Page 8 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

8

T he word hung between them, delicate as glass, heavy as stone.

Nay.

Ciaran barely kept his reaction in check. Every muscle in his body coiled, every nerve caught between irritation and dangerous recklessness. He had offered her a way out, given her the courtesy of leaving, and yet she had refused him outright.

Does she even realize what she is sayin’, or is she mad… or—nay.

He stopped his mind from racing into the abyss.

His breath came slow, measured, but his body had betrayed him long before this moment. He felt her pulse jump beneath his fingers.

Ciaran exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling back his shoulders, forcing himself to breathe. His body didn’t care that he had been raised to not take what was not freely given.

His mind barely clinging to reason, he teetered between sin and salvation—both of which pointed directly at her at this moment. Possessive thoughts had raced through his head since the second she’d landed at his feet, her arms outstretched in submission.

He took a step back and dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw ticking as he forced his control back into place. His demons knocked at the door to his hollow heart, fighting his better judgment.

“Ye dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’,” he said, shaking his head.

“But—” Laura started to argue, but he held up a hand. Not to touch her, but to stop her.

If I watch her lips part again, I might pull her to me and end this torment right here… right now.

“Ye werenae asked to come here.” His voice was rougher than intended, colder. “That’s nae how I do business.”

She blinked, confusion flickering in her eyes as he took another step backward, trying to break the tension between them enough to breathe again.

God above, I need distance from this woman.

“Here…” he said, his voice tight and measured, sidestepping. “If ye wish to go, I will go now and have a horse saddled to leave in the next ten minutes. If ye wish to stay, the surgery is just behind the nearest door down the stairs. Yer choice, either way.”

Please leave. Please go. But if ye stay ? —

He turned and left her standing in the garden, flushed cheeks and all. Each step away from her was like a rubber band pulling more and more taut, screaming for him to stop before it snapped.

“Wait!” he heard her call, her soft voice carrying on the wind, and every ounce of propriety made his stride falter.

He stopped and turned to look at her.

Silence was his only response.

Laura walked toward him, her steps unrushed and confident, more than any man guarding his walls. He was on her time now, and she was making it a point for him to notice.

I cannae, for the life of me, nae notice, lass. What could this possibly be about?

“Ye’re goin’ to make me come all the way there, then?” She pointed at the space between them. The exasperation in her voice made his lips twitch slightly before relaxing back down.

Ciaran took three steps toward her, slow and measured, to meet her halfway. “Apologies,” he said, though he was in no way asking for forgiveness.

“Dinnae ye need me to treat ye? Was that nae the entire reason I was brought here, whether at yer order or someone else’s?”

Ciaran exhaled, his mind still clouded with heat, cataloging her questions methodically, when the sound of a man approaching distracted him.

“Dùghall,” he said to the man who jogged up to them, nearly out of breath.

“Aye, Me Laird. Ye sent for me,” the man said calmly, though he had very obviously seen what Ciaran did to the guard.

“Who sent ye?” Ciaran demanded, his voice quiet but no less dangerous.

He had learned long ago that men like Dùghall, raised from a strong stock of men, feared a calm storm more than a raging one.

The guard stood tall, but there was no defiance in his stance, only an understanding that the truth was needed.

“Henry, Me Laird,” he admitted without hesitation. “It was Henry who sent me. He met us at the wall as well, where he handed her to Earc.”

Laura stiffened, but Ciaran didn’t spare her a glance. His focus was wholly on the man before him. “And?”

“She was ne’er handled roughly,” Dùghall added quickly as if sensing the sharp edge of Ciaran’s barely contained rage. “I admit, I threw the door open and lifted her onto the horse, but only because she said she couldnae mount it herself.”

The edges of Ciaran’s vision darkened at the thought of another man’s hands on her waist, lifting her with ease, touching her?—

His fingers itched to grab the dagger at his belt, but he thought better of it.

Nae yet.

Instead, he breathed through the rising fire in his blood, his voice carefully even. “Did she wish to come?”

Dùghall hesitated for only a moment before shaking his head. “I gave them a choice.”

“A choice?”

“Aye, all I kenned was that ye needed treatment. I told her as much.” His eyes flickered toward Laura before settling back on Ciaran. “Which was more than what Henry told me to do.”

Ciaran clenched his jaw. “And what did Henry tell ye to do, man?”

Eyes shifting again, Dùghall let out a ragged breath, clearly steeling himself. “Henry said to get the healer—to drag her here if needed. That ye were injured and needed care.” He pressed his lips together. “I didnae ken what was happenin’.”

“Why nae Mrs. Morrigan, then?”

“I gave them a choice, and she stood up. I only kenned that ye needed her.”

Damn right, I need her.

Ciaran barely held back from voicing the thought, but his traitorous eyes betrayed him as they flickered toward Laura. She was watching him, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirts, her chest rising just a little too quickly. A delicate blush crept up her neck, soft and so telling.

Is she thinkin’ the same thing?

Heat coursed through him, blood pooling heavily into the crevices of his muscles, but he knew very well that it was not the time. Most certainly not the place either to think about how badly he wanted to taste her, feel her, make her take every inch of him.

Christ!

He dragged his scarred hand over his face, turning his focus back to Dùghall and letting out a long breath.

His frustration laced his response, each word a snarl of authority. “Next time ye take anyone against their will, Dùghall, I will tear ye down where ye stand.”

The man did not argue. He did not fight either. He only nodded, his expression grim with understanding. “Aye, Me Laird.”

Ciaran held his gaze a moment longer before finally dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.

Dùghall turned on his heel and left.

Silence settled between them again, heavy and charged. Laura stood before him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, and Ciaran realized one thing at that moment.

Oh, Hell. I’m far from done with her…

His pulse made his entire body tense.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Do ye wish for me to treat ye with what Mrs. Morrigan sent?” she replied, her eyes raking over the expanse of him, no doubt assessing his wounds again.

He watched her intently as her eyes fell to his leg once more and she blushed.

“Ye were pretty clear earlier, lass. Besides, no matter what ye do, I’ll still be the monster—there’s nay fixin’ this,” he said, a hint of laughter in his tone before he turned to leave her once more.

She needs to choose whether to stay or go. I’ll nae make her—she needs to choose.

It was her touch that scalded him.

His attention shifted to his arm, where her hand rested on his bicep. Her effort was minimal as she pulled him towards her, and he turned to face her.

“Is that… is that how ye see yerself?” she asked, true concern knitting her eyebrows.

He wished to swipe his thumb across the lines to smooth them back out and take her worry away.

“It’s me destiny. Me scars are appalling in nature. Unnatural, actually. There’s nae much I can do. As a clan leader who upholds the ideals and the safety of the entire clan, me scars precede any decision I make—whether it’s to attend a cèilidh or save a child from a fire. It doesnae matter. I’m the monster,” he said plainly, noting that her hand had not dropped from his arm.

“That’s how ye see yerself, from just a scar?”

Ciaran smirked and started to express his appreciation for her concern when she interrupted him again.

“Do ye think I’m appalling then, Me Laird?”

His mind went blank. Not only had she ordered him this morning, but she stood in his garden and interrupted him, and just now she challenged him.

Anyone else would have lost their life… What is it about this woman?

For the sake of watching her emotion play along her lips, Ciaran said, “Repeat that.”

The answering challenge was like a rope, just long enough to save her or tie a noose.

She stood taller, her hand dropping. “Me own face is marred by a monstrous scar. Do ye find me appalling?”

Something in his chest tightened, and he barely managed to keep himself still.

Appalling?

His gaze dropped to the deep, jagged marks that ran from her chin to her ear—a wound he knew was meant to punish. A vicious, raw injury. He had seen men carry lesser scars from battle, war, fire—his own skin bore the proof of it—but Laura’s was different.

This was not earned; it had been given without consent.

Ciaran swallowed the fury rising in his throat, forcing himself to move. Slow. Measured. Dangerous. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, watching as she sucked in a breath, her throat bobbing, but she didn’t retreat.

Good.

When he reached her, he leaned in. The heat of her skin was tantalizingly close, and his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “On the contrary, lass. I find ye so bloody appealing that I can barely control meself. Even now.”

She shuddered.

His hands twitched at his sides, aching to close the last bit of space between them, to press his finger to her jaw, to trace that scar that someone had dared to put on her.

Laura didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, enough that her lips were just there .

Just close enough to ruin him.

Her voice was soft, almost teasing, but he could hear the next challenge woven between the syllables.

“Why? What could ye possibly do about it?”

Ciaran’s restraint shattered, and his hand shot out, his fingers curling around the nape of her neck, exactly where he had imagined them to be only minutes ago. He dragged her forward.

Their mouths collided.

Harsh.

Hard.

Hurried.

It was every damned minute he had spent since the moment he met her that he had tried to resist her. It held in it the promise of every time she would defy him. Every moment that she would challenge him.

She met him with fire, with hunger, her hands fisting into the fabric of his tunic, as if she needed something to hold on to or else she might fall.

Ciaran’s chest vibrated, and he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back as his other hand splayed across the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.

Her body fit against his too well, her small frame and perfect curves molding to the hard planes of his chest. He moved too fast and pushed too hard, and he knew it.

Laura made a sound, something that nearly sent him to his knees—a mix between a gasp and a whimper—and he was completely undone.

His hand slid from her back to her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress as if it were the only thing tethering him to sanity. She tasted of honeyed tea, the venom of defiance, and heated desire. It consumed him more than anything he had ever known.

Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch, and it took every bit of his terrible excuse for self-control not to lift her, not to press her against the stone wall behind her and take everything she would give him.

Instead, he slowed down. He let the fever in his blood settle just enough for him to remember who she was, who he was, and what she deserved.

He pulled away, his breathing ragged, his blood pounding through his veins. His fingers were still gripping her waist, unable to let go completely.

I’ve never—I… have never kissed a woman like that—like her.

Her blue eyes fluttered open, her lips swollen and red, and he cursed under his breath.

“Dinnae tempt me again, lass…” he trailed off, the rest of the warning hanging silently between them.

Because next time, I wouldnae stop.