Page 14 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Ciaran rolled onto his back, his eyes lingering on the window. Night had fallen, and the cold air was seeping into his room in tiny, unsatisfying waves.

He was only in his kilt, his chest bare, and yet heat had spread through every inch of his body. There was little blame he could put on the weather, for the heat came from within .

Ever since he settled into bed after the bath, he couldn’t stop thinking about Elinor.

About the time they spent together in the cabin.

At first, his thoughts had been quite simple.

He was still finding it a little hard to believe that a woman like Elinor had agreed to marry him just because he won the auction.

He lifted his hands, which previously rested by his sides, and pulled them close to his face. The calluses on each finger represented a story. A time in his life when he had to do something because it was necessary. Because he said it was necessary.

Every line across his palm was a jarring reminder of the life he had carved for himself. A reminder that even though he was trying to do the right thing, he could not escape his past. Not by a long shot.

Not only were people afraid of him wherever he went and terrified of the things he could do to them, but they also avoided him.

If he had told himself the night before that he would spend an entire night with Elinor and she would not rise to leave in the middle of the night like a lot of women he had bedded, he would not have believed it. Yet that was exactly what had happened.

His mind flashed to the look on her face when she visited his room before the trials even started.

How her cheeks heated up at the sight of his body.

Then, he recalled the subtle back and forth they had since their encounter.

How sharp-witted she was and how she was never slow to give a snarky response.

He had tried to sleep but couldn’t. Thoughts of her haunted him like a curse he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried. Her scent in the cabin, her body wrapped in nothing but a towel as she waited for her dress to dry.

How soft and sensual her lips had felt beneath his.

How supple her body had felt under his palm.

He could still feel her hands around his neck and the back of his head.

The mere thought of her, naked beneath the blanket and chilly while her skin glowed in the firelight, heightened the heat inside him.

His body reacted before he could stop it. His kilt had grown tighter, heavier, and practically unbearable.

He cursed, rubbing a hand over his face, slightly appalled that he had let fleeting thoughts of the woman he was going to marry consume him this much. His hands slid down his stomach and over the belt of his kilt, and when he felt just how hard he was, he cursed again.

He hadn’t felt this much heat from a thought in years.

What was she doing to him?

He pressed the heel of his palm against the growing bulge in his kilt, trying to suppress his arousal, but it didn’t work. He rolled onto his side, stifling a groan, but it only made it worse. He could feel her. Her breath on his neck, her groan when his lips grazed hers.

The heat in the room grew more unbearable. He couldn’t take this. Not for much longer. And taking another bath wouldn’t help. Only one thing would help, one person , to be exact. He sighed.

He looked out into the night sky again. The moon was bright, and the stars scattered across the sky like seeds on a field.

“What has that witch done to me?”

He swung his legs off the bed, his palms still pressed against his arousal, and rose to his feet. He walked to his wardrobe and grabbed a cloak.

If he stayed in this room for much longer, the heat would consume him. He needed the cold. He needed his body fully active. He needed blood to pump through all his body, not just one part.

He threw the cloak on the bed and stepped into the bathing chamber. He splashed some water on his face, letting his mind linger on the cold sensation, and felt a bit better. But he still needed more; that much was obvious.

After a few more splashes, he returned to his room, grabbed the cloak, and put it on, not bothering to check if it was secure. His arousal was slowly abating, but he headed to the door anyway. It was bright out, and he could use as much of the cold night air as he could get.

The door clicked shut behind him when he stepped out, the sound echoing through the passageways. He headed downstairs, cautious of his footsteps.

As the castle doors appeared ahead of him, a part of him wondered if he wanted more from this wedding than he cared to admit.

The cold air kissed his face as soon as he stepped outside, and the open night sky was a welcome distraction. He felt different, as if out in the open, he could hear himself think.

“M’Laird,” some maids greeted, walking past him.

He gave them a brief nod in response, but as they moved away from him, he could hear their quiet giggles. He didn’t stop to ask what that was about; it was not the kind of night.

The courtyard itself looked different. Perhaps it was because of the dark sky or the bright moon, but he could swear everything was glowing. The wooden chair by the small fountain, the rustling blades of grass, the castle towers. Even the fences glistened for some reason.

A part of him wondered if that was deliberate. The cold seeped beneath his collar, sending chills down his spine. He walked to the chair by the fountain and sat down.

It felt cold beneath him, even though he was wearing a cloak. Before he could bask in this newfound serenity, a foreign sound drifted to his ears, putting him on high alert.

His eyes flicked to the castle doors as they creaked open. A man stepped out, and Ciaran felt around his waist for his dagger—he never went anywhere without one.

God forbid he was caught completely unaware. It was one of the first things his brother had warned him about.

“People who want to kill ye willnae come to ye directly. If they kenned how to catch ye off guard and stab ye in the back, they would. Always be prepared.”

Those words replayed in his mind over and over, like echoes across a wasteland.

“Always be prepared.”

The man approached him, his figure slowly becoming more visible.

Ciaran loosened his grip on his dagger. Perhaps the man wasn’t here to kill him. There was nothing threatening about him, at least at first glance. But then, wasn’t that what someone who wanted to disarm him would go for?

Ciaran studied him as he drew closer. He could not make out his features because of the darkness, but he could tell the man was young. Younger than him, with an effortlessness to his movements.

“I feel like I should give ye a bow or something. ‘Tis nae everyday ye get to be in the presence of royalty.”

“Greetings.” It was the only thing Ciaran could mutter at the moment.

The man stopped short of the chair and looked up at the sky, his hands tucked in the pockets of his dark trousers.

“’Tis a thing of beauty, is it nae?” he asked, rocking slightly on his heels. “The way it comes alive at night. There’s nothing else like it. ‘Tis like watching God himself paint the space above over and over. And it’s different almost every night.”

Ciaran said nothing. He was still making up his mind about whether or not the man standing next to him was there to kill him.

The man lowered his head and looked down at him. “I suppose it’s a way to ensure some balance. A man like ye who is known for killing shouldnae be expected to be a conversationalist, nae least a great one.”

Ciaran only scoffed in response as the man settled into the chair next to him.

“Ye couldnae sleep as well, could ye?”

He shook his head.

“Aye, the heat in the castle can get unbearable at times,” the man sighed. “At least, that is what I’ve been told. I havenae spent enough time around here to judge. Ye ken, ye are nothing like I expected.”

Ciaran narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Aye. Ye really arenae. I thought the Hound would be an old man with wrinkles on his face and scars all over his hands from burns and too much sun,” the man admitted, studying him carefully.

“Ye– ” His eyes roamed up and down Ciaran’s frame.

“Well, ye could use a little less sun. But apart from that, ye’re nae so bad. ”

Ciaran shook his head, a mild laugh escaping his lips. He rose to his feet, the coldness of the chair leaving his back all of a sudden.

“I am afraid I must return to me quarters,” he said, dusting off his cloak.

Or any other part of the castle.

As he turned to leave, he felt the man’s hand curl around his wrist. Stunned, he turned to face him.

“Nae much out here to talk to in the middle of the night, Laird MacTraigh,” he drawled.

Ciaran couldn’t believe his eyes. Most men wouldn’t even waste another second looking at him if they could help it. This man’s assertiveness was something else. Was it admirable, or just plain foolish?

“Please, indulge me,” the man pressed.

Deciding that it was admirable, Ciaran sat back down.

“Ye ken I have a favorite kill?”

Ciaran frowned.

“Aye. ‘Tis Laird MacEnroe,” the man continued.

Ciaran looked at him like he had gone crazy, like none of the things he said were coherent. But for some reason, they were. The man seemed incredibly sharp-witted. Perhaps too much for his young age.

“When I heard the man was hanged upside down and ye made a few cuts on his head so he bled to death, I kenned I had to meet ye someday.”

Ciaran said nothing again. A part of him was certain that the man would eventually grow bored with the silence.

“I thought the man deserved a more brutal death, daenae get me wrong. He burned a castle that was filled with only women and children. I think he deserved nothing but pain until the very end, but what ye did… what ye did was as crazy as it got.” The man let out a chuckle.