Page 3 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

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L aura gathered her skirts quickly, dug into the folds, and pulled out a handful of coins to leave for Ana.

“For these three sachets, An—” Laura started to say when a large, scarred hand reached across her chest and dropped several large gold coins on the precariously balanced stall table.

Laura moved on instinct, following the massive arm across her body and up, her glare latching onto his. He had been watching her, waiting for what he knew was coming, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Well?” was all he said as he straightened. “Lead the way, lass.”

She tsked, throwing her skirts behind her, knowingly hitting his legs with the fabric, and strode ahead. She cursed the traitorous blush that crept up her neck and cheeks, and attributed it to her anger.

His presence lingered on her skin tightly like it was a shawl that was wrapped around her, and it was altogether too hot and not hot enough. His unrelenting, ice-cold gaze, she felt it next, dominating and arrogant.

He had easily caught up and was striding next to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Had he seen the blush? Gracious, Lord above—I hope this isnae me last patient.

“Ye can tether yer stallion outside of the cottage when we get there. Have ye been to Mrs. Morrigan’s cottage before?”

“Aye,” he said simply, though a hint of disdain tinged his reply.

“Do ye nae like Mrs. Morrigan? Dinnae fash, I willnae tell.”

A curious eyebrow rose, and a flash of amusement lit up his dark features slightly. “Mrs. Morrigan was in the room when I was born.”

Laura looked him over, her gaze lingering on his chiseled profile before she looked away and started counting the years in her head. She considered how old Mrs. Morrigan was, and how long it’s been since she lived in the Keep.

His face is taut—signs of war but nae age. He’s older than me, but nae by much. Thirty, perhaps?

They continued to walk through the market, but something felt off. Laura noticed the change first in the way conversations tapered off as they passed, how eyes quickly darted away when she met them. The growing bustle seemed muted, hushed, as if the villagers were holding their breath. She felt the weight of their stares pressing on her back like a physical force, their whispers curling around her like mist.

What now?

She kept walking, her shoulders stiffening, keeping her focus straight ahead. But she felt it—the way their attention lingered.

“Sorry, Me Laird,” Laura said, her words clipped with impatience and embarrassment, her pace quickening.

“It’s nae about ye, lass.” His voice was quiet but firm, as if he could sense the tension creeping into her limbs. “The attention is only for me.”

Laura blinked and glanced at him. Despite his unreadable expression, his voice carried a hint of resignation.

That’s when it hit her. Of course. She had been too caught up in her unease to realize.

The villagers arenae whisperin’ about me. The cowards are whisperin’ about him.

She suddenly remembered the stories, the hushed warnings exchanged over fires, the fearful glances whenever his name was spoken. Laird MacAitken—the Monster. The man who had killed his own father. The man who ruled with the kind of power that did not beg for respect, but demanded it.

Laura stole another glance at him. He didn’t seem to care, not one bit, as if he had long since made peace with the weight of their stares.

“What do ye think of ‘em?” she asked suddenly. “The whisperers. The ones who only speak of ye when they think ye cannae hear them?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed ahead, but his voice was smooth, deliberate. “Whispers are just words too weak to be spoken aloud. Cowards’ tongues serve nay purpose but to fill the void of intelligence.”

Laura’s steps faltered. Her lips parted slightly, but not in shock. It was something else entirely.

Because it was the exact same thought she had always had.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips, but she said nothing. He didn’t need to know that, in this, they were of the same mind.

“Do ye need to get anythin’ else before we arrive at the cottage?” she heard him ask through a nearly clenched jaw.

Another look in his direction confirmed the strain in his voice.

Ye can just get it all later. Say nay.

“N—” she started to say when he grabbed the list that was sitting on top of the leeks.

“Crossed off, but nae in the basket?”

“The, um, the market wasnae open when…” she trailed off, coherent sentences escaping her.

“Ye still need venison?”

“I do, but Mack?—”

“Ms. Laura!” a loud voice hollered from across the market. Young Kerry Duran sprinted over to her. “Ms. Laura, wait!”

She turned and faced the boy, and the heated presence of Laird MacAitken pressed against her back.

The boy was smiling widely, gripping something in his small palm.

“What is it, laddie?” she called out.

He skidded to a halt in front of her, panting with excitement as he held out his overturned palm to hers. Laura’s eyes lit up with joy, matching the child’s energy, as she watched him drop a small bud into her waiting hand.

“It’s for yer stew!” Kerry said proudly. He had figured out what she was making.

“Aye, stew, laddie. What made ye think of it?”

He smiled bashfully but puffed out his chest. “Me ma helped me guess it, but I guessed it all meself. She helped, though.”

Laura laughed heartily, chancing a look in the direction of their stall, where Fiona Duran stood, one hand on her hip and the other waving in their direction before realization struck her. Even from afar, the woman recognized Laird MacAitken, who stood just behind Laura, and her hand dropped to her side.

“Hi, Ciaran!” Kerry said, leaning over on only one foot to see around Laura. “Can I pet Dùbhshìth today?”

Ciaran… Ciaran… Ciaran…

His name made Laura’s hair stand on end, and not out of fear. It was as if the ominous man standing behind her, the one that all of the villagers had just flinched away from, had not scared off everyone—although young Kerry had never flinched away from her either. However, the thought still made her smirk.

The otherwise stoic man behind her let a low rumbling chuckle before answering, a sound that she instantly wished to hear again. “He’s covered in soot and ash, laddie.”

The boy’s face fell and contorted into childish distaste. “Ohh—aye…” he trailed off, rubbing his hands up and down the front of his tunic as if cleaning an unknown mess.

“Henry will stop by with Fenrir after midday, though,” Ciaran offered.

“Fenrir! Do ye promise?” Kerry asked quickly, his eyes bright once more.

“Aye, laddie. I’ll tell him to come by the shop later.”

The boy jumped in celebration and ran back toward the stall. Fiona waved a hand in apparent gratitude, and Laura completely understood.

The man behind her was very intimidating. His reputation preceded him in every way, though he was gentle with the lad, and Kilbray was thriving, as were all of the villages in the MacAitken lands. It had to be attributed to the sort of laird he was—undeniably terrifying and powerful, and yet still took care of them, despite what they called him or said about him.

“The Durans have raised quite the young lad,” Laura mused.

“Tormod is a decent man,” was all he said in response as he held out a hand, gesturing for her to continue. She eyed his hand for a moment, cataloging the lines on his palm, before her gaze flicked back up to his.

“Ye ken the family well?”

“As they ken me. I ken all of the families in me villages.”

The implication was clear. He didn’t know her, and her presence in Kilbray was something he was not made aware of.

A new fear of her needing to flee gripped her as he watched her.

Laura’s eyes fell to his still outstretched palm, and she clicked her tongue before tossing the garlic into her basket and widening her stride.

The faster we get to the cottage, the sooner he’ll go… and maybe forget about me.

By the time they reached the cottage, Laura was once again acutely aware of his presence. The small space was warm and thick with the scent of drying herbs. She ushered him inside, motioning for him to sit near the table while she gathered supplies.

“Sit,” Laura said sharply, pointing to a chair by the hearth. She swore she heard the man growl before he made his way to the chair. “I’ll need to check ye fully for wounds, Me Laird. Ye’ll need to lift yer tunic.”

She turned around to prepare a damp cloth and a bowl of water.

His entire torso was exposed when she turned around—a sight she’d seen countless times with other men in this village. And yet it had shocked her to her core this time.

Laura’s body vibrated uncontrollably, and she cleared her throat before approaching him.

She felt his eyes on her. On every move she made as she sat across from him.

“Where’d yer tunic go?”

Ciaran pointed to the boiling pot of water in the hearth.

“I see.” Laura’s eyes drew a long line from the pot to the man sitting in front of her. “I dinnae ken what Mrs. Morrigan had prepared in that?—”

“Mrs. Morrigan always keeps a pot of water in the hearth. Unless that has changed in the five years since she left me Keep.” His tone oozed with confidence.

Obviously, he’s right.

“We were makin’ tonics for the sickness… how did ye ken for sure?”

“Tonics are over there.” He pointed to the identical pot that was perched on the workbench, ladle inside and vials laid out next to it.

Another long line from him to the other pot and back to him before Laura sighed. “Aye, ye’re right, but ye could have asked. That’s all I was gettin’ at. She’s nae the only one here anymore. Ye dinnae ken how I run things.”

“Aye, but if ye’re bein’ trained by Mrs. Morrigan, then I ken yer habits as well as hers. Why change the way things are done when they’re done with such efficiency?”

The Laird’s question made her back straighten defiantly—an action that did not go unnoticed by him, as his dark eyes followed the movement before reconnecting with hers.

“Fine,” was all she said, raising an eyebrow as she took a steadying breath. “Ye need us to wash the tunic, then?”

“It’s washin’ itself, enough of a rinse to get me home without earnin’ me another nickname.”

Her eyes flickered down and raked over his exposed shoulders, the wound capturing her attention. Ciaran didn’t flinch under her gaze as she did under his when he assessed her scars earlier.

Wish I could be as sure of meself…

Her mind wandered as her eyes found more scarring and more new injuries.

“I have a burn on me leg as well. Would ye like me to take off me pants, then?”

Her eyes connected with his. Not even a hint of a smile on his face helped her relax instantly.

With practiced ease, she looked down at the large hole in his pant leg. “N-Nay. Nae yet, at least,” she managed to say without her voice hitching.

“Just tell me when, then,” he said. This time, a smile played at the corners of his lips.

Laura cleared her throat again. “Ready?”

“I’m yer patient, lass,” he said smoothly. The gravel in his voice was almost nonexistent.

She moved closer, her hands hovering over his body carefully, tentatively outstretched to touch him, but then recoiling, remembering he was the Laird.

“Might I…”

The rest of the question lingered on the tip of her tongue when he simply put his arm into her hand.

“Thank ye,” she managed to say.

“I’m yer patient,” he said again, and in the ensuing silence, she got to work.

He helped her raise his arm when she started to lift it. He twisted this way and that as she moved her hands over his torso and back until she had fully assessed him.

The wound on his arm was bad, with fresh burns crossing over old scars, a testament to wounds that had never properly healed. The flesh was raw, edges peeling along his face and neck, and she could see where the heat had deepened, blistering the skin. The leg wound was not glistening, but it was an angry shade of red that she knew would need care.

She reached for the cloth, drenching it in the infused water and squeezing the excess out of it before dabbing at his shoulder carefully. He didn’t flinch, though she knew it stung.

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, though.

The door creaked, and Mrs. Morrigan stepped in. “Laura, about Fra—” She stopped mid-sentence, her sharp eyes flickering to the man sitting in the chair. Her eyebrows rose. “Ah. Ciaran. Back again?”

Ciaran smirked slightly, as if entirely unfazed by her reaction. “Obviously. Ye’re nae up at the Keep anymore. What else should I have done?”

The old woman sighed heavily. “I ken very well ye didnae come here of yer own volition. Though, I see ye’ve met me apprentice, Laura.” Her voice was carefully neutral, though Laura did not miss the way her gaze lingered on the Laird’s injuries. “Why is yer injury worse, Me Laird?”

Ciaran exhaled through his nose. “Got burned again. Fire at the Kerrs’.”

Mrs. Morrigan clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Ye men an’ yer foolishness. This will take time.”

“Time?” he challenged.

“Aye,” Mrs. Morrigan said firmly. “Somethin’ ye would have kenned, had ye come to me for those.” She pointed angrily at the scars on his face.

“How long?” he asked, without hesitation.

“We’ll need to see ye often to clean yer wounds and prevent them from gettin’ worse,” the old woman said distractedly as she looked over his injuries again.

“How long, Mrs. Morrigan? I dinnae have the ti—” His voice became tighter with irritation.

“Three months,” both healers said at once, and Laura couldn’t help the swell of pride in her chest.

Ciaran met her gaze this time, something unreadable flashing in his dark eyes. Then, without breaking eye contact, he said, “Very well then. Pack yer bags.”

Laura froze. It was obvious that he had ordered her and not the older woman, but Mrs. Morrigan clicked her tongue loudly, grumbling as she turned away to head back into her rooms.

“Nae ye, Mrs. Morrigan,” he said.

Mrs. Morrigan turned back, the question clear on her face.

“Ye.” His gaze grew more intense. “Laura. Ye will pack yer bags . Ye’re stayin’ with me for the next three months at the Keep.”