over the portrait once more, landing on Keith’s, before she turned on her heel and continued toward her chambers. But something in that painted stare followed her long after she forced herself to look away.

* * *

Keith allowed a small, tight smile to tug at the corner of his mouth as he stared at the empty path where Ersie had vanished. It had hit him like a blade through the fog. One moment they were circling each other with steel, and the next he was drowning in the taste of her.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her.

He hadn’t even thought about it until her breath caught under him, until the fire in her eyes met something molten in his chest.

It was a mistake.

A dangerous one.

And yet the memory of her mouth burned hotter than any brand. He’d felt her soften just slightly beneath him, only to tense up again, and that contrast… it had sunk into his bones. She tasted like defiance and desperation. The venom he craved, even though it drove him into a frenzy.

His smile vanished just as quickly as it came as Lucas’s figure emerged from the shadowed archway on the far end of the grounds. His brother’s ever-easy swagger was irritatingly present even this early in the day.

“She’ll be gone in a few days,” he muttered under his breath, the gravel of his voice nearly lost to the breeze drifting through the courtyard. “She must be… for her own good.”

“Braither,” Lucas said, lifting a letter and waving it as he closed the distance between them.

“What is it?” Keith asked, his irritation quelled momentarily as his younger brother started whistling a tune from their childhood, a lopsided grin playing on Lucas’ lips.

The thought of the young boys they used to be warmed Keith’s belly slightly.

“A message from MacAitken.”

“Did ye read it?” Keith said, trying to eye the wax seal for integrity, but Lucas interrupted his assessment.

“Aye, of course I did. It seems that MacAitken has allowed his sister to remain here. Says he trusts—” Lucas paused as Keith ripped the letter from his hands, scanning its contents wildly, muttering the message aloud.

… trust her decision. Though if she stays a day longer than agreed upon, I will consider it a declaration of…

“War,” the two brothers said in unison.

Ciaran Barcley’s scrawl was firm and clear, laced with the tempered warning of a man who knew the value of diplomacy and threat and who might have also been keenly aware of a scandalously patched-up scenario.

He kens she didnae come here of her own accord.

“Send word back, Braither,” Keith instructed, folding the parchment with care. “Tell him that his sister is under me protection and that I respect our agreement. She will leave when the two weeks end.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Ye really think that ye will manage to… wrap this up by then?”

The hidden meaning in the question gave Keith a moment’s pause, before he shot his brother a sharp look. “I’ll manage.”

His brother held up both hands in mock surrender but grinned, nonetheless. “Careful. If ye arenae, ye’ll end up like the rest of us.”

“The rest of ye?”

Lucas snorted as if the answer was obvious—and it was, of course, but Keith refused to breathe life into it.

Instead, he turned, heading toward the keep without his brother.

Like the rest of ye—furiously tied down and preoccupied.

A cluster of servants fell silent as he approached, each dipping their heads. One of the younger maids caught his eye—Isla.

“Ye,” he said, nodding to her.

She blinked and approached quickly. “Me Laird?” she asked, dipping her head again.

“The mornin’ is fine—ye ken the sun rarely comes out. I wish to have breakfast in the gardens. Set it up near the eastern hedge. Quiet but with enough shade.”

“I will tell Mrs. Byrd and Mr.—”

“ Tell Lady Ersie,” he interrupted, eyeing the fabric she was clutching. Brilliant shades of green draped over her arms.

Isla nodded imperceptibly. “Aye.”

“Are those for the lady?” he asked quickly, his teeth clenching at the thought of seeing Ersie wrapped in his favorite color.

“Aye, Me Laird. As ordered,” the maid replied, slightly lifting the bundle to his perusal.

Keith’s jaw ticked. “Good. Make sure there’s oatbread, fruit, and whatever fresh meat the cook can find.”

“Aye, Me Laird. Right away.”

As the maid hurried off, Keith stepped through the side archway that would lead him through the back gardens. The route was quiet, as it often was in this early hour. Most of the keep hadn’t awoken yet, which suited him. It gave him time to think.

And thinking was the last damned thing he wanted to do.

His tunic clung to his shoulders and back, the cold sweat a reminder.

I should never have kissed her, he scolded inwardly, swiping at the long grass as he tore through the glen toward the loch.

The taste of her still lingered on his lips, like blood and honey, sharp and sweet and all-consuming. Her fire, her bite, her venom… the way she dared to push against him and pull him in like no one else had ever done… it nearly undid him.

She was dangerous. Not because she was armed or because she truly had the renowned skill of the MacGordon warriors—wielding steel like a man twice her size.

No. Ersie Barcley was dangerous because she made him forget. Forget the vows he’d made after burying a bairn too small for this world. Forget the years he had spent hardening his soul into stone.

He reached the edge of the loch and took off his tunic, tossing it to the ground before dropping into a low crouch. It was quiet, the loch shimmering like glass.

He paused there before slowly dipping his hands into the cold water, disturbing the still surface.

She shouldnae be here.

He splashed the water on his shoulders and torso.

And yet she is, and now her braither kens it…

The weight of her presence pressed against his temples violently as he splashed water on his body and face again and again. He was too hot. His insides burned instantly as her image flashed across his mind.

Aggravation coursing through his veins, his fist pounded the soft ground in painful blows until finally, the water settled, and he closed his eyes. As he steadied his breathing in the early morning air, the water dried over his bare chest.

Relief trickled through his senses, giving him a brief, albeit delusional, moment of clarity. He dragged in a lungful of air and exhaled it after a beat, grabbing his tunic and wrestling it over his head.

“Two weeks, and then she’ll be gone. Just. Two. Weeks.”