Page 11 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

11

I sla entered the chamber with her arms full of silks and linens, all varying shades of green, from deep pine to fresh spring.

Ersie narrowed her eyes the moment she saw them.

“He sent those?” she asked, her voice clipped.

The maid hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, Me Lady. Said ye might prefer to wear one of these for breakfast.”

“Did he, now?” Ersie crossed the room, the bath behind her steaming, beckoning her sore muscles. Her eyes raked over the fabrics with undisguised scorn.

Does he ken that I tried on the green dress yesterday?

Isla shifted uncomfortably. “He just said that ye might find these to yer liking. I dinnae ken the reason.”

Ersie scoffed and reached down to her thigh scabbard, slipping the blade from its sheath and pointing the tip directly at the fabric in Isla’s arms.

“Fetch me breeches and a tunic. And if ye cannae find any, I’ll be cutting one of those into trousers meself.” Then, she threw the blade across the room.

The harsh sound of it hitting a wooden beam startled the maid. Blood drained from her face, and she hurried out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Alone, at last.

Ersie scoffed and turned to the bath again, untying the robe she had thrown on and slipping into the hot water with a sigh of relief. Steam curled around her, easing the tension in her muscles.

But not in her mind.

The moment she closed her eyes, she saw him. The way Keith’s mouth had moved against hers. The sound he made when he pressed his hips against hers. The heat of his hands pinning hers down.

She sank deeper into the tub, cursing under her breath.

“Lone wolf, Ersie,” she whispered to herself. “What is the matter with ye?”

She tilted her head toward the morning light streaming through the open window. Birds chirped merrily just outside, as if the world had no idea she was at war with her own body. A breeze ruffled the edges of a piece of parchment nearby, drawing her attention to the writing desk in the corner.

Her gaze sharpened.

Notes from the interrogations. All of them scattered.

She sat up too quickly, water sloshing over the edge. Dripping and muttering curses, she pulled her robe back on and padded across the cool floor to the desk.

One glance told her enough—at least four of the notes were missing.

Just as she cursed again, the door to the adjacent room creaked.

She spun around, her voice sharp. “Isla?”

The maid reappeared, clutching a pair of dark trousers and a simple shirt. The blade, once embedded in the wooden beam, lay on top.

“Did ye move anything on this desk?” Ersie asked.

Isla blinked. “Nay, Me Lady. Well, I did open all the windows earlier this morning, and the breeze?—”

Ersie held up a hand. “I see. Thank God I have a memory like a hawk’s.”

She gave a grin to soften the sting, and Isla chuckled with relief.

As Isla draped the clothes over the nearby armchair, Ersie asked, “Is the Laird in the dining hall?”

“Nay, Me Lady. The Laird has requested breakfast in the gardens. Ye are expected… erm… there .”

“Of course, he has,” Ersie muttered. “Thank ye, Isla. That will be all.”

Only when the maid disappeared, and Ersie heard the familiar click of the latch, did she turn her attention to the desk again.

“Four. Gone,” she muttered to herself as she closed the window.

She gathered all the notes, inspected their contents again, and then arranged them into a neat pile. This time, she weighed them down with an empty inkwell.

Walking over to the fire, she saw traces of the notes that were now lost and clicked her tongue in frustration.

The guards at the southern border, one of the maids whose account wasn’t very useful, the healer who left—I have to speak with her again—and one of the women in town who reported a crazed man claiming he saw a bairn in the lake.

Frustrated as she was by the lost notes, her eyes landed on the pile of clothing left by Isla, and she smiled to herself.

Tellin’ me to wear a dress—this ought to teach him.

She chuckled and dressed quickly. The shirt was made of soft linen that clung to her body as she tucked it into the comfortable trousers. A small smile tugged at her mouth, before she caught herself.

Catching her reflection in the looking glass across the room, she noticed the slight blush on her cheeks and the gleam in her eyes. Despite herself, she was looking forward to seeing him again.

Sighing, she pulled her hair into a long, loose braid, errant tendrils curling around her jawline and collarbone.

“Cannae get distracted, Ersie,” she told herself. “Just. Two. Weeks.”

She checked her belt for the familiar weight of her dagger and then stepped out the door.

* * *

Keith’s breath caught—hard, as if he’d been punched in the gut—the moment he saw her.

There she was, striding into the sunlit garden like sin itself, dressed in linen and boldness.

His shirt.

His.

Wickedly clinging where it ought not, hanging where it shouldn’t, the hem brushing scandalously along her thighs like it belonged there. She moved with a confidence that punched the air from his lungs again, every step tugging his gaze lower, his throat drier.

Desperation lodged in his chest like a blade. He’d fought wars with less intensity. She’d invaded his thoughts, and now… now she was wearing his goddamn shirt and lazily walking toward him like it meant nothing at all.

What in the hell am I supposed to do with this?

The breeze teased strands of her still-damp hair where it curled at her neck, and Keith was almost certain the damned thing had conspired with her to torment him.

Something primal flared in his gut. Possessive, feral need .

He imagined brushing those damp curls aside and pressing a kiss to the tender spot beneath her ear, imagined his hands replacing the linen that kept her maddeningly out of reach.

The heat of regret coursed through his veins at even suggesting a dress… at inviting her into the garden at all. The cold water that had provided a semblance of relief was now a distant memory.

She tossed him a smirk as she approached the table. Her curious eyes flicked across the spread of oatbread, cheeses, roast ham, and strawberries. “Looks like I missed the kitchen ruckus.”

“Aye,” Keith managed, his voice low, rough. “And breakfast’s almost cold.”

He gestured to the seat beside him, and she settled into it without hesitation, crossing one leg over the other. His bloody shirt slid down her shoulder just barely enough for him to glimpse a sliver of skin, and he looked away, focusing instead on slicing his bread.

The urge to lean over and yank the fabric up was nearly overwhelming—not for modesty’s sake, but to stop his thoughts from spiraling further.

They ate mostly in silence, the quiet hum of bees and soft birdsong filling the garden. But Keith couldn’t stop glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

She buttered a piece of bread delicately. Her fingers, calloused and capable, handled the knife with the same confidence she wielded her sword. He found himself watching her mouth as she bit into the bread, her lips plush and slightly swollen from the heat of day.

“Why do ye dress like a man?”

Her chewing slowed, and she blinked. “Does it bother ye?”

He cleared his throat, realizing how that sounded. “Nay. I was just… wonderin’.”

She shrugged a shoulder, her tone casual. “I’ve always worn leather. I dressed like the boys because I was one of the boys—from day one. Beat them at their own game before they could even realize that I was a girl. By then, I had already earned their respect. Nae one of them whispered anythin’ about the kitchens or sewing rooms…”

She grinned, and he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sure they were bitter still. But from day one ?”

“Crushed egos all around,” she said with mock solemnity. Then, more softly, she added, “Nay, nae from me first day ever, but from day one at MacGordon Castle.”

Keith hated how distant her stare was all of a sudden. He needed her here, right next to him, present.

“I see. And have ye always stolen shirts that dinnae belong to ye?”

Ersie’s eyes widened slightly as they flicked to his, before she dipped her chin. He expected something smart to come out of those perfect lips of hers, but when she smirked and looked up at him from beneath her lashes, he felt his insides melt with heat.

She kens it.

“I can return it to ye now,” Ersie offered, unable to hide her grin.

His jaw clenched.

The absolute last thing he needed was to imagine her removing his shirt, but then she leaned forward and started pulling the hem from beneath her waistband.

“Keep it,” Keith growled, his blood boiling, then bit into an apple slice far too aggressively.

She watched him for a moment, her eyebrows slightly raised, before leaning back. The shirt was still partially untucked and hanging just on the edge of her shoulder, and her loose hair was somehow even more loose. The disheveled look was overpowering, and he was fighting for air.

Keith shifted in his chair, desperate to chase the image of her bare skin from his mind. But it lingered—taunting, tempting.

She sobered suddenly, her face falling in such a way that made his hand twitch. It took everything within him to stop himself from reaching up and cupping her chin.

“I lost some of yer notes…”

His head snapped up. “What do ye mean, lost? ”

“The wind,” she said quickly. “They were too close to the window. But I remember them. I?—”

He stood up and stepped toward her, his hand braced on the back of her chair. “And what if ye didnae? What if one of those was important?”

“I told ye, I remember them. All thirty-seven.”

Thirty-seven.

“Ye better be right,” he said, his voice low, deadly quiet as he leaned in. His mouth was just a hairsbreadth away from her ear. “Because I must be sure I can trust ye, Ersie Barcley. Which were they?”

Her pulse thrummed violently as her breath caught in her throat, and he sensed every emotion surging beneath her fierce exterior—it made him ache.

Suddenly, a door somewhere behind them clattered open.

“Well, good mornin’ to ye two,” came Lucas’s unmistakable voice.

The crunch of a cracker filling his rhetoric grated on Keith’s raw nerves as the familiar sound of paper rustling in the wind piqued his attention.

Keith didn’t move. He only unclenched in his jaw. “Braither.”

“I wasnae told that we would be breakin’ our fast out here, Keith.” His younger brother chuckled easily.

Keith noticed Ersie’s throat bob before he stood to face Lucas.

“Lady Ersie, good mornin’,” Lucas said quickly, not waiting for a response as he whipped the parchment over his shoulder for Keith to grab.

Keith took it easily, his eyes searching the flyer and accompanying letter. The scrawl on it was obviously from the village leader, Tomas Craig.

“They’re expectin’ us for the festival in a few days …” he trailed off, before letting the flyer fall onto the table in front of Ersie while tucking the letter into his pocket.

“I havenae been to Balemara in five years.”

“Apparently, yer people havenae lost hope yet,” Ersie mused, leaning forward to glance at the page before looking up at him. “It’ll be a great opportunity for ye to reconnect with yer people.”

Keith said nothing at first, considering the thought before starting to walk away.

“We’ll go,” he said firmly.

“We will all go.” His eyes met Lucas’s and then Ersie’s, before he left them in the garden.