Page 10 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Hellion (Auctioned Highland Brides #4)

Lydia couldn’t sleep.

As she lay in her huge bed, listening to the rain hammering against the glass of her window, it felt like a different world.

The canopy was made from crushed dark blue velvet, and the shimmering lengths of it caught the dim light of the fire, reminding her of the Laird’s dark blue eyes.

“I don’t even know his first name,” she said aloud.

The darkness was almost complete in the room, the embers of the fire throwing faint light across the floor around the hearth.

Lydia pushed the covers back, feeling the weight of sleep behind her eyes but unable to chase it.

Pushing the blankets down to the base of the bed, she rose, shimmying over the edge of the mattress and hopping down onto the hardwood floor as she made her way to the fireside.

The sound of the rain was soothing as she crouched beside the coals, her hands outstretched, feeling the remnants of their warmth heating her flesh.

The fringes of her robe sparkled in the firelight, the thread of the embroidery glimmering with a high shine.

When she had returned to her room, she began to remove the robe to don her nightshirt, but she’d stopped at the last moment. It was almost as if she could still feel his hands on her body.

I never knew it could be that way with a man.

Her life had been conducted in whispers up until tonight, and now it felt like her body was roaring from within.

Lydia might still mourn the love match she had always dreamed of as a young girl, but the Laird offered something unexpected in return.

A chance for pleasure, and to feel more alive than I have ever felt in my life. What my mother would think if she heard my thoughts tonight!

She smiled to herself at the memory of his tongue pushing into her mouth, tentatively at first, as if he had been asking permission.

His body was so big, so consuming, and Lydia was becoming unhealthily obsessed with his forearms.

Even the moment he had crossed his arms across his chest in the study had made her a little weak in the knees.

Shaking her head, she stood up, looking around the room and rubbing her arms. The bad weather had worsened, and with it had come a chill that permeated the windows, and a cold breeze wafted down the chimney toward her.

Lydia frowned. Were those voices in the corridor?

Turning to the door, she approached slowly, wondering whether the twins had got out of their beds and were coming to make mischief again. But as she got to the door, she heard a woman’s voice along with the deep rumbling of the Laird. Her nerves returned a thousandfold.

Surely if he wishes to bring other women to his bed, he wouldn’t do it right outside my room?

He had promised her that he had no interest in such things, only a few hours before.

She wrenched open the door, a fury unlike anything she had ever known consuming her, and blinked into the semi-darkness at the three faces staring back at her.

The Laird and his man-at-arms were standing outside her door, with a maid behind them carrying linens and a bowl of water in her hand.

Steam was rising from it, and Lydia frowned, wondering why the Laird would need hot water at this time of night.

Then she looked at him again, and her breath froze in her lungs.

“What happened?” she asked sharply.

He had blood all over his arm, his sleeve soaked in it.

“It looks worse than it is,” he growled, pushing past his man as if to avoid her and head straight to his room.

The maid obediently followed him. She was young, with blonde hair tied in a loose braid over her shoulder. Lydia didn’t like that she was so pretty either.

“Wait,” she commanded without knowing quite who she was speaking to, but the man-at-arms and the maid came to a halt instantly.

“Bring that in here, please,” she said to the maid, and she saw Alexander smile faintly as the Laird turned slowly to stare at her.

“I dinnae need yer help with it, go back to bed.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “I am not a five-year-old girl to be commanded. Bring it into my room, please, thank you.”

The maid did so, carrying the bowl of water to the fireside and setting it down against the hearth. She hovered, evidently uncertain whether she should remain to assist.

Lydia smiled at her. “Thank you, but you should go and get some sleep. I can manage from here.”

“Ye dinnae need to manage!” The Laird sounded exasperated as he came to the doorway, his enormous bulk taking up the entire width of it.

“I should be the one attending you,” Lydia insisted.

“And why is that? Are ye a doctor?”

“I am your bride , and I will do it,” she said more forcefully than she had intended.

The Laird’s brow furrowed, and for a few seconds, he looked like a boy of five who had not gotten his way.

He grumbled and clenched his fists, and as he did so, a fresh wave of blood ran down his arm.

“You are making it worse!” she said, fear coursing through her.

It seemed impossible to Lydia that someone so large could have any vulnerability. She had believed him invincible.

“Stop fussin’, woman,” he grumbled. “It is the rain. The water makes the blood look like it is flowin’ freely, when really it is just a scratch. I already told me man I didnae need anythin’. The bandages are unnecessary!”

“I will be the judge of that. Thank you, Alexander. I appreciate your help.”

Alexander bowed, that same little smile on his face, and the Laird glowered at him angrily as he led the maid away.

“It is a scratch.”

“Come in here, please, and sit on the chair,” she said as evenly and patiently as she could. He was so much bigger than her, and she didn’t feel comfortable commanding him, but he looked distracted, as if something else was troubling him besides his wound.

He is pretending it does not hurt for my benefit, but I can see that it does.

The Laird shuffled into the room, collapsing into a chair and almost extinguishing the fire with the waft of air he produced in the process.

Lydia observed him quietly as he stared ahead, looking furious.

“What is your name?” she asked forcefully.

He looked up at her in surprise. “What?”

“What is your name? Oh, Laird Murray. You didn’t tell me.”

He frowned at her. “Ye can just call me, M’Laird.”

Lydia put her hands on her hips. “Try again.”

“Everyone in this castle?—”

“Is not your future wife,” she interrupted. “Tell me your name or I shall only allow you to call me ‘M’Lady’ from now on.”

That seemed to get through to him, and with a sour expression, he muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Callum.”

She released a long breath of relief. Callum. What a strange name for this mountain of a person.

It meant calm and tranquility—that was not how she saw him. He was all rough edges and hard lines, but Lydia was pleased she could finally call him something other than Laird.

“Callum,” she said, and he looked up at her with a strange look on his face. “Would you please remove your shirt so I can see to that cut?”

“It is a scratch.”

“Please,” she added a slight inflection to her voice, affecting the same begging tone she had used just before he kissed her.

What I was begging for, I shall never know.

She felt a bolt of satisfaction as a small shiver ran through him.

“Fine,” he said, his confidence and arrogance returning suddenly as he stood to his full height and pulled off his shirt without any more hesitation.

“Have at it, woman.”

Lydia only realized she was staring when he scoffed under his breath and remained standing.

His body was a work of art. Chiseled, strong muscles framed a chest that could have been carved from stone. His arms bulged in every direction with more muscles than she had known existed on a man.

The gentlemen she had met in the world of London society were soft and small in comparison.

How could I ever find any of them appealing after seeing this god-like man?

“Are ye finished?” he asked, sounding amused.

Lydia allowed her blush to bloom, but would not be cowed by it. She let her eyes travel slowly over him once more before indicating the chair behind him.

As he lowered himself more sedately into the seat, she went to the bedside table to fetch her spectacles. She always needed them for reading, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to tend his wound without their help.

Callum was lounging in the seat like a king when she returned and pulled a footstool up beneath her so she could perch on it to examine the cut.

It was not ‘just a scratch’ but long and slicing through the skin and some of the muscle beneath. She pressed gently around the site of it, but he did not move. There was not a flicker of emotion on his face.

“You do not have to pretend it does not hurt. We are alone.”

“It doesnae hurt. I’ve had worse,” he griped.

“Is that how you got your scars?”

The Laird’s brows furrowed, his eyes darkening. “Nay,” was all he said.

“Perhaps you get in trouble every time you leave the castle,” she said lightly, reaching for the cloth to clean the wound, her heart hammering, not just from his proximity, but from the threat of what had taken place. “Should I be worried?” she asked quietly.

“It is nay for ye to worry about, lass. I willnae let them come.”

“Who?”

“Dinnae discuss things ye dinnae understand.”

Callum clenched his jaw, his tongue running away with him again.

He didn’t like sitting here in this room with his future wife tending to him.

It had been bad enough with Alexander insisting that the wound must be dressed. He’d just about tolerated the maid, but it was completely different being here with Lydia.

The vast bedroom felt tiny in the semi-darkness, the fire only just glowing beside them. She had brought over a candle to see by, the light of it reflecting in the lenses of her spectacles and illuminating the sharp planes of her beautiful face.

There was a line between her brows as she concentrated on tending to him. He could see that she was concerned, not just about the wound, but also that he would not share how he came by it.

She doesnae need to ken right now. She has only just arrived at me castle, there is enough for her mind to be occupied with, without Moira in the mix.

He hissed as she placed a warm cloth against the wound.

“Ah, I see you are not made of stone after all, Callum.”

And that was another thing. She had learned his name.

Admittedly, Callum knew it was foolish to believe he would take a wife and she would simply refer to him as her ‘Laird’ forevermore, but it all felt far too intimate.

The flickering light, the gentle caress of her fingers against his cold skin, and the embers of the fire sent a golden glow over them both.

He wanted to rise from the room and leave, but his feet remained planted to the floor.

Was this how Angus felt with Moira? Before she sent him mad.

Even after four years of exile, he could not escape the blasted witch.

It felt as if he would never be rid of her. Nothing about his current situation was his doing—it had been under the strict instructions of his brother for him to return.

Must I pay for his mistakes forever?

Callum exhaled as something cold was smoothed over the wound, and he glanced down, frowning as Lydia secured a soft piece of linen over the site of it.

“That feels better,” he said softly, and it did. The heat of it was lessened.

“It is a little salve I have from my mother. Always good for scratches and the like.”

“What’s in it?”

“Comfrey, yarrow, and a little oil. My grandmother’s recipe.”

Callum nodded vaguely, trying his best to breathe shallowly so as not to inhale great lungfuls of that scent he loved so much.

His blood rushed south as Lydia’s cool fingers wrapped the bandage around his arm, and he shivered as she secured it in place. He glanced at her curiously, watching the stern look of concentration on her face.

He shifted, turning to her.

“Ye never did say if I have permission to touch ye again,” he murmured.

Her fingers stilled, and for a brief second, he thought she might turn and allow him to kiss her again.

“I think you will find that I am the one touching you . In a marriage of convenience, you hardly need to worry about touching me again, do you?”

Then she rose, cheeks heating, looking down at him with sadness in her eyes.

“I think it’s best to remain as we are, don’t you?”

He grunted, picking up his shirt and throwing it on. When he pulled it over his head, she was watching him.

“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”

Callum hesitated, fighting the urge to reveal it all.

I could tell her now and be done with it. But if she knows the truth, would she leave?

“Is that necessary for a marriage of convenience?”

Her eyes narrowed as she fussed with the bandages, looking away.

“If my life is at stake, I think I deserve to know,” she said in a small voice.

“No one will hurt ye.”

The words rang through the air like a vow, and Callum had never meant anything so fervently.

No one will harm this woman while I have breath left in my lungs.

She didn’t meet his eyes, the soft glow of the candle glancing off the bowl of water as she washed the cloths, her slender fingers bunching and flexing with the motion.

Callum tucked in his shirt, feeling oddly bereft without her beside him.

“Thank ye for tendin’ to me and helpin’ me with me wound. I appreciate it. Ye should head to bed.”

“Am I safe?” she asked as he turned away, but there was no fear in her voice, more like curiosity.

“Ye are, but if ye dinnae wish to stay here, we can cancel the weddin’.”

“No!” The vehemence of that statement surprised him. “It will take place as soon as my mother and brother arrive.”

“Ye never mention yer faither.”

She arched an eyebrow, her expression cold. “No, I don’t. And you do not speak of your past or anything about yourself, either.”

He nodded. “I suppose we must keep our secrets, M’Lady,” he whispered, and then he walked out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him.