Page 33 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Ciaran did not sleep for the better part of the night, but he did not return to the stables either. He remained in his chambers all night, staring out the window, his heart pounding harder than usual. Sometimes, he would sit in the chair near the wall, his boots planted wide on the floor.

His sword lay across his knees, the blade clean and shiny, but he could still see traces of blood on the hilt. Dawn crept in slowly through the window; he did not reach for it.

A rather fierce thought crept into his head.

It was his wedding day.

He shuddered. He was getting married to the lady of the castle.

It was rather ironic how he had only come here a few weeks ago to win an auction. Now that it had happened, he was getting married.

The morning sky grew clearer, chasing away the darkness he could see across the courtyard.

A knock sounded at the door as his chambers grew brighter. It was not as urgent as Elinor’s. It was rather a measured rap, as if the person on the other side already knew that their intrusion would not be welcome. Especially on this day.

Ciaran did not respond. He laid his sword on the bed, watching it gleam in the weak morning light, and stood up. His steps quickened as he walked to the door, closing the distance in only a few strides.

His hand closed around the knob and pulled the door open. It was exactly who he had thought it would be.

“M’Laird.”

Thomas stood there, his sword handle in one hand and his eyes steady. He did not look surprised to find him awake.

Ciaran stepped aside and watched the man-at-arms walk in, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“If ye’re here to tell me that none of the women ye have bedded in the castle want to attend the wedding with ye, I am afraid I have to tell ye to deal with it yerself.”

Thomas laughed. “Nay. Nae that.”

“Good,” Ciaran muttered. “So what is it?”

A brief silence ensued before Thomas cleared his throat. “I thought ye would want to ken. Some of me men have seen movement in the trees a mile west of the castle.”

Ciaran stilled. “Movement?”

Thomas’s throat worked, and he nodded. “Aye. A scout rode in nae half an hour ago. He said there were three figures. They didnae come close enough to see their faces. But they were armed.”

Ciaran felt something coil in his chest. He thought of Elinor upstairs, putting on her wedding dress, her hands smoothing the fabric while her mind worked through every doubt he’d managed to erase after last night.

He did not let the thought linger.

“Are ye certain that she is being protected? Elinor?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“With me life,” Thomas replied, the sincerity in his voice plain. “If ye plan to ride out, I can have a guard ready to– ”

“Nay.” Ciaran shook his head. “Ye need to have guards ready, but nae for me. If this is who I think it is, ye need to be prepared. I shall go meet him.”

Thomas nodded.

Ciaran continued in an even voice, “If any of those men come closer, ye will hold them at the wall. Kill them if necessary. Dinnae let them a mile near her. Am I understood?”

Thomas shifted, as if he meant to ask more, then closed his mouth and nodded again. “Aye, M’Laird.”

He dipped his head in a slight bow and left the room.

Ciaran did not waste any more time. He put on his shirt and stepped back just enough to grab his sword. The weight of it settled into his palm like a memory he could not shake. He did not bother with the belt. He carried it in his hand as he crossed the threshold.

The passageway was empty, like it always was every morning. He passed the chamber where the servants were already lighting the lamps, though the morning had just dawned. He did not look inside.

He hurried down the stairs and eventually got to the main doors. He pushed one open, and the cold morning air immediately hit his face.

The courtyard was quiet. A few stable boys moved across the fields, feeding the animals. A few others were working in the garden, where the wedding would take place. One of them straightened when he saw Ciaran and dipped his head, his eyes downcast. He did not speak.

Ciaran gave a brief nod in response and headed to the stables.

His horse was ready, as if someone had known he would not wait. The beast tossed its head when he drew close, and he slid his sword through the strap along the saddle. He looked around, took another deep breath, and swung himself up into the saddle.

The cold air outside bit his skin again, sharper than it had been the night before. He bent low over his mount’s neck, urging it to go faster. The fields blurred past him. He did not look back to see the castle shrink behind him.

The wind whipped at his hair as he rode, but he did not lift a hand to brush it back. The road stretched ahead in a line he had followed more times than he could count.

His eyes studied the area around him, but not for too long. Something told him that if Logan was a mile away, waiting for him, he had come to finish things himself.

This was going to end one way to the other, and he could not wait to finally put this all to bed once and for all.

He remembered the first time Logan had called him the Hound .

It was after his first kill. He was fifteen.

It was meant as a warning to the people who had been around the castle walls that day.

A way for Logan to cement his place, now that he had a weapon by his side.

A way to remind the men who watched that Ciaran was there to strike, not to speak.

Ciaran had believed it was better than being nothing.

Better than being the boy who had to scramble for his brother’s approval and still not get it.

With him being the Hound, he would be able to worship Logan as much as he wanted without batting an eye.

He would be able to kill all his enemies for him, so he could become invaluable in his eyes.

He would be able to grow closer to his brother. That was all he had ever wanted.

The horse galloped down the narrow path, and the sky grew brighter with each passing minute.

His mind immediately flashed to the night Logan had sent him to cut a man’s throat. A laird who had captured some of Logan’s men and had refused to let them go. He had starved and punished the men in severely inhumane ways, and all attempts to reconcile with him had failed.

“If ye daenae do this, he will continue to torture me men until they die,” Logan had said to Ciaran that night. “He will kill this clan one by one and take what isnae his.”

Ciaran remembered the power he had felt when Logan put the dagger in his palm, knowing this did not only mean approval, but also trust. Logan needed him to do this. His brother depended on him, and he would do the best he could.

He remembered how the blade shook in his grip after he killed the laird and how the blood stuck to his palms even after he scrubbed them raw in the river.

After his first kill, the guilt ate at him.

It was raw and unquenched. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get a good night’s sleep.

All he kept seeing was the face of the laird he had killed.

Logan had told him after that the laird should be the one having nightmares about Ciaran and not the other way round.

“Ye’re a force to be reckoned with now, Braither,” Logan had praised.

“Trust me when I say that it is going to get easier. When it does, people will nae only respect ye, but they will also fear ye. Nobles and commoners will go out of their way for ye. Crowds will part to let ye pass, and the mere mention of yer name will strike fear in the hearts of thousands of men. Brave men will choose to die rather than face ye in battle. Ye will be kenned as the Hound.”

When Ciaran reached the edge of the woods, a mile and a few yards away from the castle, he slowed his horse. The trees stood close, their barks black against the morning light, and he heard the horse’s breathing quicken.

He dismounted without tying the reins. The horse would stay. It knew him well.

“Alright, Logan,” he muttered, yanking his sword from the saddle and watching it gleam ever so slightly. “Let us end this properly.”