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

Ciaran had expected anxiety, of course. He had worked way too hard for that moniker not to strike fear in the hearts of people, especially people who considered themselves his enemies. Yet, the cup slipping from the lady’s hand was a complete surprise to him.

“The Hound,” she repeated, almost like she was testing out the words to see if they fit.

“Aye,” he uttered.

“Anyone could walk in here and claim to be the Hound,” the lady pointed out.

Ciaran smiled, surprised that she still held his gaze. “Believe me, M’Lady, nay one could impersonate me.”

The lady nodded. “If ye will excuse me for a minute.”

Ciaran released her hand and watched as she turned around and walked out of the hall with her friend. Part of him wondered if he had ruined his chances already before the competition even started.

Nay. She will return.

Something about the lady struck him— he confidence she exuded as she spoke. He had only caught the tail end of her speech, yet something told him that this was no ordinary woman.

She will return.

He kept repeating that to himself as he braved the crowd of the lairds.

Further silence fell in his wake, but he ignored most of it. He was used to it, anyway. He could tell that most of the men who were staring at him didn’t just see him as competition. They saw him as a threat.

He walked to the drinks table and grabbed a tankard of ale. Then, he turned around and swept an assessing gaze across the hall one more time.

He mentally calculated the number of lairds he planned to take, should he have to. The type of men he would be going up against. Most of them would be eliminated before the challenge ended. He just needed to keep an eye out for those with a stubborn streak.

He downed the ale in two large gulps and placed the tankard back on the table. The silence that had fallen over the hall with his arrival had dissipated entirely. Now that the other lairds were certain he wasn’t here to kill any of them, they all resumed their conversations.

He looked around, hoping to find Thomas somewhere, but he couldn’t. Instead, he walked to another corner of the hall, exchanging pleasantries with some of the lairds who were kind enough to greet him, and settled in.

Hopefully, this turns out even better than now.

He returned his gaze to the crowd before him. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what kind of challenges the lady had set. What exactly was she planning to test? Would he win easily?

His eyes searched the hall, watching maids walk back and forth to deliver freshly made food to the lairds who requested it.

The smell of ale and venison was thick in the air and murmurs swept through the hall from almost all sides.

Most of them looked rather satisfied for some reason and he wondered if a stranger would be able to tell if this was an auction or just a feast.

He swallowed trying to bring himself back to the present. He came here for a reason.

This was not just an auction for a lady’s hand in marriage. This was a way for him to secure his people’s future. An alliance with Clan MacAdair would go an extra mile in cementing his place in the Highlands.

A man walked up to him and sat in the chair right beside him, his eyes glued on the event as well.

“I daenae think a man like ye would enjoy ceremonies such as this,” he started.

Ciaran studied him for a second. The man was old. Older than him, most definitely. There were streaks of grey in his hair that seemed to shine in the fragmented sunlight that filtered through the glass roof above them.

“I daenae think anyone is above a proper event, nay matter what kind of person they are.”

“Aye. But it is ye. The Hound,” the man insisted. “Ye should be—I daenae ken, on the front lines, killing people. Nae competing with people like us for a woman’s hand in marriage.”

“’Tis an auction. I am here to express me interest. I daenae ken how else to explain any of this to ye.”

“Aye,” the man murmured gently. “Ye think yer braither will be glad to ken ye’re here?”

Ciaran clenched his jaw. Part of him had been wondering how long it was going to take for the man to bring up his brother.

“I daenae need Logan’s permission for anything.”

Anymore. That was the word he refused to add.

A few months ago, he had been stuck under his brother’s thumb. Everyone knew that while Ciaran was a dangerous warrior, Logan held the reins. That had only changed recently, and it was, in fact, part of the reason why he had shown his face here today.

“I just daenae think– ”

“I would strongly advise ye,” Ciaran bit out, cutting the man off, “to choose yer next words very carefully.”

The man swallowed as Ciaran turned to him and fixed him with a steely look.

The man gave him a curt nod, and just as soon as he had come, he rose from his chair and scurried out of view.

Ciaran threw his head back, waves of relief crashing over him. Perhaps he should grab another tankard of ale. This would go a lot better with a drink. And faster, too, if he was drunk for most of it.

He rose from his chair and crossed the hall, ignoring the curious eyes that seemed to follow him. He was used to the looks. Once upon a time, he used to thrive on them. A time when he made an act out of most people he killed. A time he didn’t have to go extra lengths to kill, but did anyway.

Just for the looks.

But now, they made him uncomfortable. While most people sensibly kept their distance because of fear, he could tell others wanted nothing more than to get him out. To remove his hat from the ring .

Too bad. I am here already.

He grabbed another tankard of ale and downed it.

“I am afraid we daenae have enough ale to quench yer thirst, Laird MacTraigh,” a voice— her voice—called out behind him.

He dropped the empty tankard and turned around. “I see ye have gotten over yer initial shock.”

“Whoever said I was shocked?”

Ciaran cocked an eyebrow. “I saw it in yer eyes. Ye were terrified.”

She gave a brisk nod. “Ye’ll have to pardon me, I suppose. ‘Tis nae everyday that a man who kills for sport shows up at yer party.”

Ciaran looked down, a grin spreading across his lips, then back up, his eyes meeting hers. They seemed a vivid blue in the candlelight and accentuated her auburn hair.

“I have never killed for sport,” he proclaimed.

There was almost a note of pride in that statement. One he was certain she had noticed.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then. Ye deserve recognition for that.”

“Ye’re quick.”

“I’m bored. If this is all ye have to interest me, I am afraid it isnae enough.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And how do ye reckon?”

“’Tis still me auction, is it nae? Ye’re here for me hand.”

He pressed his lips together, the amusement in his voice clear. “True.”

Silence fell between them, and Ciaran could tell that the number of eyes that were initially on him had tripled, now that he was talking to her. But for once that afternoon, he didn’t mind it.

He was strangely amused by the fact that she could talk to him without lowering her gaze. She was incredibly confident as well, and her stance clearly conveyed that she knew what she wanted.

“I asked one of me councilmen about Clan MacTraigh. He couldnae find anything solid,” she continued, breaking the silence.

“Like I told ye, we are still quite young.”

“When ye said young, I didnae think ye were the first laird of the clan.”

“Ye daenae think I’m fit for the role?” he asked, his piercing eyes boring into hers. “Or do ye think a killer isnae good enough to be a laird?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Besides killing, do ye have any other hobbies? Like forcing words into people’s mouths, perhaps?”

Ciaran looked down at her lips, the way they were curled into a mocking smile, then back up at her. “I suppose I might have been a bit forward.”

“I would say, though, that yer entrance was quite the thing. Let us walk.”

He slowly clasped his hands behind his back and fell into step beside her as they made their way around the hall, all too aware of the other lairds’ probing gazes following them.

“ Quite the thing? ” Ciaran echoed, resuming the conversation.

“Well, dramatic, for lack of better words.”

“Dramatic.” He chuckled. “Ye’re the one holding an auction so ye can choose a husband, and I am the dramatic one?”

“This was born out of necessity. I have set up a series of foolproof tests to ensure that any man who passes them has the three qualities I require.”

“Three qualities?” he asked.

“Aye. The future Laird of this clan must be protective, caring, and humorous.”

“Ye might as well end the event and pick me as the winner, M’Lady. I am all of those things.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I have only met ye for all of five minutes, Laird MacTraigh, and the only thing I ken about ye is yer reputation.”

“Shouldnae that be enough?”

“Nae even close.”

They stopped, and he watched her reach for an apple on the table near them. She held the fruit with grace and elegance, and Ciaran felt the minutest self-doubt creep in.

“Ye have to pass these tests to be worthy of me hand. And the castle, of course.”

“And what, pray tell, are these tests?” he asked, watching her bite into the apple.

“For a man who takes time to plan his killings, ye seem a bit forward.”

Ciaran nodded gently. “I suppose I only want to ken what to expect.”

“Now, that’ll be giving ye an unfair advantage. Everyone has an equal chance, and everyone should have the same opportunity as well.”

Ciaran shook his head. “Even the seventy-year-old laird who came for yer hand?”

Her eyes widened. “There’s a seventy-year-old laird?”

“Aye, and he’s a hoot. I saw him right as I walked in. He plans to make ye his third wife.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ach, well, everyone has a shot at the position. Nay one will be sidelined.”

He could hear the disgust she was struggling to hide as the words escaped her lips.

Something about it made him smile. He enjoyed unraveling her and seeing what made her tick, even if he had to take it slow. He knew how to play the long game.

They had done a full round of the hall and were slowly approaching the drinks table.

“I must say, this tour has been quite entertaining, M’Lady,” Laird MacTraigh said, his voice calm and steady, like he was confident about the entire thing.

Something about it unsettled Elinor. This event was supposed to put people on the edge of their seats. He was way too calm for her liking.

“I didnae ask ye to come here for entertainment. I asked ye to come here so the best of the best secures the lairdship of Clan MacAdair. That shouldnae be hard now, should it?”

“Nay,” he responded.

“Good. The floor is open to ye, and of course, ye are welcome to play,” she stated. “Just make sure ye daenae kill anyone. I daenae want to have to clean up bodies after the event. Am I understood?”

A smirk spread across his face. “Very much, M’Lady.”

“Thank ye.”

“And ‘tis Ciaran,” he added as she made to turn around and walk away.

She turned back to him. “What?”

“Me name. ‘Tis Ciaran. I am telling ye, so ye daenae have to go around calling me the Hound.”

Elinor let out a laugh. His insufferable cockiness was beginning to grate on her nerves. “Ye are quite certain of yerself, are ye nae? Thinking I’m going to think of ye after this conversation.”

“I believe I have made a lasting impression.”

“Ye arenae the only man in this event.”

“Yet I daenae see ye talking to anyone else.”

Her anger bubbled up in her chest at the insinuation he had made earlier. How dare he tell her that she was only talking to him alone? She would find someone else to talk to.

Elinor pursed her lips in mild frustration. As she opened her mouth to speak, Jack, one of her councilmen, approached them both, a smile plastered on his face.

“Laird MacTraigh!” he greeted, extending his hand. “I couldnae believe it when they told me ye were here.”

“Aye,” Laird MacTraigh responded, taking his hand in a firm handshake.

“Ye’re welcome. And I suppose condolences are in order as well. It was quite a sad thing to hear about yer braither’s death.”

Elinor’s face softened. Laird MacTraigh had lost a brother? Now, she had to be sympathetic.

“Me braither isnae dead,” she heard him say. “Let us nae bore the lady with tiresome conversations now.”

Of course. Why was she even surprised?

She spotted a man walking past, and almost immediately, she reached for him.

“Laird McAllister,” she said, her grip tight on his arm. “I have been meaning to talk to ye.”

The man turned to her, a confused expression on his face. “I am Laird MacAulay.”

Elinor swallowed. “I ken that. I apologize,” she whispered.

She turned back to Laird MacTraigh—no, he told her to call him Ciaran—who seemed to be deep in conversation with Jack.

His eyes drifted towards her almost immediately.

Something unreadable flashed across his face, but she didn’t give herself time to decode it.

Instead, she turned to the man she was walking with.

“So tell me about MacAllister Castle.”

“’Tis MacAulay, again. M’Lady.”

“I truly apologize. Ye must forgive me forgetfulness.”

As Laird MacAuley started to speak, snippets of her conversation with Ciaran echoed in her mind.

No, she would not do that. She was in control now. And she held the key to her heart and life.

She already let a man dictate her life once, and she’d be damned to hell if she let it happen again.