Page 33 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

33

K eith had heard a commotion down an unused corridor and chased it out of curiosity. He crossed the threshold, and that’s when he saw it—Lucas’s arm stretched out, his eyes blazing.

“Touch her and die, Braither.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized he’d said them, but they rang true—clear, cold, final.

Lucas didn’t yield.

Ersie stood to the side, breathless and soaked but unmoving. Her eyes flicked to Keith like a tether, grounding her.

She is all right…

But the blood that started to trickle from her chest as she hissed a curse in the darkness made him instantly see red.

Keith lunged forward, knocking the blade from his brother’s hand.

Lucas moved back a half-step, spitting out insults as he reached frantically for his blade.

“Dinnae,” Keith warned, his voice low. “Dinnae even think about it.”

“I was only going to talk to her,” Lucas said too quickly.

Keith snorted. “With weapons? That’s one hell of a conversation.”

Lucas’s jaw twitched. “I wanted to ken what she kenned.”

Keith’s brow creased. “About what?”

But even as he asked, an ugly suspicion began to crawl up his spine. He looked at Ersie again—her lips were pressed tight, her hands slightly behind her back, still ready to pounce.

She had sensed it too. Whatever was happening, this wasn’t new for her. She had walked into it.

“Ye planned this,” Keith accused, his eyes never leaving Lucas. “Ye led her here. Why were ye goin’ to kill her, Lucas?”

Lucas’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I wasnae going to kill her. Nae unless she told the truth.”

Something sharp cracked in Keith’s ribs. “What truth?”

Lucas’s hands lowered slightly—not in surrender but in mock sympathy. “That yer beloved wee boy… was mine.”

Time stopped.

Keith didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“Say that again,” he said, his voice quiet as death.

Lucas barked a laugh. “Ye heard me.”

The walls started spinning.

Keith took a step closer, slow and precise. But Lucas didn’t back away.

“Mairead was mine, Keith. Before ye. Isla is just a distraction, always has been. But she —” He paused and grinned. “Ye really think she picked ye over me? Ye, the shadow of Da? Cold and unreachable? Nay. She came to me first. She came for me first. We planned to leave. But then ye— always ye— came marching in like a knight out of a fable, and she changed her mind.”

Keith said nothing. The words didn’t settle. They flayed .

Lucas continued, “And when she told me she was with child, I kenned the truth. I saw it on her face. I didnae have to see the way his chin turned or the curve of his eyebrow. I kenned he was mine. But ye were so blinded by pride that ye never noticed. Never wondered. Nae once.”

“Ye are lying,” Keith said hoarsely. But his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

Lucas smiled, bitter and victorious. “Ask Ersie, then. She saw it. The birthmark.”

Keith’s eyes snapped to her.

Ersie stood frozen. She didn’t speak. Didn’t deny it.

Keith’s breath left him in one cold rush.

Lucas saw the opening and pressed the knife in deeper. “She came here to tell ye, did she nae? The old midwife remembered the birthmark. A crescent moon, just like mine. Ye dinnae have it, but I do.”

Keith blinked, a memory crashing over him—the way his mother used to trace the crescent-shaped mark behind his brother’s ear. Said it was a family mark. One passed down through blood.

A crescent moon.

His knees nearly buckled.

But Lucas wasn’t done.

“And Isla,” he added, almost gleeful now, “helped me clean it all up. The cloth, the testimonies, the midwife’s letter. Gone. Burned. All of it. Ye wouldnae have found a single trace. Nae until she ”—he nodded toward Ersie—“dug too deep.”

Keith looked back at her, and something in his chest shattered. Because even now, she looked afraid for him.

“I assume ye had a hand in Rona’s disappearance as well?”

“Och aye. Sent word to Kitarne that she was the traitorous wench who killed Mairead. She was dead by mornin’.”

Keith heard Ersie’s breath hitch, but he kept his eyes on his brother.

“Mrs. Morrigan delivered the bairn, though. Why did ye blame Rona? She did nothin’.”

“She saw us, obviously. That little wench was in the room when Mairead told her to leave. I ken she saw us together when ye werenae there. She kenned the bairn was mine.”

Keith swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. “Ye planned to kill Ersie for coming to tell me?”

“Aye, and I very well might have. Some warrior she must be to let me confuse her in these corridors,” Lucas scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Keith stared at him. “Ye killed me son. Ye would have killed the woman I love?”

“Nay. He was never yers. Neither was she. ”

And that was enough.

Keith’s blade came up fast—faster than Lucas had expected. Their swords met with a deafening clash.

Keith tackled him hard, his rage fueling every movement.

They slammed against the stone, blades locked, breaths snarling.

Lucas fought like a man unraveling—wild, frantic, furious. Keith fought like a man possessed.

“Ye killed him,” he growled, swinging with devastating force.

Lucas parried and lunged. “He wasnae yers!”

Keith blocked the blow and drove a knee into Lucas’s ribs, sending him staggering.

“Ye took everything from me and watched me go round in circles for years!”

“Nae yet!” Lucas thundered as he raised his blade at Ersie again, madness in his eyes.

This time, Keith didn’t hesitate. His sword pierced his brother’s chest with a sickening crack of bone.

Lucas gasped. His blade fell. His eyes widened and then dulled.

Keith held him there for a moment, his face inches away.

“Ye should have told me,” he whispered.

Lucas crumpled at his feet.

For a long moment, the world went silent.

Keith’s sword dripped onto the stone, the faint patter lost beneath the roaring in his ears. Blood smeared the hilt, slick and warm. He stared at his brother’s face—still, gray, eyes glassy with a hatred that had festered for too long.

He hadn’t known that Lucas had loved Mairead. That the boy might not have been his. That Isla?—

He closed his eyes. None of that mattered now. Because Ersie was still standing behind him, alive, and that did matter.

“Guards,” he bellowed.

Two guards came rushing in, their weapons raised, their eyes going wide at the scene before them.

“Clean this up,” he ordered. “Nay one speaks of it. Nae yet. I’ll handle that. Find Isla, bring her to the pit.”

The guards hesitated, but his tone left no room for argument.

“Aye, Me Laird,” one of them said.

Keith turned back to Ersie. She was staring down at the blood pooled near Lucas’s outstretched hand, her face pale, her chest rising and falling on short, quick breaths. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

She looked up at him. And Christ, he wanted to fall to his knees for what she’d just endured.

“Come,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She followed him without a word as they moved through the keep. Her steps weren’t as sure as usual, and he stayed close—not touching her, not yet, but guarding her. The halls blurred past. Torches flickered on the stone walls, casting long shadows that dragged behind them like ghosts.

When they reached his chambers, he opened the door and ushered her in.

“Sit,” he said gently.

She didn’t. She stood near the hearth, her arms crossed tightly, her jaw clenched like she was trying to keep her spine straight through sheer will alone.

Keith stepped out briefly and ordered a maid to draw a hot bath and bring fresh broth, wine, and blankets. Then, he came back inside and shut the door behind him.

She was still standing in the exact same place.

He stepped closer.

“I’ve fought before, ye ken?” she muttered. Her voice was sharp, but her hands were trembling.

Keith’s eyes darkened. “Ye wouldnae if I had anythin’ to do with it.”

She glanced at him, lifting her chin. “I dinnae need pamperin’.”

He reached for her face with one calloused hand and cradled her cheek, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. She leaned into his warmth without meaning to, her defiance softening by degrees.

“Just obey,” he whispered. “Just this once.” His thumb stroked along her temple. “I thought I’d lose ye.”

She blinked.

“I cannae lose ye. Nae again, lass.”

And then he kissed her.

Not like a man overtaken by passion. Not yet. But like a man desperate to confirm that she was still real.

His lips were soft against hers—reverent, searching, and trembling with restraint. He breathed her in as if the scent of her skin could calm the storm still raging inside him.

Her hands rose slowly, her fingers curling into the front of his tunic. She kissed him back, equally tentative at first, then with a little more force. A little more need. Her mouth moved against his, drawing him in, letting him feel it— I’m still here.

A knock sounded at the door.

Keith broke their kiss, his forehead pressed against hers.

Two maids entered quietly, their eyes averted, and filled the bathtub with haste. A tray was placed on the table. A blanket by the fire. Then silence again.

Ersie hadn’t moved.

Keith stepped back and extended a hand. She looked down at it and then back up at him.

“Please,” he said.

She finally took it, and he led her toward the bathtub.

Steam curled up into the air as he helped her out of her tunic—bloodstained, soaked, clinging to her skin. He didn’t stare. His eyes stayed on hers, as if her gaze was the only anchor he had left.

She stepped into the water slowly, wincing as the heat met her chilled limbs. He knelt beside the tub, rolled up his sleeves, and dipped a cloth into the water.

Gently, he began to wash the blood from her arms.

She didn’t speak for a long time. And then, “I’m sorry.”

Keith’s hand stilled. “For what?”

“For just standin’ there. For bein’ the cause of Lucas’s death. For how ye found out about the bairn.”

He resumed washing her, slower now. “I needed to ken.” His voice was low. Almost broken. “I’m happy I found out, even though it burned. Now, I can truly move on.”

“Can ye?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed. “I’ll never ken what he looked like… nae really. I’ll never ken if he had me maither’s smile. But I ken he was real , and I ken what I lost.” He set the cloth down. Then, more quietly, he added, “I wouldnae forgive meself if anything happened to ye.”

The words were heavier than they seemed. They were more than protection. They were a confession.

“I never had to fight with someone I care for so much. I couldnae focus on anything but ye, and I froze.”

“Dinnae fash, lass. I ken well enough that ye could have easily cut both of us down if ye wished.”

“But I didnae. And he could have…” Her bottom lip quivered slightly, and he pressed a finger to it gently.

“Lass, I ken yer spirit better than ye think. Ye’re one of the best warriors in all of Scotland.”

“But I couldnae do it when it mattered.”

He smiled “It was me fight, nae yers.”

He helped her out of the bath, wrapping the towel gently around her, drying her skin with care that he never afforded himself.

When he was done, he pulled the blanket from the fire-warmed chair and draped it around her shoulders.

“Please stay,” he said, his voice raw. “Just for the night.” He cupped her face again. “I need to feel yer heartbeat.”

His thumb stroked her neck right where her pulse fluttered—fast, steady, alive. Then, he pulled her in and kissed her again.

But it was not soft this time. It was frenzied.

He was a man drowning, and she was air.

Her deft fingers curled into the fabric at his waist. A groan rumbled deep in his chest. Her hands moved under his tunic, hot against his ribs, her nails grazing lightly as she pulled the linen up and over his head.

He let her.

His body wasn’t beautiful, not in a polished, noble way. It was carved from war. Thick with muscle. Marred with old wounds. And still, she looked at him like he was something holy.

Her eyes flicked to the mark on his chest, the one he’d carved into himself. She reached out and traced it with a finger so gentle that he nearly broke.

“I’ve hated this scar for years,” he murmured.

“I dinnae,” she said, before pressing her lips to it.

And he lost what little control he had left. He lifted her into his arms—not out of dominance, not out of some need to prove his strength, but because she deserved to be held. And he wanted to worship every inch of her.

He laid her down gently on the bed, the firelight painting gold across her skin, and crawled over her like a man remembering how to feel.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“I willnae.”

His hands slid over her ribs, her thighs, her hips—gentle, reverent, possessive . Her breath hitched with every stroke. She writhed beneath him, her skin hot, her lips parted.

“Ye’re beautiful,” he said.

Her eyes met his, wide and fierce. “Then show me.”

Ersie’s body arched into his like flame curling around kindling—eager, hungry, all-consuming. Her breath came in gasps, half-caught and half-daring, her hands tugging him closer with every buck of her hips.

Keith had known battle.

He’d known rage.

But this?

This was surrender.

She looked up at him with fire in her eyes, not submission—never that. An invitation. A challenge. A promise.

He lowered his head to her throat, his lips grazing her fluttering pulse.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered against her skin, “every damned night since ye left.”

She shivered, her fingers threading through his hair. “Then stop thinkin’.”

Her voice was smoke and steel and aching need.

So he obeyed.

His mouth worshipped its way down her body, his teeth grazing her bare skin, biting just hard enough to make her gasp, his tongue soothing the edge until she moaned. Her hands curled into the sheets, her hips rolling, her skin flushed and slick with anticipation.

He mapped out her body—where she gasped, where she swore, where she gripped him like she’d drown without the anchor of his hands. Her thighs clenched around his hips, her breath coming apart in his ear.

“Keith!”

That sound. His name on her lips, cracked and breathless—he’d never forget it.

He kissed her again, deep and possessive. She met it with equal fire, biting his lower lip until he groaned into her mouth.

Their bodies moved together as if they’d done this a thousand times in dreams. Familiar and wild. Hot and desperate.

There was nothing timid in the way she clung to him.

Nothing soft in the way he growled her name.

Every inch of her burned against him, bare and alive, and when he finally slid into her—slow, deep, reverent—her back arched, and she let out a cry.

He held her like a man who had almost lost everything.

“Ye are so wet for me, Ersie,” he groaned against her mouth as he ground his hard length into her, trying to savor the feeling.

But she wrapped her legs around his waist, her hips rising to meet his every thrust, demanding more, harder, deeper.

“Ye drive me mad,” he panted, each word catching between a thrust that punished her deeply, her moans drowning him out completely.

“Good,” she gasped. “Ruin me.”

He captured her moan with another kiss, swallowing it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His body moved with hers in a perfect, wild rhythm. Flesh on flesh. Mouth on mouth.

Her nails raked down his back. His hand tangled in her hair. Their hearts beat in unison. A thunderous, relentless pounding that drove each of them further into the chaos of love.

It was just her.

It was just him.

And when he felt her body start to quiver, he increased his speed with brutal precision, lifting her hips to his and reaching that angle that he knew would send her over the edge.

She shattered beneath him, screaming his name like a prayer over and over, her voice breaking, her walls rippling.

He followed with a low growl, his forehead pressed against hers, his muscles locked, his release ripping through him like lightning through an oak.

They went still, breathless.

Their bodies tangled, flushed and trembling, sweat-slicked and marked by each other.

Somewhere outside, rain began falling.

Keith cupped her cheek, brushing a damp curl from her temple. She looked at him like he was her whole world.

And he held her long after the fire died down. Because, for the first time in years, the storm inside him had gone quiet.