Page 28 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

A bubble was growing in his chest. It felt eerie, and he could not exactly place his finger on it, but something was wrong. Something was happening in the background. Something he could not see.

He did not like it.

Elinor eventually nodded, giving in to him. She gingerly put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.

Elinor tried not to let her thoughts stray as he led her across the packed hall.

The music was fast, but his grip was steady, each step precise. She could feel the warmth of his hand seeping through her dress, and it did not escape her notice that he never let his eyes linger on her for long.

It made her stomach tighten, though she could not tell whether it was anger or something else.

They circled tables crowded with his people. The air smelled of food and smoke, and the tense politeness of strangers learning to share a roof.

A few of the women smiled shyly at her as she passed. Most of the men did not look up. Every time she turned her head, she caught Ciaran’s profile, stern and watchful. Even now, he was surveying the room as if he expected someone to stab him in the back or unsheath a sword.

“‘Tis such a lovely group of people ye have here,” Elinor commented in a low voice.

Ciaran only gave her a brief nod.

They started to sway gently to the tune, which had turned a touch romantic. His arm remained firm around her waist, her body almost brushing his thighs and chest.

“The music is great as well. I suppose ‘tis nae too bold to ask if ye have players in yer clan.”

She looked up to hear his response, but it was evident he had not been listening to her.

He was not even looking at her. His eyes were focused on their surroundings, sweeping across the walls and the floor.

“Ciaran,” she called.

He did not respond.

Her patience snapped right there and then. She kept her voice low enough so that only he could hear.

“Listen to me. This is starting to get on me nerves. I daenae ken how much more of this I can take.”

That got his attention.

He looked straight at her. “What?”

“Are ye serious?” she hissed. “I understand ye daenae want me, but ye could at least pretend to look at me when we’re dancing.”

His gaze settled on her then, sharp enough to cut. The weight of it pressed down on her chest.

For a moment, she wished she had held her tongue.

He did not answer. At least not yet. His hand curved firmly around her hip. She tried not to think about how natural it felt, the way he held her, as if the room and the music and every other pair of eyes had fallen away.

The music shifted. He turned her in a slow arc, guiding her closer to the long table where Fergus and his soldiers were drinking. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he was already looking over her shoulder. She followed his stare, her confusion rising.

“We’re being watched,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the din.

“Well, I would hope so; there are people everywhere. Ye’re their Laird. Of course, they’re all watching ye.”

“Nay. Ye daenae understand,” he insisted. “Something is wrong. Really wrong.”

Elinor swallowed, growing nervous. She could feel the tension in his muscles now, as if he was expecting something but did not know where it would come from.

The sound was what she heard first. A low whoosh that came out of nowhere. Then, Ciaran’s arm tightened around her back.

The tray was in his hand before she could blink. His arm shot up, the polished surface lifted just above her head.

A hard, metallic crack cut through the music. Her ears popped, and she felt pain in the back of her head as her heel slid across the floor.

But Ciaran didn’t let her fall. The tray dropped from his hand, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. An arrow flew off it, the shaft spinning to a stop against the toe of her boot.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The whoosh still echoed in her ears.

What in God’s na ? —

She could not finish the thought before Ciaran’s body shifted again. He pushed her behind him, the motion controlled but rough enough that her shoulders hit his back. Her hand reached for the leather strap across his chest as she scrambled to regain her balance.

The hall had gone quiet. She felt every pair of eyes boring into her—into both of them—waiting to see what they would do.

What Ciaran would do.

“Who fired that arrow?” he asked flatly, his back as stiff as a rod. “Who dared to challenge me in front of me people?”

Silence.

No one stepped forward. The musicians had frozen. A child near one of the tables began to cry.

Elinor looked over his shoulder. A blur of faces stared back, none willing to claim the arrow.

“I willnae ask again,” he bit out. “And I willnae be as merciful when I sniff ye out.”

Elinor’s heart thudded against her ribs. She thought she might be sick.

“Who. Fired. That. Arrow?!”

The calm in his voice had vanished and was replaced by something else. Something raw and dark. Something she had never seen before and was terrified of for the first time.

The silence thickened, becoming almost suffocating, as his people stared back at them, utterly clueless.

Dear Lord.

Then, someone moved by the barrels stacked near the corner. A man with a thin, tired face and a sword in his hand. He lifted his chin, like he expected Ciaran to thank him for revealing himself. Like he expected the crowd to erupt in cheers.

“Ye didnae sniff me out,” he began, sounding bored. “She must be rubbing off way too hard on ye. Making ye lose yer skills.”

Ciaran widened his stance. She leaned to the side a little and saw his fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword. She could almost feel his anger from where she stood. He felt like he had been waiting for this moment for years .

She tried to breathe, but her chest felt too tight, too constricted, as if any movement would make her faint and crash to the floor.