Page 7 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

7

K eith sat in his usual seat at the long, polished oak table, the scent of meat pies and buttered bannocks thick in the air. The fire crackled at his back, but it did nothing to ease the tension winding its way up his spine. His morning had not gone as he wished thus far; the distraction of Ersie just a few steps away from his chambers had not been settling in the slightest.

His mind wandered as he gnawed on a piece of toast.

Before the first glint of dawn touched the narrow windows of his chamber, a restless ache gripped his body, as though he hadn’t slept at all. His arousal strained against the sheets, a frustration he was all too familiar with these days.

Ever since she stumbled into the clearing—ever since she’d challenged him in the woods with that sharp blade and sharper tongue—his thoughts had become an endless torment of what-ifs and maybes, full of bare skin, breathless moans, and the defiant flash of her eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled into his mug.

Lucas, already sipping on his cider, was midway through recounting some tale about a merchant who’d lost half his wares to a pack of thieving dogs.

“So, the bastard offered me a deal for dog fur cloaks.” He laughed, shaking his head.

Keith grunted, more out of politeness than amusement, his mind already wandering back to the feel of her heated skin under his touch as he had reached across that small table and felt her racing pulse.

Lucas, however, continued recounting his tale as if Keith had expressed distinct interest in hearing it—when he most certainly could care less.

“And then the fool told me he could offer me twice the spices if I covered his losses at the border,” he snorted, shaking his head and biting into a bannock.

It was obvious to Keith that Lucas met up with the same merchant that he and Ersie encountered on the Airdhollow Slip, but Keith wasn’t in the mood to chat with his brother this morning.

Where is she? Will she wear a dress? Probably nae.

“I told him that he could shove his spices where the sun didnae shine unless he was offerin’ half of his shop as collateral.”

Keith let out a short breath through his nose. He wasn’t listening. Not really. His gaze drifted from his brother to the doorway. It wasn’t about lust, not entirely. It was about control. And right now, when it came to her, he had none.

He had no way of knowing whether his anger the night before truly scared her or if it was part of her plan all along to rile him. Keith caught himself wondering just how well-trained she was—the MacGordons were known even on the Continent for their combat skills. He knew that their training, at the very least, included manipulation, deception, conversation, and investigation.

But what else had she learned? Just how much did she employ her skills on me?

He needed to say something to Lucas. Warn him about Ersie before she arrived. The lass he’d dragged into their keep and promised safety to… sort of. But every time he opened his mouth to interrupt, Lucas powered through another unimportant detail.

“Ye ken, he even said somethin’ about a deal with one of the Kitarne cousins, but I dinnae trust any of those bastards. Nae since?—”

“Lucas—”

“—the whole trade route shifted west, aye, but they’re still sniffin’ about for leverage. Might need to send word to Grantson, remind him whose soil his wagons roll over.”

Keith’s jaw ticked. “Lucas.”

His brother finally paused. “Aye?”

Keith stared at him for a long moment, realizing he still hadn’t a clue how to start. So, instead, he grunted again.

Lucas raised an eyebrow but went back to his cider.

Then, the door creaked open.

Every breath in the room seemed to halt.

She stepped inside.

Hair damp from her bath, loose around her shoulders and falling down her back, catching the morning light like it was silk and fire braided together. Not bound. Not twisted tight in some warrior’s knot. Just… falling.

Unruly.

Long.

Longer than he had imagined.

His jaw locked. His fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. He didn’t blink.

She wore the tunic again, and damned if it didn’t suit her. But now, wet strands clung to her neck and her collarbone, and the scent of whatever herbs Isla put in the bathwater wafted toward him with every step she took.

Fresh. Wild. Woman.

She didn’t even glance his way.

“Good mornin’,” she said, dropping into the seat beside Lucas like she’d been born to sit at the MacAuley table. Her eyes twinkled as she turned to his brother. “Who are ye?”

Lucas grinned, ever the charmer. “I’m Lucas Dunn. Who are ye?”

“Ersie Barcley.”

“Well, Ersie Barcley, a pleasure to meet ye, finally. And how did ye find the MacAuley accommodations?”

“All good, Lucas Dunn. Nay issues.”

Keith growled low in his throat, annoyed by her calculated slight.

“I thought ye would be wearin’ a dress,” he said, his tone sharp.

“And I thought I could wear whatever I wished,” she quipped, tossing him a saccharine smile before angling her body toward Lucas again.

Keith nearly smirked. Nearly. “So, ye didnae like them?”

“Nah. They were… oppressive, Me Laird. Much too… tight .”

“Keith,” he mumbled into his mug.

Hell. Tight? The whole damn world would be too tight to hold her.

Lucas laughed, his gaze drifting a little too low for Keith’s liking. “So, ye are the infamous woman-at-arms. I’ve heard tales. Happy to finally meet ye. Though I’d prefer a castle to a battlefield if I’m bein’ honest.”

Ersie chuckled, tipping her mug toward him in a mock salute. “Ye and every man who has met me sword. How have ye managed to stick around this lovely ball of sunshine all these years?”

Keith didn’t laugh. He watched her. The way she leaned toward Lucas, elbow on the table, lips curling into that confident grin. That damned grin that told him everything that could possibly be on his brother’s mind.

Jealousy clawed at his ribs.

“So, yer grumpy braither cut our introduction short last night?—”

“She’s Laird MacAitken’s sister,” Keith interjected, forcing calm into his voice and effectively interrupting their inane line of questioning. “Sent word to him last night. She’ll be stayin’ for a while. Helpin’ with somethin’. Two weeks.”

Ersie didn’t look at him, but her eyebrow rose. “As long as ye told him I’ll be back the day after those two weeks.”

“Ye read it, lass.”

Lucas leaned back, relaxed. “So, what brings a warrior like ye here?”

“She’s helpin’ with the investigation,” Keith cut in.

The air shifted.

Lucas sobered, his smile dimming. “Aye… well, we thank ye for yer help.”

Ersie nodded once and started to eat, slow and steady.

Lucas, always one to enjoy the limelight, launched into tales of his days of training, his battles, his scars. Ersie laughed again.

Keith’s knuckles turned white. He watched the way her lips curled. The way her fingers tapped against the side of her goblet. The flush on her cheeks, whether from warmth or amusement, made something coil tight in his gut.

He hated how easy it was for her to smile at Lucas.

The thought of him lapping up her smile and laugh made him sick.

Lucas leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And what about yer sword now? Still sharp as ever?”

“Och, sharper,” Ersie replied, her smile curling like a blade unsheathed. “Though I save it for those who truly deserve it.”

Lucas chuckled, leaning back as if basking in her approval. “I’ll be sure to stay on yer good side, then.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Smart lad.”

Keith’s hand twitched. Her tone, her smirk—it was playful, almost flirtatious. But every few heartbeats, her gaze would drift past Lucas, straight to him .

Like she held a secret meant only for him. Like the sharp edge of her tongue was meant to wound one man while enticing the other.

Their eyes met across the table, and for a moment, everything else faded. Her expression didn’t change, but something deeper stirred beneath the surface. Something knowing.

Then, she turned back to Lucas. “So, what other stories have ye got? Or are ye only good with yer mouth at breakfast?”

Lucas laughed, delighted, and launched into another tale.

Keith bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

She is doing it on purpose. She has to be.

Lucas leaned in, lowering his voice, just slightly pivoting from his story to bring the attention back to her—like a damned killer bee to a willing flower, and she was the bee. “Did ye always train with the lads, or was it somethin’ ye grew into?”

The idiot doesnae even ken her story.

“I grew into it,” she replied. “Was raised with the boys in the MacGordon training camp. Best way to learn how to break a nose properly.”

“Remind me never to anger ye.” Lucas grinned.

“Remind yerself,” Keith muttered.

Lucas chuckled but didn’t respond. He was too busy watching Ersie like she was a puzzle he meant to solve.

“Enough chatter,” Keith said suddenly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Lucas blinked.

Ersie looked at him, her eyebrows raised.

“I expect ye in me study. Now.”

She set her mug down slowly. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, the air between them sparked like steel against flint.

He rose, not waiting for her, and left the dining hall.

By the time he reached the study, his blood was thrumming with frustrated heat. He paced once around the table, his hands clenched at his sides, before finally dropping into the chair behind his desk.

Christ, this woman …

He imagined the way she’d looked at him moments ago. The way her damp hair curled down her spine. The scent of wild herbs still clinging to his senses. Her lips, curling into that maddening grin.

Did she purposefully flirt with Lucas to get a rise out of me, or did she truly wish to interact with him in that way?

His mind twisted the scene, reshaping her mouth around words of surrender, her body curving toward him in a far more intimate way. He gripped the arms of his chair. That damned grin. It haunted him.

The sound of someone clearing their throat softly cut through the haze.

Isla.

She stood just inside the servants’ entrance.

“Well?” Keith asked, his voice sharp.

“She asked exactly what ye said she’d ask.”

“And what did ye tell her?”

“Same thing I told ye when ye asked me first—that I think the Airdhollows stand to gain from yer loss.”

He nodded slowly. “Good. Continue earnin’ her trust. Perhaps she will reveal somethin’.”

“Aye, Me Laird.”

“What about the dresses?”

“She had the green one on before Mrs. Lane brought in her warrior clothing.”

“The green one,” he hummed, resting his chin on his palm. “Very good. Thank ye, Isla.”

The maid bowed her head and left.

Moments later, a knock sounded at the study door.

And Keith’s chest tightened.