Page 1 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

1

N ae again.

The all-too-familiar smell of burned pine and charred heather assaulted Ciaran’s nostrils first. His dark eyes darted around the misty morning sky for any signs of it as the terrors of his past threatened to emerge from the pits of his memory.

“Where is it?”

Birds squawked ferociously all around him, alerting the forest of imminent danger, but none took flight.

“Where is it?” he asked, leaning over his vigilant stallion, Dùbhshìth, straining the muscles in his neck uncomfortably.

The inky black horse pulled and tugged at Ciaran’s unyielding grip on the reins, rebelliously beating his hooves on the wet ground, threatening to buck him off.

Ciaran’s hand instinctively stroked the horse’s neck and mane to calm him. Then, he saw it against the still dark sky—a thick black column billowing angrily toward the heavens, twisting and writhing like a vengeful spirit.

“There!” he called out into the empty glen, kicking the horse’s flanks. “To Kilbray! Now!”

The stallion responded instantly, tearing through the bog with furious resolve.

The wind tore through Ciaran’s hair as he urged Dùbhshìth forward. His demons gnawed at his tendons and muscles the closer they got to his nightmare.

Screams carried on the breeze and drove him to shout with frustration.

“On!” he yelled, rising even further out of the saddle to cut through the punishing wind.

Gut clenched, they tore through Kilbray’s market as the well-known cobblestones echoed loudly under Dùbhshìth’s iron shoes. Yelling and shouting rang through the air—the crowd was panicked and desperate.

The acrid scent of a burning thatch invaded his nostrils as he rode forward, passing more villagers running toward the scene.

Barely taking a moment to assess the horrific display, he leaped off his stallion and started barking orders at the frantic villagers.

“Get more water, man!” he called out, hoisting a bucket from the well himself.

“Faster!”

“Faster!”

The villagers hesitated for only a moment before obeying, though their eyes flicked toward him warily. He ignored them, as usual.

Their fear, their whispers, had no place here. It had been years, and still, they looked at him as if he were the monster they called him.

A blood-curdling, high-pitched wail pierced the chaos, and Ciaran’s head snapped toward the sound.

The woman waved her arms, trying to stretch her body toward the house between her pleas. “Fergus! Me baby! Fergus! Let go of me!” She tore at the tunics of the men holding her back.

“Please! Nay! Ye cannae go in there! It’s too dangerous!”

Ciaran’s eyes darted to the house, and he noticed that a small figure was trapped near the edge of the blaze. His tiny hands were raised against the heat, blocking it from consuming him.

He moved before thinking.

Pushing through the smoke, he strode into the inferno, heat searing his skin, his breath burning in his throat.

The flames had started to lick at the hem of the boy’s tunic. His eyes were squeezed shut, his tears evaporating before they could stream down his chubby cheeks.

Ciaran scooped up the boy and turned sharply. He ignored the flare of pain as his already-scarred flesh met the fire once more, his neck getting seared his neck like a brand. He grunted and twisted away from the flames, using his body to protect the boy.

The way he had come was blocked.

The boy wailed into Ciaran’s chest, screeching wildly. His small hands fisted his tunic with unrelenting strength.

“Dinnae fash, laddie. I’ve got ye. I’ll get ye out of here,” Ciaran said, the vibration of his chest responding to the boy’s reassuring nod, and he gripped his tunic even tighter.

Stumbling back into the open air, he set the boy down, checking him over quickly. He smacked the flames licking at the boy’s pants before setting him straight. The lad was shaken but unharmed.

“Open yer eyes, laddie,” Ciaran ordered firmly, giving the boy a slight shake as a woman rushed forward, gathering him in her arms.

Through her relieved sobs, the young boy peeked up at his savior, and his small body stiffened.

“Mama, the monster got me!” he cried harder than ever, gripping her skirts in fear.

“Fergus!” the woman who he recognized as Mrs. Kerr tried to hush the child, pulling him closer to her to stifle his renewed screams.

Voice muffled but clear, the boy continued, “I promise I’ll never light the hearth again. I’ll never do it again, Maither. Please dinnae feed me to the monster! I swear I’ll be good! I swear!”

The fire roared loudly as a weighted silence fell over the gathered crowd.

Ciaran’s jaw tightened, but he kept his face impassive. He had long since learned that there was no use in fighting it. No matter what he did for them, no matter how many fires he put out or how many people he saved, they still saw him as the vengeful beast who had killed his father.

The woman paled, her arms tightening around her son. “Laird MacAitken, I-I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered, her voice hushed with shame, pulling the boy closer as if to smother his insults.

He barely heard her. His dark eyes raked over the gathered crowd, noting how they avoided his gaze, how they stepped back just slightly as if his very presence might scorch them like the fire. Focusing back on the small boy, Ciaran knelt down.

“Best be more careful, Fergus Kerr. Or else I’ll have to come back,” he warned, his voice menacingly low and unyielding.

The boy’s face when ashen, his small hands clutching at his mother’s skirts. She shot Ciaran a nervous glance, but despite her son’s terror, gratitude shone in her eyes.

Ciaran stood, smacking his clothes free of the burning fabric. The crowd murmured at the sight.

As if spat out of the deepest pits of hell, he rose from his crouch, smoke seeping from the crevices of his body. He looked around at the men who had been throwing the water buckets, and they, too, were staring.

Christ alive! Nae movin’ at all?

“Why are ye standing around, dammit? Are we to let it burn to the ground?” he hollered at the stagnant bucket brigade.

They sprang into action, racing to busy themselves in front of the Laird. The Laird, who had just walked through fire as if it were a glen.

Lifting two large buckets for every one that each of the villagers carried, Ciaran ran laps around them all, quickly dousing the flames before they could spread. The weight of the water barely registered in his arms, his muscles flexing and straining beneath his tunic as he moved with unwavering determination. His breath came hard and fast, but he didn’t falter—not once.

Where others hesitated, he acted. Where others slowed down, he surged forward. The flames, violent and hungry, out of control, roared against the damp night air.

“Keep throwin’,” Ciaran barked. “If ye stop, it’ll spread!”

The villagers around him scrambled, tossing water, and beating at the embers with blankets. The house’s supporting beams and foundation groaned under the strain.

His grip on the buckets was firm, and despite the searing heat, he welcomed the sting—it reminded him that he was alive. And yet, as the fire crackled and roared before him, a different memory stirred in the depths of his mind. A fire not unlike this one. It had burned not just his home, but a past that he could never reclaim.

Blazing, hell-bent, obsidian chaos beckoned him—begged him to let it in. To let in the sting of loss. Let in the wrath of devastation. But Ciaran growled with newfound defiance. This wasn’t about him. This was about his clan. He had to save them.

Ignoring the burn in his shoulders as he heaved another two buckets, he moved through the throngs of clamoring, clumsy villagers with rash efficacy. Sweat slicked his skin. Heat and exertion turned his breath into ragged exhales. His dark hair stuck to his forehead as he threw the water on the fire furiously.

Finally, another column of smoke collapsed in on itself, and the satisfying sound of ashes hissing their demise put a smirk on his otherwise furious face.

Good.

He stood, watching the steam and smoke mingle as they both rose into the early morning sky.

Need to tell Angus .

His eyes landed on Mrs. Kerr and young Fergus.

He’ll want to ken that his family is safe…

Whistling for Dùbhshìth, he sauntered away from the wreckage purposefully, meeting the steed along the tree line while barking orders over his shoulder to the village leader, affectionately known as Mack, who followed him dutifully.

“I’ll return with others from the Keep to take care of the debris, but ye need to gather it when the smoke clears. Just put it there—” He pointed over to an empty space near the road.

“Aye, Me Laird.” The otherwise large man stood almost at Ciaran’s chin.

“Shouldnae interfere with the market today, right?”

“Nay, Me Laird. We’ll just be delayed, is all.”

“Right, good. I’ll have Henry bring his steed as well as a few of the others—we’ll return after midday.”

“Aye,” Mack said, turning on his heel and retreating to convey the orders to the rest of the villagers.

A slight, hoarse voice caught Ciaran’s attention at the exact moment he had gripped the pommel of Dùbhshìth’s saddle. “Me Laird? Me Laird?”

He stilled, glancing at her over his charred shoulder.

She hesitated, as if debating whether to speak or not, then lifted her chin. “Yer wound. It’s gotten worse.”

Ciaran rolled his shoulder absently, feeling the fresh burn where the fire had scalded him. It was nothing.

I’ve had much worse, woman.

He opened his mouth to dismiss her, tightening his grip on the pommel once more, but she said quickly, “As thanks for what ye did today, let me take ye to the healers’. They’ll treat ye.”

Healers’ as in multiple, or healer’s as in the healer’s home?

“I’ll go to the surgery at the Keep, Mrs. Kerr. Thank ye,” Ciaran said, finally mounting his stallion and tugging on the reins.

The woman, as stubborn as he knew her husband to be, side stepped and stood in front of Dùbhshìth, who he knew they called ‘The Beast’s Demon.’

“There’s nay healer there. Angus has told me so.”

“Move, woman.”

“Mrs. Morrigan will be wantin’ to see ye, Me Laird—ye ken it well enough after what happened ‘fore.”

What happened before ? —

He sat up straighter, though the demons of his nightmares reared their angry heads again. They were his past, present, and future. All that he had been, was, and ever would be was written in the events of The Uprising.

The Uprising, where the MacAitken men from Kilbray, Braemore, and Inverwick revolted against his father, setting fire to everything he knew. The death of his mother, the loss of his sister, and the destruction of his home had set in motion the murder of his father, by his own hand, in the middle of Kilbray Marketplace.

“Aye,” he finally said. “Before…”

“Me Laird, please—” she interrupted. “I cannae in good conscience let ye leave without receivin’ treatment.” Mrs. Kerr even opened her arms wide before placing a small hand on the stallion’s nose, willing him into submission.

“I dinnae care about yer conscience, Mrs. Kerr. This doesnae concern ye.” He tugged on the reins, pulling the horse away from her to be on his way.

To his people, he was a monster. To the other clans, he was a vengeful brute of the worst kind. The scars that covered most of his body were just the outward impression of the wretched beast within. He was determined to leave this place before he heard something he knew would anger him. His demons were barely held back by the raised scars all over his body—it wouldn’t take much to let hell break loose.

“But it does!” Mrs. Kerr hollered, walking quickly to remain in front of Dùbhshìth. “It does , Me Laird! Flog me for insolence, but it does.”

Flog ye? What is she gettin’ at?

Distaste spread across his brow and upper lip. “How does it concern ye now?”

“Ye saved me boy’s life, and all he did was insult ye.”

Ciaran remained silent.

“Please. I need to balance the insult, for young Fergus’s sake.”

“Balance?”

Mrs. Kerr straightened as if the answer was obvious, but Ciaran remained silent, curious about what she would say.

“Spit upon the hand that lifts ye … ”

… and one day, when ye fall, ye’ll find none reachin’.

He knew the passage from the tales they were told growing up.

“I dinnae blame wee Fergus, Jenny,” Ciaran said, understanding what she was really saying. “The lad is fine—it’s learned behavior. I blame the adults.”

The stare he leveled at the dispersing crowd just beyond her was that of pure, unfiltered disgust.

“I never?—”

“I dinnae care what ye ‘never’ did or nae. I must go, Jenny. I’ll tell Angus that ye’re safe—he’ll return with us after midday. Dinnae fash.”

“ Please, Ciar—Me Laird,” she quickly corrected, her urgency pushing the boundaries of propriety with reckless abandon. “ Please , come with me. The healers will take care of ye,” she said with a low bow, disappearing under Dùbhshìth.

Healers. So, they are multiple?

His interest was piqued.

“Since when did Kilbray have more than one healer?”

“Well, since one year and a half, I guess?”

“Ye guess?”

How did I nae even realize for a year and a half that there were two of them? Is Mrs. Morrigan so overwhelmed that she needs help? Is this person takin’ advantage of her?

“Who is this other healer? Where did they come from?”

“We ken her as Ms. Laura, Me Laird. She’s learned quickly and has helped most of us here in town now that Mrs. Morrigan has slowed down.”

“Slowed down?”

“I’m sure she will treat ye, Me Laird. Please?” Jenny insisted.

Ciaran exhaled slowly through his nose and clicked his tongue before swinging his leg over Dùbhshìth’s saddle to dismount.

“I’ll go alone, Jenny. Quit yer fashin’,” he said, sighing heavily. “Go take care of wee Fergus,” he called out over his shoulder as he led his stallion toward the healers’ cottage.

The stinging pain all over his body barely even registered, with the weight of curiosity guiding his steps back into town.

There are two of them.