Page 20 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Say something.

For the love of God, Elinor, say something.

But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried. She tried to force out the words, but for some reason, they remained stuck in her throat.

Ciaran’s vivid green eyes pierced through her like there was no tomorrow. As if she were the first thing he had seen after decades of darkness and solitude.

“Have ye seen the other portraits?” The words left her mouth in a faint whisper. Like a fruit being strained into a pot.

They caught him off guard.

“Come, let me show ye some of those,” she added, finally having the gall to take a step away from him. Then another. Then another.

Ciaran followed anyway to the other side of the gallery, where several paintings and portraits hung. One was of an orange cat, and before Ciaran could say something, Elinor answered the question.

“It was his faither’s,” she explained, her voice sharp. “It died only a year after Murdock was born.”

Ciaran nodded. “Ye seem to ken a lot about these paintings.”

Elinor’s eyes returned to the painting of the orange cat, its eyes almost as green as Ciaran’s. “One of the first things I did after Murdock died was take a walk around the gallery. I did so with the healer, Katherine. She told me everything I needed to ken.”

Ciaran nodded again, and they slowly proceeded into a quieter and more hidden part of the gallery. The first painting they saw when they crossed the threshold was of a man who looked like he had never smiled in his entire life.

Sideburns framed his wide face, his deep brown eyes were narrowed, and his long dark curls covered most of his forehead.

The crease on his brow looked like something anyone would want to erase with a piece of cloth, but wouldn’t be able to.

Staring at it alone made her stomach rumble.

All she could see were the days of pain, of utter torture.

The days he would lock her in her room because she had refused to let him sleep with her.

She tensed her jaw at the sight, feeling a mild shudder run down her spine.

“I suppose that is– ”

“Me former husband, aye,” Elinor confirmed, almost looking at the painting.

She had known Murdock to look this angry, but never this young. This portrait must have been done a long time ago, or he had forced the painter to omit his wrinkles. She leaned towards the latter because Murdock used to have his portrait done every year.

Ciaran suddenly retreated from her side, and she furrowed her brow in confusion. She watched him go back the way they had come from, his steps quickening. Her face contorted in a perplexed frown as she waited for him, wondering if there was something he had missed.

He returned only a few seconds later with a paintbrush in one hand and the palette the painter had been using in the other. Elinor eyed the palette as he drew closer. The holes were filled to the brim with different colors.

Did he refill them?

She swallowed thickly as he stopped right by her side.

“I thought since yer husband was dead, we could do whatever we wanted to this…” he trailed off.

Elinor watched him dip the brush into red paint, then move closer to the portrait and lift the brush.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Ciaran, what are ye– ”

Ciaran turned to her, the assurance in his voice a stark contrast to the despair in hers. “He is gone, Elinor. Ye have to remember that. He is never coming back.”

It struck her then, and her heart lurched.

Murdock was dead. She had no reason to be afraid anymore, especially now that she was the lady of the castle. She had nothing to fear if anything happened to his smug, harrowing face on the canvas.

Ciaran lifted the brush again and painted on his forehead. Elinor watched his hand move, a sharp contrast to the pale white face in the painting.

The brush moved steadily across the canvas, and before he could finish, Elinor realized what he was painting. A rose.

Anna.

“He is gone,” she muttered to herself. Like this was really happening. Like the echoes that carried an air of finality agreed with her.

Ciaran finished painting and turned to her, droplets of paint sliding down the tip of his brush.

“He doesnae deserve a clean forehead, do ye nae think?” he asked.

Elinor stared at him for what must have been a minute. Then, she felt her lips widen and her cheeks rise. Then, she laughed. It rose from the pit of her belly, the laugh. Ciaran did the same, his voice a harmonious dissonance with hers.

They laughed like that for the next two minutes. Then, Elinor looked back up at the painting, at the flower on Murdock’s forehead that was drying up quickly.

Ciaran handed her the brush. “Do ye want to have a go? I am certain ye have something to paint on his head, too.”

Elinor took the brush and stared at it. Then, she dipped it into black paint and drew bristles around the forehead, covering the roses and turning his forehead pitch black. “He doesnae deserve roses either.”

Ciaran laughed, and she followed.

“I agree with ye,” he said.

She nodded, and their laughter died down.

After what seemed like a minute of low chuckles and snickers, a sigh escaped Elinor’s lips.

Ciaran dipped the brush in yellow paint and smeared it across Murdock’s face. He then handed her the brush again, and she did the same, this time with green.

They switched colors and hands for the next ten minutes, and when they were finally done, it was impossible to tell if there had ever been a man behind the splash of colors or if the man ever had eyes.

“Ye ken, I havenae laughed like this in a while.”

“A while?” Ciaran arched his eyebrows.

“Aye. Three years and six months. Certainly, I laughed when I heard he died, but it wasnae a hearty laugh.”

“It was a bitter one,” Ciaran guessed.

“Aye.” She nodded.

Ciaran stared at her.

Something about the way she looked in the afternoon light that streamed through the windows tugged at something beneath his navel. He was certain it was desire.

She looked freer than she had ever been, and he wanted to see it up close. He wanted to touch her freedom, the smile on her face, her melodic laughter as it echoed through the gallery.

He wanted to hear her voice again. He wanted it to fill the gallery, instead of her laughter.

Without a second thought, he grabbed her by the wrist and spun her to him. Their eyes met, and in a few seconds, so did their lips.

Ciaran’s mouth claimed hers with no hesitation, and she opened to him. Her lack of protest quickly burned the last threads of his restraint.

He slowly backed her up until her back hit the wall. He didn’t wait for her to catch her breath. He slid his palms beneath her thighs, lifted her again into his arms, and gently lowered her onto the floor. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he deepened the kiss.

He lowered himself atop her, his hips pressing into hers. His hand then moved to her jaw and tilted it so she would keep looking at him. Her lips were already swollen and parted, and she let out a shaky moan that stirred something even hotter within him.

He was intrigued that she was not muffling her sounds. He trailed the back of his fingers over her face before slowly tugging down the neckline of her dress.

Her neck was warm, red, and pulsed with what he could only assume to be desire. He leaned down and lowered his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat. His tongue dragged along her skin, tasting her salt. She arched beneath him when he reached her collarbone.

But instead of pausing, he pulled her dress down further.

She helped him, her hands desperately fumbling with the laces.

Her bodice finally popped open, and her breasts spilled out.

He heard her sharp intake of breath and felt her stomach tense up.

He leaned down once again and took her nipple in his mouth. Her back arched off the floor.

Her hands flew to his hair, her fingers sliding in with no hesitation. Her body jerked into him, a blatant indication of everything he needed to know. He let her tug at his hair as he dragged his tongue over her nipple, sucking lightly until her hips shifted and bucked beneath him.

His hands slid from her waist to her thighs. She parted her legs almost instinctively, as if he had ordered her without saying a word. His palm slipped between her thighs, settling on soft linen.

She let out another sound, one that he felt in his groin, causing him to grind his teeth so he did not break his rhythm. His fingers moved slowly, pressing and circling the heat soaking her undergarments.

“Look at me.” His voice was low. Guttural. Rough.

Elinor’s eyes were shut tight, her lips parted as his fingers continued to stroke her through the linen.

“Elinor,” he said, his voice dropping further. Her eyes snapped open. “Look.” His fingers rubbed her, and she exhaled. “At. Me.”

Her hips bucked against his hand, and he dragged the linen aside. Then, he slid two fingers inside her and curled them upward. She gasped, and her walls tightened around him. She was warm and slick, pulsing rhythmically around his fingers.

He pushed deeper into her and felt her hand slam against his wrist. She was holding him there, not pushing him away. He could tell from the look in her eyes.

He curled his fingers again, rubbing that sensitive spot inside her. Her thighs clamped around his arm, her heels digging into the floor.

He wanted her to feel it. Every touch. Every stroke. He wanted to see her react to them all. And he didn’t rush her either.

When her breathing became ragged, he shifted his weight and closed his mouth around her other nipple. She jerked, and her hips moved in rhythm with his hand. A broken moan escaped her lips when he sucked hard enough to leave a mark on her nipple.