Page 7 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

7

H is thoughts were restless, simmering with tension and something far more dangerous than mere irritation. Ciaran felt her presence linger, a ghost of warmth where her touch had been on his torso as she tended to his wounds. His skin still burned, and not just from his injuries.

Her small, skilled fingers, gentle yet firm, had pressed against him with a confidence that no woman had dared to show before.

“She doesnae fear me,” he said in the isolated gardens as he drained the contents of his glass, before pouring himself another.

The dog at his feet merely grumbled, having been listening to his master’s tireless musings all morning.

She’s infuriating.

Defiance he had expected, but he had never anticipated the exhilaration he felt. None of the other women he’d known met his gaze without shrinking or pursed their lips in challenge instead of trembling with fear. And those lips —her lips.

Christ above.

He ran his hands roughly through his hair. His mind betrayed him, picturing them parted, and not in anger, but in need.

Soft. Full. Meant to be tasted. Meant to taste.

He threw his glass and watched it shatter against the stone wall. The dog scurried away quickly, and Ciaran’s eyes followed it. He was feeling slightly bad for scaring the pup when his gaze connected with a pair of ice-cold blue eyes that had been haunting his thoughts with sinful recklessness. As if he had summoned them.

The sound of his guard’s boots scuffing against stone and her frantic footsteps clicking and sliding across the rock echoed across the lawn as they drew closer to him. Then, he heard a sharp grunt followed by her soft cry as his guard pushed her to the ground.

Her body landed roughly before him, her hands outstretched in front of her, bracing for the impact.

Ciaran froze, stunned.

The sight of her on her knees before him did something to him that it shouldn’t. Something hot and unforgiving coiled in his gut, dark and not altogether unwanted.

His mind skipped passed anger for the intrusion and spiraled somewhere far less honorable when she raised her head, her arctic eyes blazing. Her breath was ragged as she pushed herself up. Her scarred cheek was flushed, her lips— those lips —parted, and for a single, sinful second, all he could think about was what she would look like if she weren’t glaring at him.

What would she look like if that fire was for something else entirely—Christ above!

Heat flared through him, low and dangerous. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to banish the wicked thoughts of her on her knees, not in defiance but in surrender.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as her braid fell over her shoulder, her fiery red hair slipping free to frame her face, something altogether wild and untamed.

“Ye,” he managed to say through gritted teeth as his body reacted to the thought of her testing him. Something that only made him want her more.

She narrowed her eyes. “Aye.” Her sharp response was laced with venom that he wished to taste as it dripped from her lips.

He should be furious at her insolence. Instead, all he could think about was how good she’d look beneath him, still glaring at him, still challenging him even as she surrendered to him.

Or better yet, above me…

Ciaran’s head snapped up then. The garden fell silent.

He clenched his hands into fists as he willed himself to breathe, to think, and not to break the bastard’s neck right there in the garden.

The guard was rooted to his spot, his shoulders squared as if he had done nothing wrong. As if he hadn’t just thrown a woman to the ground like she was less than dirt.

Ciaran’s patience frayed. The growl that tore from his throat was low and lethal. “Ye threw her to the ground. Why?”

“I—Erm—Uh—” The guard’s smirk faltered as he clumsily searched for the right words to say, which only infuriated Ciaran further.

“Are ye daft, lad? Or just slow?” His voice was dangerously calm, which only made the tension thicker.

“Nay, Me Laird.”

“So, ye’re just beggin’ me to tear ye apart and hang ye from the turrets for all to see?”

The guard’s arrogance did not waver. “She was brought to me. I was told she refused yer summons, Me Laird. A great offense. She needed a lesson in?—”

Ciaran moved before he even decided to. His fist collided with the guard’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending the man staggering back, gripping his face with shock.

“Since when have ye been told to carry out a lesson for me?” Ciaran’s voice was harsh, his breathing labored, his blood burning hot.

The guard wiped his mouth and glanced at the blood on his fingertips. “Me Laird, I was only?—”

“I dinnae care what ye thought ye were doin’.” Ciaran stalked closer to the man, his rage rolling off him in waves. “I asked if I ever gave ye an order to carry out a lesson for me?”

“Nay, Me Laird.”

“Why did ye, then?”

“I thought ye wished it?—”

“Ye thought I wished to see a woman get tossed to the ground like she’s cattle for slaughter? When have I ever shown such behavior—or approved it, at that?”

The guard’s jaw tightened. “She’s just a healer, Me Laird.”

Ciaran lunged at him.

His hand fisted into the guard’s tunic, yanking him forward until their noses almost touched.

“She’s me healer. Yer healer, if ye live past tonight,” he snarled. “Dependin’ on her answers, ye’ll wish I killed ye right here in this garden when I’m through with ye. Ye hear?”

He threw the man back, sending him stumbling.

The man didn’t dare lift his eyes.

“Now… before I blame this entirely on ye…”

Ciaran turned around and walked toward Laura, who was still kneeling in the dirt, watching him with a guarded expression. He loomed over her, his breathing still ragged as he reached out his hand.

“Who brought ye here, lass? Was it him?” he demanded, pointing at the man standing behind her.

Her blue eyes flickered with defiance, but she placed her hand in his. The moment their skin met, something unforgiving shot through him, and it had nothing to do with anger.

“The guard who brought me from the cottage was Dùghall Arnasdair, or so Mrs. Morrigan called him.”

“That isnae Dùghall Arnasdair,” Ciaran said, his breathing slowing, but blood was still rushing through his veins as he pointed behind him at the guard.

“Nay, Dùghall and I rode here. A man met us at the wall and lifted me down from the horse, and that man brought me here.” Laura nodded in the same direction he pointed.

“Who was the man at the wall?”

“I dinnae ken,” she said numbly.

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Long blonde hair, held back with a black leather tie. Blue eyes,” she replied, chewing on her cheek nervously.

Henry.

Ciaran’s grip on her hand tightened before he could stop himself, his pulse pounding, his veins still hot from the anger that had not yet fully settled.

He heard her breath hitch and felt the faintest tremor run through her fingers, but it wasn’t out of fear. He knew she didn’t fear him.

His eyes flickered downward, catching the way her teeth tugged at her bottom lip, the small, absent gesture betraying her thoughts.

Ciaran clenched his jaw.

Does she have any idea what that does to me?

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clenching his free hand into a fist at his side to keep from fisting the hair at the nape of her neck, to angle her lips closer to his. Or better yet, to keep from dragging his thumb over those lips. To keep from seeing if she’d part them for him, if she’d let his thumb slip past her lips and into her hot mouth.

He was too aware of her. The faint smell of heather clung to her, and his eyes landed on the pulse jumping at her throat, betraying her.

Ciaran’s voice came out lower, rougher than he intended. “I dinnae even ken who brought ye here, or why, but ye’re safe here. That is…” he trailed off, knowing he should let go of her hand and step back, but he didn’t. “That is if ye wish to stay. Did they even ask ye to come, lass?”

If I wish to stay?

The question lingered on the tip of her tongue, never mind how utterly helpless she felt in his presence. His features were so dark, as if he beckoned the shadows around him.

“Did they ask me to come?” she repeated.

“Well?”

“I thought…” she started to say, but Ciaran twisted his neck impossibly far to either side. Her eyes followed the rippling muscles.

“Answer the question, lass!” he barked, making her shoulders jump with the shock of his booming voice.

“Nay, I wasnae asked, but I’m here now. What’s done is done.” Her voice was level. “Me Laird,” she added, just in case.

Ciaran’s eyes flashed with menace, and he reached for his blade, which had been concealed. Lifting it to the guard’s hand, he met the terrified man’s wide-eyed stare.

“If ye force any woman to do anythin’ again, ye will lose yer hands. Am I clear?” he said, cutting him enough to draw blood.

The guard didn’t wince or even show that the pain affected him. He had been well trained, and he was intensely obedient to his Laird… even with a split lip, black eye, and now a cut wrist.

“Now, show yer gratitude. I’m nae in the mood to kill someone in front of a lass,” Ciaran said as if bored, the bloody tip of his dagger pointing at the man’s face.

“Ma’am, I’m ever so grateful to ye. Me Laird,” the guard said firmly, before stepping backward.

“Wait,” Ciaran said, still pointing his weapon at the man’s face, who watched it with resignation. “Tell Dùghall to come here immediately, and tell Henry I’ll expect to see him in me study in ten minutes.”

The guard nodded, nodded again at Laura, and then left.

Christ, why did he treat him like that?

Ciaran sheathed his dagger once more and ran a calloused hand over her smooth, exposed arms, assessing her for injuries. She winced as he reached her wrist.

Shite.

His eyes flashed up to hers. “Did he hurt ye?”

Lie.

“Nay,” she told him, trying to pull her arm free, but his grip tightened.

“Let me see,” he said coolly, his fingers massaging the inside of her wrist right at the spot that made her recoil.

Heat pooled low in her belly, unexpected and unrelenting.

She swallowed hard, cursing the traitorous warmth that slithered through her veins at the way his fingers caressed her skin. He had meant it as an assessment, a warning, but her body had turned it into something else entirely.

Sin.

The thought curled through her mind, wicked and undeniable.

His hands were rough, but his touch was almost too gentle, a contradiction that set her nerves ablaze. He was touching the spot that made her wince, but she thought of what it would feel like if he touched her for another reason entirely.

Her breath hitched, her skin burning as his thumb drew soft circles on it.

He cannae ken what he’s doin’ to me…

Images flooded her mind.

A breath escaped her lips before she could stop it, and his grip on her wrist tightened just slightly. Ciaran’s gaze snapped up to hers, those dark, knowing eyes catching the shift in her expression.

Shite.

“Laura”, he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a promise and a threat at once.

The heat spread through her, curling in dangerous places.

“Why are ye tremblin’?” he murmured, his voice deeper now, rougher.

“I—” The word slipped past her lips before she could stop it, before she could make herself lie.

His gaze darkened, and she was entirely consumed by his shadows.

“It hurts,” she admitted.

“I should relieve him of his hand, then. Regardless of what Henry says.”

Laura shook her head, shaking away the haze of her misdirected desire and of the strange kindness the Laird was showing her.

All men seem nice at first until they get what they want from ye.

“He’s learned his lesson. A little overzealous, but the man at the wall didnae tell him to do that.”

“What did the man tell him?”

“Just exactly what he told ye. That I refused to obey yer summons and to bring me to ye,” she said plainly, not thinking anything of it.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Very well. Thank ye, lass. I’ll arrange for someone to take ye home now.”

“Home?”

“Aye.”

“I’m—”

“Ye are free to go. I’ll get a horse ready and send ye with coin for yer troubles.”

“Nay!” she blurted out.

The word landed with a soft thud between them, and his stitched eyebrow rose.

“Nay?”

Why did I say that?