Page 13 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

13

K eith balanced the tray carefully in one hand, the warmth of the soup bowls and freshly baked bread radiating through the thin linen that covered it. The scent of rosemary and roasted garlic wafted up, but it did little to quell the unease in his chest.

Isla had handed the tray to him just outside the chamber doors with a soft smile and a bow, and he’d sent her away before she could knock. He had told himself it was only to avoid disturbing Ersie if she was resting.

But the truth was far muddier than that.

He nudged the chamber door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, only to find the door to the antechamber ajar, the sound of water sloshing faint but unmistakable.

He froze.

The tray wavered slightly in his grip before he regained control, setting it down on the small table beside the hearth as quietly as possible. His gaze flickered, despite himself, to the soft golden light spilling through the crack in the door.

And then he saw her.

And then… every part of him went rigid.

Ersie sat in the bathtub, her back turned to him, unaware. Her hair was piled atop her head, a few dark strands curling along her neck, damp with steam. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, soft and bare, water cascading along the line of her spine. One arm rose to pour a ladle of warm water over her shoulder, and his mouth went dry.

He should leave.

God above knew that he should leave.

But his feet refused to move, and for a long, aching heartbeat, he simply watched. Watched and burned. Every part of him roared with the need to look away but also with the fierce hunger to devour the sight of her.

His gaze traced the gentle curve of her waist, the tautness of her shoulders, the dip of her spine, and the flex of her muscles as she moved in the water. He imagined pressing his lips to the nape of her neck, letting his hands explore what his eyes dared not linger on.

The ache of restraint wound tight in his gut, a fire barely held in check. A carnal craving clawed up his spine, demanding that he claim what was not his to take.

Finally, teeth grinding together, he tore his gaze away and dropped heavily into the armchair by the fire, bracing his elbows on his knees. The heat in his veins refused to ebb.

He sat there for a long while, staring into the flames, but all he could think about was the shimmer of candlelight on her skin. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he replayed what he shouldn’t have seen.

It wasn’t just boiling through him; it was something more feral, more consuming.

“… missing pages.” The words came from the other room, soft and pensive.

Keith blinked. At first, he thought she was speaking to herself, but then he realized that she was thinking out loud.

“Which pages?” he mouthed, as if she could hear him.

“The four missing ones… The breeze took them, but how did they fly all the way to the fireplace?”

“What were they about?” he hummed, the crackling of the fire drowning out his voice.

“But those specifically were about the guards from the southern border, the maid, the healer, and that man,” she said to herself.

Strange. Those men didnae mention seein’ anythin’ out of the ordinary. The maid and the man’s accounts were inconsistent, but losing the page from the healer…

“Only one of them said anything useful about that maid, but why would they all so coincidentally… vanish into the breeze? Surely Isla wouldnae touch them—it’s why they were all scattered.”

Water lapped at the edges of the tub in the other room as she shifted around, and the thought of the water being closer to her naked body than he’d ever been clawed at his control like a rabid beast.

“The woman who left without a trace…” he heard her add and stiffened. He’d forgotten that detail.

“The merchant sayin’ that he’d never kenned the bairn, but several others sayin’ he visited the keep often. The same merchant from the road, mayhap?”

“Nay,” Keith grunted.

“Nay,” she echoed softly. “It’s intriguing that someone would lie about the bairn, though. I wonder if Keith kens the man…”

The sound of the water shifting reached his ears once again. This time, the telltale sound of water droplets hitting the surface of the tub told him that she was rising.

Hell …

He sat up, forcibly keeping his gaze fixed on the flames instead of the open doorway.

Footfalls, soft and wet on stone.

Then, her voice.

“Ye’re just going to sit there broodin’, or were ye just hopin’ for… more, Laird MacAuley?”

Keith’s gaze snapped to the doorway, and she emerged, her robe tied tightly at her waist, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, the silk soaked through just above her breasts.

She was completely unsurprised.

Bloody hell, she kenned I was here.

She strolled toward him with infuriating ease and sank into the seat across from him, one long leg peeking from the slit in her robe before she tugged the fabric back modestly… or not so modestly.

His throat bobbed.

“What do ye want, Keith?”

He blinked.

Words tumbled through his head, none landing in the right order. His eyes dropped to her lips, then to the hollow at the base of her throat. The scent of lavender was still fresh on her skin, mingled with the unmistakable scent of her , and it was wrecking him.

“Heard ye were ill,” he finally managed, his voice rough.

She scoffed and reached for the bread, tearing a piece and dunking it into the soup. “Aye, I’m… ill .”

“Lucas said as much,” he added carefully.

Her lips curled into a smirk, and she brought the wet bread up to her mouth with a deliberate slowness that made his blood pulse with unholy thoughts.

Ersie’s eyes met his as she placed the piece of bread on her tongue, and Keith watched as it disappeared in her mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

Aye, she kens exactly what she’s doin’…

“I only said I was ill to get away,” she murmured. “I’m nae truly ill.”

Keith let out a slow breath through his nose, his fingers curling around the armrests. He scanned her quickly, noting the color in her cheeks, her clear eyes, and her steady hands.

“Good,” he muttered. “What was it that ye were discussin’ in there?”

Her eyes widened, having not realized he could hear her voice her thoughts. “Just… workin’ out the details of the case.”

“And have ye found anything useful?” His eyes wandered.

“It’s entirely possible.”

“It sure sounded like ye landed on something, lass.”

“How well do ye trust Isla?” Ersie asked, dunking another piece of bread into the soup.

“Isla? The maid?”

“Obviously.” She hummed as her lips wrapped deliciously around the piece of bread.

Keith’s fingers twitched and flexed before falling back onto the armrests lazily. “I ken her well enough. Do ye nae like her?”

“I like her well enough. I’m just curious to ken how close ye two are.”

“Close?” He furrowed his brow. “What are ye on about?”

“Ye wouldnae think that she would betray ye?”

“Never,” he said firmly.

Isla does everything by the grace of me kindness, but that’s nae somethin’ she needs to ken.

Long before she wore the quiet, soft smile of a maid, Isla had another name. One that Keith had vowed to help her bury. Her father died young. Her mother, desperate, remarried a cruel man who saw Isla’s beauty not as something to protect but something to sell.

Keith had been on the receiving end of a deal with the man, who had offered to ‘throw in his stepdaughter for a few extra coin’. Disgusted, he followed the man back to his camp and met her there.

He saved her from that life. The Mad Laird, every bit the monster, killed her father and every single one of his men, and since then, Isla had been fiercely loyal to him.

Ersie would never know Isla’s story. Never.

Best to nip that line of questioning in the bud.

And so he inhaled sharply and changed the subject. “So, the festival?—”

“I ken,” she cut in. “I’ll wear a dress. Wretched things.”

Keith stared at her, utterly lost for a moment. Her words stoked something hot in his chest—something he couldn’t name. That damned robe was more dangerous than full armor.

He imagined her in that green dress.

Then, he imagined her out of it.

Good grief.

He exhaled deeply and rose to his feet as if compelled, the fire crackling louder in the silence.

“Good,” was all he could utter as he made his way to the door.

I have to get out of here.

“Ye dinnae wish to ken what I was thinking about?”

Keith froze mid-step, his knuckles whitening at his sides. “What? When?”

“In the bath…”

He didn’t turn back right away, refusing to fall pretty to her games. But the pull of her, her words, that godforsaken voice…

He couldn’t help himself. He needed to know.

“Do I?”

She gave a wicked smile. “Might surprise ye.”

“Lass,” he said, the warning lacing every syllable. “Ye have already surprised me far too much.”

Ersie stood then, moving toward him with deliberate slowness. She was bare-footed and still damp, and the sight of her flushed skin had already driven him half mad. She stopped only a pace away, tilting her head up.

“I was thinkin’ about what might have happened if I had come out here without?—”

“Nay! I’ll leave ye to rest,” he said quickly, turning to leave.

But then she looked up at him from beneath her lashes, and the image seared itself in his chest.

Just before he could step away, her voice curled toward him like a lazy, wicked smile, and she pressed a hand to his chest. His gaze flicked to her hand and then back up to her eyes questioningly.

“Ye might want to get some rest too. Unless ye plan on spendin’ the rest of the night awake, thinkin’ about me in this robe. Or better yet, the tub… Me Laird .”

Keith’s mouth opened and then closed. A growl of disbelief rumbled in his throat, and then he shifted suddenly. His eyes wide with surprise, he noted the devilish smirk on her face. The next second, the door slammed directly in his face.

She just pushed him through the doorway.

He stared at the wood for a long second, stunned, before he growled in frustration. It was a low, dark sound that echoed down the corridor as he turned and walked away, utterly undone.

Behind him, the trace of a giggle drifted through the large wooden door.

The sound followed him like a wretched curse.

The next thing he knew, he was thrashing. The loch was black as pitch, the cold bite of the water clawing at his lungs as he sank deeper and deeper. A searing hot, iron grip on his ankle pulled him lower, as if the hands of the devil himself were yanking him toward the darkness below. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but only water poured in, burning his throat. The weight of his soaked clothes dragged him further downward.

Above him, the surface dimmed to nothing more than a pinprick of moonlight. He reached, strained toward it, his chest burning with desperation.

And then, he saw a face.

Her face.

Unafraid. Furious. Blazing.

She didn’t reach for him. She commanded him.

“Swim, damn ye,” her voice rang through the water, impossibly clear. “Fight.”

He bucked. Clawed upward. Her voice was the only thing tethering him to the world above.

And then the water was gone.

Keith sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping for breath, the blade under his pillow clenched tightly in his fist. The room was drenched in darkness, save for the faint glow of the embers in the hearth. His chest heaved. Sweat soaked his hairline and trailed down his neck and back.

He did not remember falling asleep. He only remembered sitting there, scowling at the fire, thinking about her.

That bloody robe.

The slit that had clung to her damp curves. Her eyes flashed with defiance yet softened in that brief moment. He had barely managed to get out of her room with his dignity—let alone her dignity—intact.

And now, the memory of her had crept into even his dreams, wielding power as if she ruled them.

Keith swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed at his face, trying to banish the image. But it lingered. Her mouth, her fire, the bite in her voice, the heat of her touch. Her lips.

He stood, dropping the dagger on the bed behind him, and padded over to the hearth. He added a few logs to the fire, fanning it slowly to coax it alight, and sat in the armchair, his cheek resting on his tight fist.

The drowning felt too familiar. Too real.

Keith dropped his face into his hands and exhaled. It was likely just his guilt, renewing itself in a new way. Wrapping around his mind. Old regrets surfacing.

He stared at the flames for a while. The light dancing in the dark hearth reminded him of her eyes once again—molten and powerful.

He sagged heavily in the chair. His thoughts were still soaked in the dream, but the water never came. It was all fire, this time. The fire in her eyes that he had grown accustomed to.

Irresistible.

Haunting.

Rebellious.

And he easily relaxed into slumber under her gaze.