Page 4 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

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T he castle greeted them in silence, the outer courtyard mostly empty save for a few curious glances. A low, creeping mist clung to the cobbles, curling like ghostly fingers around the tall boots of the guards stationed at the gate.

The high walls of MacAuley Keep, moss-covered and timeworn, cast long shadows across the bailey. A smith worked at the forge on the far side, the clang of hammer on steel ringing out, briefly drawing Ersie’s gaze.

Keith dismounted first. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the lass dismounted the horse on her own, just as he had expected. No complaint, no hesitation.

Good.

He knew she was proud. Stubborn. But now, judging by the steady glare she shot him before following, he knew that she was completely unafraid of where he was taking her—which amused him more than it should have.

She was alert, her eyes scanning every detail of the inner courtyard, taking in the height of the curtain walls, the narrow gaps that watched like narrowed eyes, and the stables tucked to the side. The MacAuley crest flapped from the battlements, a battered banner, red and black.

“Come,” Keith grunted, leading her across the yard.

They passed through the outer halls swiftly. The arched entrance gave way to a wide corridor with vaulted ceilings and tapestries hanging heavily on the stone. The scent of tallow and smoke lingered in the air. Torches flickered as they moved, lighting the path deeper inside. A pair of kitchen boys hurried by, laden with bread baskets, giving Keith a wide berth as they disappeared through a side door.

Ersie didn’t speak. She just walked alongside him, her shoulders squared, her chin high. He recognized it then, and perhaps he had before, but it only came to light as he watched her out of the corner of his eye—she was definitely of high birth. No warrior training, sparring, or killing could change that.

He led her through the small gallery, the walls lined with portraits—generations of MacAuley lairds staring down at them with painted scowls and pretense. One caught Ersie’s attention.

“Me great-grandfaither. Legend says he never smiled a day in his life.”

“Hmm… the condition must run in the family,” she mused but didn’t look at him.

Keith grumbled a response before turning on his heel and leading them through the room. They rounded a stairwell and descended deeper, the air cooling as the stone grew damp underfoot. As they turned the final bend toward the dungeons, Lucas appeared at the far end, his brow furrowed.

“Braither,” he called, his gaze dropping to the dried blood on Keith’s hands and the specks still on his cloak. “What happened?”

Keith gave him a glare sharp enough to slice, and Lucas wisely stopped mid-step. He said nothing further, simply nodded and turned back.

“Family?” Ersie asked casually.

“Aye,” Keith said, his tone clipped. “Me younger braither.”

She hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t pry. That surprised him.

At last, they reached the dungeon corridor—arched and narrow, iron sconces casting long shadows on the floor. Keith produced a heavy key from his belt and unlocked the final iron-barred door. It groaned as it opened.

“Inside,” he said.

Ersie raised an indignant eyebrow but stepped through without argument. Keith followed, the door clanging shut behind them. The sound echoed down the corridor like a final verdict.

Stone walls. A table. Two chairs. A single torch sputtering on the wall.

Keith set the key down on the table and turned to her, his expression unreadable. Neither sat.

The true interrogation was about to begin.

She turned, her eyes narrowed. “Ye plan to keep me prisoner?”

He leaned against the wall, his arms folded. “I plan to talk. But I dinnae trust many ears in this place.”

“How romantic,” she muttered.

Keith ignored the bite in her voice. “So, lass, let’s start. Would ye like to take a seat, Ersie Barcley?”

The name echoed faintly in the chamber. Keith kept his expression unreadable. She was a warrior in her own right.

Nay wonder she carries herself like that.

Her name on his tongue felt good, and he wondered what else might feel good on his tongue.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Very well,” Keith said and pushed off the wall to begin circling her slowly. “What were ye doin’ this morning?”

“I had a sparring session before dawn, then I went riding—to the waterfall.”

Still holding his gaze. Still not flinching. Honest, at least so far.

“Are ye a spy?” he asked lightly.

“Arenae we all?”

“Were ye sent to locate me? Did yer braither ken I was in MacAitken lands?”

“Nay. Although I’m sure he kens now.”

“Meaning… ye left yer mare, and he’s probably found it by now, sent out a search party, found out where we were, and figured it out?”

“Aye. I wouldnae underestimate his fury, either.”

Keith twisted and changed the direction he was circling, doubling back on the path he had already worn in the floor. “Had ye seen the man I was with before?”

“Nay.”

“He seemed familiar with the MacAitken lands. Are ye sure?”

“I’m sure. I heard a scream and rushed to help whoever needed it.”

He stopped directly in front of her. She didn’t step back. Instead, she tilted her chin up defiantly.

“Ye have never seen the man?”

“Nay. And he clearly had never seen me before. He called me ‘Sir.’”

“Did yer braither nae tell ye nae to intervene in battles that arenae yers?”

Her dark eyes flashed. “I dinnae need me braither or any other man to tell me what I can or cannae do.”

“And yet ye are dressed as a man to do what ye want,” he said mildly, his eyes roaming over her figure before locking onto hers.

Her tunic clung tighter than most would dare, tucked into worn leather breeches that hugged long, powerful legs. For a moment, his thoughts faltered—wicked, inappropriate, undeniable.

She moved like a warrior, but beneath the layers, he saw the shape of a woman, all sharp grace and tension. He didn’t linger, but the image stuck like a brand in his mind, and he wondered, briefly, what it would be like to undo every fastening she so stubbornly secured around her body.

His gaze returned to her face and found fire waiting there.

There is it—that twitch in her perfect brow.

“I can assure ye…” He watched silently as her hands fell to her sensual hips. “… I’d kill many of yer men, even in a dress,” she said, stepping close enough that her breath brushed his chest. “And I’d enjoy it.”

Keith didn’t step back. Instead, he murmured, “But nae me?”

Her gaze wavered, just for a moment. Then, her jaw hardened. “I dinnae ken, but I’d die tryin’.”

Her fire will probably get me killed… probably by her own hand.

“I see,” he said, his voice low.

He moved past her, letting the silence stretch before he turned again.

“So, since ye dinnae ken the man, why would ye intervene? He might have been a traitor. Or a thief.”

“The way he was shakin’ like a leaf, beggin’ for his life wildly, I kenned he was neither,” she replied flatly. “He was guilty of somethin’, but neither of those things. Ye should pick enemies that are yer equals. Or better.”

“Ye mean like yerself?”

She gave a tight, humorless smile. “Exactly, Laird MacAuley.”

“Keith,” he blurted out almost impatiently and almost too loudly.

He folded his arms again and chose a spot on the wall to lean against. It was her turn to start pacing, and he watched as she paced the length of the room. Her stride was precise. Fluid. Trained.

“Who was the man, anyway? Surely ye werenae going to kill him for just mocking yer family. What crime did he commit that made ye wish for him to be dead?”

Keith didn’t hesitate. “He killed me son.”

That stopped her. She blinked, once. Her thin fingers flew up to her lips.

“And now,” he added, his voice like iron, “ ye will help me find him.”

Ersie stared at him; he could see her heart pounding through that tiny vein in her neck. His confession had been a cruel one, but the grief etched behind his hard eyes was even more cruel to witness. He knew he couldn’t hide it, no matter how hard he tried.

He had lost a child and a wife in one night. While he didn’t love her, he still felt sorrow for her passing. She was a good wife, and their union made a strong alliance between his clan and Clan Kintarne to the north. Finding out a week later that his son had been murdered drove him mad with brutal anger and suspicion.

“I’m so sorry, Keith.”

Ersie’s soft voice struck him deeper than he could have ever expected. It lacked its usual bite, and in its place was something that rattled him more than anger ever could. And it felt wrong.

So, he wielded his rage like a blade.

“From the lass who’s got the fire of ten men and the manners of none, yer sympathy seems misplaced,” he bit out, his voice low and hard.

Her eyes narrowed, that spark flaring hot again. “Well, ye have the subtlety of a batterin’ ram,” she snapped.

There she is.

“Why involve anyone else in this? This is yer vengeance,” she pointed out.

He took a step closer. “Because I ken ye saw somethin’. Or heard somethin’. Ken somethin’. Or ye are hidin’ somethin’.”

He let the implication hang.

She crossed her arms. “Are ye accusing me or Clan MacAitken of havin’ a hand in the murder of a bairn?”

“Disrupting trade routes is pretty much what MacAitken needed to get the iron mines back up and runnin’, was it nae?”

She chewed on her cheek for a moment, before rolling her eyes. “I wasnae present when those decisions were made. I was still with MacGordon. But Laird MacAitken would never. Me braither would never. ”

Her response was a heated staccato, puncturing the tension that changed the temperature in the space.

“Are ye so sure, then?”

“I stake me life on that truth.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, and he held her dark gaze for a moment, assessing her vehemence. Finally, he inhaled loudly and pushed off the wall.

“If ye hadnae come along, this would be a non-issue. Ye have just ruined years of work.”

“And if I hadnae come along, ye would have had blood on yer hands and probably nay answers whatsoever.”

“Well, I still have nay answers from ye, aside from who ye are. And I still have blood on me hands,” he said, lifting his hands into the space between them.

Ersie rolled her eyes. “How do ye ken that he killed yer son?”

“Like I said, years of work.”

“Ye really believe it was him?”

“Aye. I ken it was.”

“And yet ye let him run?”

He stepped into her space again, his voice dropping. “Because of ye! Because ye distracted me. For all I kenned, ye two were workin’ together.”

The words hit harder than he had intended.

Ersie’s mouth opened and then closed.

He studied her for a long moment.

“So,” he said finally, his voice softer, “I’m satisfied with yer truth-sayin’.”

“Ach! Aye,” she scoffed, shaking her head impatiently. “Ye didnae have to drag me all the way here for such a short interrogation. Could have just gotten this over with?—”

“Ye ken damn well why I brought ye here.”

“I dinnae ken, but I ken ye are the Mad Laird. Better comply, or else he might start a war.”

“What is it with ye and this concept of war? Have ye ever been to war?”

“Ye ken well enough that I have.”

The room stopped spinning momentarily, and he turned to face her. “Ersie Barcley, ye didnae come here as a prisoner. Ye came of yer own volition. Dinnae blame me or war to feel justified.”

She crossed her arms and narrowed her glare, burning a hole through his chest.

“So,” he said, twisting a chair around and straddling it, “are ye goin’ to help me?”

The question was obviously a surprise. She didn’t reply at first.

Keith let his arm hang over the back of the chair lazily while he reined in the storm that was about to explode through his skin. He had established that she was not an accomplice. This wasn’t just grief anymore. It wasn’t just about vengeance. It was justice for a bairn that had no choice.

He had no reason to trust her, but her eyes didn’t lie.

He raked a hand through his hair. “There is more at stake here than pride. This is about justice. This is about duty.”

Ersie turned back toward him, her arms still crossed, but something shifted in her gaze.

“Aye, I’ll help ye, but I need to ken everything. Every detail ye remember—everything. I can only stay for a week. And I’ll need to write to me braither before he comes to find me.”

Keith nodded once. A tight, measured motion. “Good. Let’s begin.”