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

5

E rsie took a seat across from Keith, the chill from the dungeon walls crawling up her spine like a warning. She stared at him, the Mad Laird.

The torches burned low, elongating his monstrous shadow behind them, but she saw more than fury and fire in his eyes. There was pain there. Ancient and aching.

“Me wife was of Clan Kitarne. It was a political match. I cared for her, but there was nay love there. She died in childbirth,” he said, his voice low and flat.

Ersie felt her throat tighten but said nothing. There was a weight in the air that warned her to listen and not to speak.

“But me son, he lived. Screamin’, squallin’… A healthy lad, they said.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers curling around the end of her braid.

Keith’s voice dropped lower. “A week later, I found his body. Washed ashore the loch. A bairn… drowned. Naked.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes didn’t waver.

“Murdered.”

Ersie sucked in a sharp breath. Her heart thudded like hooves against hard-packed earth. “I didnae ken all of that…”

“Very few do. I buried the truth with him. And went mad with the silence.” He turned away from her, his jaw clenched so tight she swore she heard the grind of teeth. “It’s been five years. That man—the one ye came to rescue—was me only lead. The only one who gave me anythin’ to go on.”

Ersie dropped her gaze, shame curling around her chest like a noose, and her skin tingling painfully as if it was on fire. “I am… so sorry, Laird MacAuley.”

She hadn’t intended to say it like that. Not without the usual sarcasm she cloaked herself in. But the words came anyway, soft and sincere.

He corrected her before, but not this time.

She’d never regretted saving a man as much as she did at that moment.

“So,” she continued, “do ye want me to track the bastard down? Because I can do that. I can write to me braither, let him ken?—“

Keith snorted and faced her again. This was a different man. A darker man. Wild. “I should be offended that ye think I need help findin’ that lowlife again.”

Ersie blinked.

“I just need him to think that I’ve taken me wrath out on ye. Let him relax. People make mistakes when they feel safe.”

A clear jab at her and her being here. She looked around the room before her eyes landed on his. His emerald irises were black as night, which she tried to ignore before they sucked her in further.

“So, what was the clue?” she asked. “Ye said he gave ye somethin’. If he was on our lands, maybe there’s kin or friends about that we could… ask. What was the clue?”

Keith’s eyes flashed savagely as she repeated the question, and she realized that she’d finally touched a nerve.

Good.

He pushed himself to his feet, his large frame towering over her and extinguishing the air in the room.

“Ye think ye can out-scheme me with yer quick tongue and clever eyes?” he snapped. “I let ye live out of generosity. Dinnae mistake that for weakness.”

She stiffened, taken aback.

Let me live?

His eyes narrowed, a spark behind them. “I’ve crushed men for far less than what ye have cost me today. And they were ten times more useful than ye have been so far.”

The sharpness of his words carved deeper than she had expected. For this man being a stranger, it was strange how much of an effect he had on her. But his voice was low, like a storm just before it broke.

“Ye walk in here with yer stubborn pride and wild notions like it earns ye the right to meddle. If ye truly think that yer pretty little mouth and title keep ye safe, then ye are more foolish than I thought.”

Her pride didn’t waver, and she didn’t dare look away.

This is for show.

He had turned away from her, his jaw clenched tight, pacing the narrow room like a caged beast.

The Mad Laird lurched in the silence that hung between them. Ersie sat unmoving, watching him as the crackle of the distant torch in the passageway and the slowing echo of his boots filled the space.

Is he done, or is he just winding tighter?

Then, without looking at her, he stopped. Shoulders squared, he let out a harsh breath through his nose, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.

“Ye sit there like some half-trained hound, thinkin’ ye understand loss. Thinkin’ ye are owed explanations. Think again, lass.” His voice was quiet but cut deep. “Ye saved the wrong man. And now I’m left with nothing but ghosts… again.”

Ersie’s throat went dry. Her pride recoiled from the blow, but her heart ached.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, something dark glinting in his eyes. “If yer plan was to get me talkin’, it worked. But dinnae mistake that for weakness either. I’ve told ye nothin’ beyond common knowledge.”

He turned fully then, his eyes finding hers. And for the first time, his voice cracked not from anger, but from the unbearable weight of a memory flooding his mind.

The tension in his shoulders, the way his fists opened and closed at his sides—it spoke volumes. Ersie had been trained to get men to speak to her in this way, but something about this instance told her that she had made a mistake.

Keith drew in a slow breath, the kind that scraped across a chest full of hot coals. Then, finally, he said, “Ye get under me skin, lass. Ye twist every thought sideways with yer sharp tongue and sharper eyes. Ye arenae a half-trained hound…”

Ersie remained silent, her breath caught somewhere between fury and curiosity.

His gaze was steady on hers. “I’ve spent five years carryin’ silence like a shield. Until today, I thought I preferred it. Then, ye come like a wild storm, questionin’ even the very breath I take. Dinnae think I’ll thank ye for it, nor will I forgive, but…”

His words trailed off into a scoff.

Then, in a quieter voice, he said, “He implied that the bairn… wasnae mine.”

Ersie inhaled. Not in shock, but in sorrow. The truth of it sat bitter on her mind. “I see,” she murmured.

He watched her, his eyes narrowed.

She straightened her spine and met his stare. “Let me help ye properly, then. That is me offer.”

“Ye arenae in any position to make offers,” he said, glancing around the room.

“For two weeks instead of one, and nae in the dungeons or under guard. Of me own free will ,” she continued.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I will dig around. Ask. Talk to people. Folk speak differently to someone like me than they do to the Mad Laird. Maybe I’ll find out somethin’. But when the two weeks are over, I leave. Nay war. Nay threats.”

“There ye go again about war…”

“I mean it. Just give me… time. Time to make this right.”

He tilted his head, like a wolf deciding whether the prey was worth the chase. “Do ye have bairns?”

The question struck hard and fast.

Ersie swallowed. “Nay,” she said, her voice firm but faint.

“That explains why ye think I could let it go in two weeks.”

He leaned forward, his hand rising. She stilled.

His fingers ghosted over the fluttering pulse at her neck. Heat pooled in her belly. She hated how easily he stirred her. Hated that she wanted to be closer and lean into his touch.

“But I’ll take yer offer,” he added, his hand falling away. “Ye will be more useful alive.”

Her breath was shaky.

He turned to the door, unlocking it with one heavy motion.

“Are ye comin’, lassie? Or did ye wish to stay in the dungeons, after all?”

For a moment, she couldn’t move.

Then, she stood up, the chair scraping across the stone floor loudly. She followed him out, their boots loud on the stone.

They walked through the castle corridors, his pace steady. She caught details that she hadn’t before—tapestries older than her clan, foregone weapons lining the walls, and a few maids who paused to stare.

Keith didn’t speak.

Just before they reached the stairs, she muttered, “Thank ye.”

He stopped. Turned. And the silence between them sizzled.

She cleared her throat, refusing to blush under the weight of his gaze. “For nae killin’ me, I mean.”

His lip twitched, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes—something that made her think that his intention was never to kill her—but then he inhaled sharply. His face was blank.

“Dinnae thank me yet. We have barely begun.”

They climbed up the stairs to a large hallway that glimmered with warm candlelight. His castle smelled of smoke, pine, and old secrets—earthy and ancient. The stone walls bore the weight of a thousand years of MacAuley blood.

“Ye have rebuilt well,” she observed, more to break the silence than anything else.

“Aye. Took time. Blood.” He gestured to a corridor on their right. “That leads to the Great Hall. Ye will see it tomorrow, mayhap.”

They passed narrow slits for windows and the occasional wooden door, each marking places that weren’t her concern. Ersie kept her steps light and her eyes sharp.

Keith didn’t offer more commentary, and she didn’t expect it. But when they reached a landing that overlooked the training yard and the loch just beyond it, she caught him glance toward it—just for a moment—and saw the shadows in his gaze deepen.

“That’s where I last saw him,” he said, his voice so quiet she barely heard it.

She followed his stare and stood beside him in silence. A moment passed like a lifetime.

They stood there while the guards started to trickle in for their nightly training session, and Ersie felt a pang of desire to join them.

But Keith turned and led her around another staircase, then through an arched corridor carved with weathered runes she could barely read. Ersie trailed close behind, trying not to trip over her boots as the flagstones dipped unevenly beneath them. He said nothing, and she didn’t press him.

They passed through another long gallery of even more portraits than the one they had walked through before. These men all shared one common trait—the same emerald green eyes that Keith had. She felt like she was being watched.

Keith pushed a door open with a creak and led her into what could only be his study. The high-ceilinged chamber was large, with massive bookcases lining the walls and a great wooden desk tucked at the far end—scratched, battered, and clearly used. The fire in the grate burned low, throwing flicking shadows against the stone floor. Papers were scattered, ledgers open, and maps rolled half-out like forgotten thoughts.

“Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to a deep chair near the hearth. She did.

He strode to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill, and began writing. The scratch of the quill was the only sound for a moment.

“To yer braither,” he confirmed, more than asked.

“Aye,” she said plainly, her gaze assessing the space around her before landing on him.

Keith hummed, his eyes meeting hers. “He will need to ken that ye are here and why. Though I’ll leave out most of the details.”

She raised an eyebrow. “A wise choice. He’d storm yer gates with a blade if he thought I was locked below.”

Keith gave a grunt that might have been agreement—or amusement.

He paused, then muttered, “Ye’ll read it before I seal it.”

She blinked, surprised. “Thank ye.”

More silence. He dipped the quill again.

After a moment, he added, “Ye can write anything to him; it’ll go with this letter.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I might ask to do it later, but nae now.”

He finished the letter with a flourish, blotted it with practiced ease, and handed it over for her to read. She scanned the words quickly. It was short, terse. Professional, but not cruel. Just like him.

She folded it. “It’ll do.”

Keith looked at her for a long beat before finally settling in the chair opposite her, one leg crossed over his knee and his arms crossed. There was something about this wild and maddening woman that burrowed beneath his skin.

“Two weeks.”

“I’ve faced worse odds,” she said, her voice tinged with something more cautious than brave, “and I’ve made worse bargains.”

Keith’s mouth twitched at the corner—half smirk, half wound. That answer burned hotter than any lie. “Ye still think I’m mad?”

Ersie stared into the flickering fire and murmured, “I think ye are haunted. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t reply. His silence was agreement enough.