Page 24 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

24

K eith leaned back in the worn armchair by the hearth, a sheaf of notes clutched loosely in his hand. Ciaran paced the small library, casting sharp glances at Lucas, who leaned too comfortably against the writing desk.

Having spent the last hour describing, in detail, the goal of the investigation and how much progress they had truly made with her presence, Keith found it troubling that her brother was still pacing like a caged wild animal. Though, essentially, he was. As was Keith.

“So,” Ciaran started, “Ye brought Ersie into this hunt for justice. Why her?”

Keith’s jaw tightened slightly. “She owes me a debt,” he said simply, meeting the man’s gaze head-on.

A beat of silence.

Satisfied for now, Ciaran gave a curt nod and resumed pacing, his eyes flicking over the maps and reports strewn across the table.

Lucas tapped his knuckles against the wood. “Looks like she’s uncovered more in a week than we managed in five years, eh?”

Keith grunted in agreement.

“Well, I reckon that’s a testament to her… persistence,” Lucas drawled, pushing off the desk. “I’ll leave ye two to it. Some of us still have prisoners to watch.”

He left with a lazy salute, closing the door behind him.

The library settled into a heavy stillness, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant clang of the smithy.

Keith stared into the flames, knowing full well that Ciaran wasn’t done. Not by a long sight.

Ciaran folded his arms over his chest—the stance of a man who wasn’t going to leave until he said every word he needed to say.

Keith sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Get on with it, then.”

Ciaran’s mouth twitched. “Didnae think ye the type to dance around a subject.”

Keith didn’t flinch. “I’m nae dancin’. I ken what ye are here for and what ye are about to ask me.”

Silence stretched between them like a taut rope.

Finally, Ciaran spoke, his voice lower now. “Ye and Ersie… Are ye… friends?”

Keith’s fingers curled into fists on the arms of the chair, his knuckles whitening against the worn wood.

Friends.

The word sounded like a curse in his ears.

Images assaulted him—Ersie’s body writhing beneath his hand, her voice breathless against his ear, the way she had clutched him like he was the only solid thing anchoring her to this world.

Friends.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Ciaran’s expectant gaze. “Aye,” he gritted out. “Friends.”

Ciaran’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading far more into that single word than Keith had intended.

He shifted forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, trying to steady himself against the roaring of his blood. “Ye have nothin’ to fash about.”

Ciaran arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Didnae reckon I do.”

Keith dragged a hand down his face. “She’s yer blood. Yer kin. I ken the weight of it. This is business. Nothin’ more.”

Ciaran paced in a slow circle around the room, the firelight throwing shifting shadows against the stone walls. “She’s nae just kin, Keith. She’s all I have left of me family. She’s always stood a bit apart. Fierce as a winter gale and twice as stubborn.”

Keith’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Aye. That she is.”

“And what are ye plannin’ to do about that, Laird MacAuley?” Ciaran asked, turning sharply to face him.

Keith’s nostrils flared. He stood up in one fluid motion, his height dwarfing the chair he’d vacated.

“Protect her as promised,” he said quietly. “If ye think I’d let any harm come to her, ye are mistaken.”

Ciaran studied him for a long moment, the air thick between them.

“Protect her,” he repeated slowly. “Is that all ye are plannin’ to do, then?”

Keith’s jaw ticked, his whole body aching with restraint. “What else should I do?”

Ciaran gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Very well then.”

Keith’s throat worked. He turned his head, staring into the flames again, the image of her flashing just behind his eyelids. Fierce and flushed beneath him, her mouth open in a gasp of surrender.

“MacAitken doesnae need another alliance. And neither does me clan. Nae through marriage anyway, Ciaran.”

Another heavy silence.

Finally, Ciaran clapped a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Very well then, Keith. Tell me how Clan MacAitken can help otherwise.”

Ever aware of Ersie’s movements, Keith knew she would be heading to the training grounds after the conversation she had with her brother, and he excused himself from the library to intercept her.

He needed to speak with her. He needed to speak with her now .

“We’ll pore over these—here, ye can get started. I’ll rejoin ye in a moment.”

Ciaran nodded.

Keith moved purposefully through the keep to the precise place where he knew Ersie would be. And not moments later, the flutter of movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

She walked with purpose, the kitten following her closely. Her taught muscles radiated irritation, and he suddenly wished he could help her release that tension.

“What do ye want?” she asked roughly, halting as she reached him.

Trouble pawed at Keith’s boots, so he reached down to pick the wee thing up.

“Only to tell ye that I ken what ye might be feelin’—nae all of it, but some of it.”

“Oh, ye do, do ye?”

“Aye. I would have done the same thing yer braither has done. Especially if I had a sister.”

“But ye dinnae, especially a sister like me .”

“Aye, ye’re right. But I understand yer frustration.”

“Ye think I need someone to look after me? Check in on me? Fight for me?”

The kitten started purring in his arms, and Keith found himself swaying back and forth. “I can assure ye, I dinnae think ye need me to fight for ye.”

“Nay man can make decisions for me,” she said firmly, before holding out her hand to take Trouble from him.

Keith reluctantly handed the kitten over before the warrior stormed away. He watched her disappear around the corner of the keep toward the training grounds, as he had expected.

After a breath, he turned on his heel and rejoined Ciaran in the small library.

The two men pored over the documents on the table through breakfast and luncheon, connecting dots and asking questions that had been repeated ad nauseum , searching for just one lead. Just one.

* * *

Ersie strode toward the training grounds, Trouble trotting faithfully at her heels. Her boots crunched against the gravel, the scent of dew and steel hanging thick in the crisp air.

It was later than when she usually sparred, but she missed it. Her limbs felt heavy as she swung her blade around her shoulders, getting back into the rhythm and dance of sparring.

Her muscles itched almost painfully for more movement, begging to be stretched. After days of planning, arguing, investigating, and pining , the weight of the entire situation pressed heavier against her ribs with each passing minute.

I need this. Just one hour will do me good, clear me mind…

The clang of metal on metal echoed faintly from the far corner of the yard, where two young lads half-heartedly swung their swords at one another. Neither noticed her as she crept under the shroud of morning shadows.

Good. She wasn’t in the mood for company.

The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, telling her a story of isolation that she knew all too well. This room was the sparring hall, and the thick scent of oil and steel washed over her like a soothing balm.

No one else was there as planned.

Trouble padded in behind her but had the sense to curl up near the wall, knowing better than to meddle when his mistress wore that sharp look like a blade drawn across a whetstone.

Ersie let her cloak fall from her shoulders and to the floor into a dark puddle. Her boots echoed against the cobbled entryway, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tension coil tight in her shoulders—the ache of a decision yet unmade and memories she should not dwell on.

Then, she exhaled slowly. And began.

The blade sang through the air as she moved, her body a study of efficiency and grace. Each arc and thrust cut through the heavy thoughts clinging to her mind like smoke. Her boots pivoted lightly, her hips twisted with each blow, her arms fluid and controlled.

She was breath and steel, nothing more.

The first few swings were slow, measured, like waking an old song from slumber.

Then faster.

The tempo built until her muscles burned, sweat pearling on her brow.

Keith. His touch. His mouth.

She thrust harder, banishing him.

Nae now.

She was Ersie Barley, a warrior from Clan MacAitken, born of blood and fire and will. She was not some lass to be undone by a kiss in the woods or soft words whispered against her bare skin.

Her hair tore free of her braid, a wild banner behind her. Her breath came in smooth, sharp bursts, and her mind cleared with each turn of the blade. The broken thoughts stitched back together until she stood unshaken at the center of the storm.

The empty space around her bore the brunt of her final blow, and she let out a cry of relief.

She straightened then, her chest heaving and her blood singing in her veins.

Trouble mewled softly from the corner, as if in approval.

“Still got it,” she muttered.

A flash of gray beyond the archway caught her eye, and she stalked toward the doorway to place it. Her eyes swept over the stables beyond… and then she froze.

There, standing proudly amongst the MacAuley mounts, was a familiar dappled gray mare with a wild mane.

“Fanella?” she breathed, disbelief warming her chest.

Ersie sheathed her blade, fastened her cloak, and cradled Trouble against her chest before hurrying toward her mare.

Fanella’s ears twitched and perked up as she heard Ersie approaching, and with a delighted whinny, she tugged at her tether, begging to be freed.

Ersie laughed, a real, bright sound that startled even her.

She buried her face in Fanella’s neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of horseflesh and hay and home.

“Braither must have brought ye, aye?” she whispered against the mare’s warm coat. “Trust him to make a grand entrance and then make amends just as fast.”

Fanella nickered, tugging again at her tether, nudging her eagerly with her velvety nose.

“Come on, then, lass,” Ersie said softly, already vaulting up into the saddle. “Let’s go for a ride, just us.”

Behind her, one of the stableboys cleared his throat nervously, untying the tether and passing it to her silently. Ersie pulled the sleepy kitten from her chest and handed him to the boy.

“Please take him back to me chambers. I trust only ye, ye ken?”

The boy beamed and nodded his head excitedly, eager to please.

He reached up his arms while Ersie explained to the kitten, “Ye’ll be safer here, laddie. There’s only one way to get me head clear. I’ll return shortly.”

The stableboy tucked the kitten into his coat as he had seen her do, and the kitten nestled into his neck.

Satisfied, Ersie clicked her tongue, and Fanella surged forward, swift and sure beneath her.

Her world narrowed to wind and hoofbeats.

The fields blurred past, a patchwork of gold and green under the rising sun. Ersie leaned low over Fanella’s neck, giving the mare her head, the cool wind whipping her hair behind her.

There was no plan, only instinct. It pulled her around the glens and through the wood, down a slightly covered path, to a place where her heart still beat heavier than it should.

The kirkyard.

The ancient graveyard came into view like an old friend, and she felt her core warm to the sight. As if her soul recognized her need to come back here.

Ersie dismounted before the gate, letting Fanella graze nearby.

She pushed through the wrought-iron gate, her boots soft against the mossy stones, leaving no trace of her presence. She was careful not to disturb the residents, her steps slow and calculated until she reached the stones she sought.

“Hello, Mairead. Hello, young master.”

She knelt, the damp earth seeping into her breeches, and she swept away some dirt that had collected over the past week.

She sighed, letting the breeze stir the tendrils of hair that framed her face. She felt isolated and yet surrounded by peaceful inclusion.

“Help me, Mairead,” she whispered. “Help me find who did this to yer son.”

Ersie bowed her head, resting her palm on the weathered stone.

“I vow,” she said, her voice low and fierce, “I willnae let it go.”

Standing again, she felt that her heart was somehow heavier than when she had come, but her purpose was more clear.

She swung herself back into the saddle, and Fanella turned obediently toward the pathway without needing guidance.

They skirted the edge of the loch, its surface like polished silver. Mist clung defiantly to it in thin ribbons, and the reflection of the trees blurred, shifting with each breath of wind.

They rounded the far shores and approached the watchtower. Standing sentinel still, even after everything that had happened beneath its gaze.

Movement along the wall. Hissing. Fog.

It all fit somehow, like jagged puzzle pieces she hadn’t quite jammed into place yet.

“Ye saw somethin’,” she whispered to the tower, even though Malcolm and the others could not hear her. “Even if nay one listened.”

She let Fanella walk for a moment longer until she urged her into a canter again, following the rough path that ringed the loch and the walls beyond.

The curtain wall of the keep rose ahead—stone weathered by time and scars of ancient wars. Ersie studied every inch of it as she slowed and passed, noting the sloping runs of the battlements, the low gaps along the outer edge where someone small and quick might find footing. Or someone with an athletic build and experience.

Paths only a desperate soul might take.

Fanella snorted and tossed her head, as if impatient, and Ersie gave the mare a rueful pat. “Aye, lass. Enough brooding, indeed. Let’s get back.”

By the time they clattered back into the stables, it was past midday, and luncheon had already been served.

Damn.

Ersie dismounted outside the stables and handed Fanella’s reins to the same gaping stableboy. “Careful, mind her legs.”

The boy nodded fiercely. “Um, Lady Ersie? Wee Trouble is in yer chambers, as promised.”

He touched the tip of an invisible hat before gripping the reins and guiding Fanella into the stables.

The thought of a hot bath lured Ersie up the stairs.

She tossed her cloak onto the chair and stripped out of her riding habit, her muscles aching in protest.

Dinner.

A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and unwelcome.

Trouble yawned from the bed, where he had curled up into a tiny, self-satisfied ball of slumber.

“Aye, laddie,” Ersie murmured, dipping a hand into the bathwater Isla had left warming by the hearth. “May the Lord himself preserve me.”