Page 34 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Elinor woke up to a rather bright room just as the sun began to slowly rise into the sky, casting a golden glow over the courtyard.

For some reason she could not explain, no matter how hard she tried, her room felt different.

Was it bigger? Shinier? Did it smell more like flowers than before? Or was she so happy this morning that the only way she could properly cope with it was to find something physical to be happy about?

She turned a little, feeling the sheets twist around her legs. For the briefest moment, she fell silent, letting the fact that it was a new day sink in.

Then, flashes of the events of the previous night flooded her mind, and she felt her face grow unbearably hot. She placed her hand over her mouth, as if she could push down the vivid memory that flashed bright behind her eyes.

His mouth on her lips. The heat of his palm between her legs. The way he had looked at her when the pleasure crashed over her.

She exhaled rather slowly and pushed back the sheets. The floor was cold under her feet, but she did not mind one bit. She stepped into the bathing chamber, poured the water herself, and stepped into the tub, feeling her heart rate slow. Like she was the epitome of calm this morning.

The heat seeped into her body, yet she refused to ponder over it or let it slow her down the way she usually did.

She realized that she did not want to spend as much time as she usually did, thinking about her life and the future of her clan, in the bathtub. Not today. It was her wedding day. Whatever else might come, no one would steal that from her.

She washed her hair and her body. The scent of bathing oils filled her nostrils, presenting another welcome distraction. She rose from the water without waiting for it to completely cool and reached for the towel, which lay by the door, waiting to be used.

She was taking note of everything today more than she used to; it immediately dawned on her.

She rubbed the towel across her body, feeling excited and ready to tackle the day. She felt more alive than she had in years.

Soon, Anna and Katherine would step into the room and prepare her for the day.

They would tuck all sorts of accessories into her hair, and her dress would shine just like the sun.

She would feel even more alive than she had earlier because, for the first time in her life, she was marrying a man she liked.

She had only just set the towel aside when a knock sounded at the door. She did not think.

“Come in,” she called, her voice carrying easily through the hush.

When the door opened, she turned around with a smile, expecting Anna’s face.

Thomas stood there instead.

He looked completely embarrassed, and his eyes darted away as soon as he saw the towel wrapped around her.

“Well,” she drawled, arching an eyebrow, “if ye have come here to give me a wedding gift, I hope ye would let me receive it while I’m fully dressed. Would ye?”

“Aye,” he responded and closed the door immediately, letting the hush settle once more over her.

Elinor reached for one of the dresses in her wardrobe that was easier to put on and take off. Something about the look on Thomas’s face told her that he was not here to give her a gift. Even now, as he stood outside the door, she could almost feel the tension radiating from him.

Whatever he was about to say, she was certain she would not like it.

“Ye can come in now,” she called as the hem of her dress dropped to her ankles.

The knob twisted, and Thomas stepped in once more, the sullen look still lingering on his face.

“Dinnae worry, ‘tis me wedding day. I am nae going to war—or getting thrown into the dungeons after taking off me wedding dress,” she said, hoping that would at least earn her a laugh. It did not.

Thomas did not respond.

“Ye’re scaring me, Thomas.” She wrung her hands. “And that is the last thing ye want to do to a bride.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Forgive me, M’Lady. I thought… I thought ye might want to ken.”

She cocked her head, studying him. “If it is about the fair-haired kitchen maid, ye can bring her to the wedding. Her alone. Nay others.”

He tried to smile, but it quickly faded. His lips pressed together in a thin line instead.

Her heart gave a sharp thud against her ribs. “What is it?”

Thomas looked down at the floor, then back up. “‘Tis the Laird.”

Another sharp thud.

“He’s gone to the woods. There was movement near the western border. He rode out at first light.”

The air grew thick around her. She turned back to the table where she had set her comb and picked it up with a steady hand.

“All the same,” she said, her voice even. “He will return.”

“M’Lady…”

She lifted her chin. “‘Tis me wedding day. I cannae start it by stressing over every inconvenience. He will come back.”

Thomas watched her for a long moment, as if debating whether to say more or not. Then, he dipped his head in a slight bow.

“Aye, M’Lady. He will.”

She did not look up as he stepped out, but she heard the door close and the latch click in place.

Her hand rested on her stomach, the heat from the bath fading with each passing second. She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding and set down the comb.

Her eyes searched the room again. Whatever had made it more appealing when she woke up was now dimming. She shook her head, refusing to let her thoughts linger.

He will return.

Ciaran moved through the trees as deliberately as he could. His eyes searched every corner, behind every hedge, and beneath every tiny cave.

The terrain ahead of him cut between the trunks and packed earth, showing signs of horses that had passed through here in the dark.

He spotted a small plant that had been shoved aside and moved closer to examine it.

The prints of a horse’s hooves glared back at him from all sides.

He did not need any more signs. He knew his brother was somewhere around.

And he knew there was truly only one way this would end.

The clearing ahead of him opened suddenly at the foot of a ridge. The grass grew thin there, trampled by some feet. A ring of stones lay black with old ash.

He remembered being on the lookout in this part of the woods when he returned with Elinor from the Coral Plains. He remembered thinking how easy it would be to set an ambush here. Clearly, Logan had thought the same. He wouldn’t have picked a place like this otherwise.

Ciaran looked around, his eyes peeled for the slightest movement. A rustle in the wind, a thud into the soft soil—anything.

“Logan.” His voice was clear, devoid of any emotion or respect. Those were long gone.

At that moment, Logan was not even his brother. He was just an inconvenience he had to eliminate on the very morning of his wedding day.

He stopped near a flat rock at the center of the woods. The trees were yards away from him now. The morning cold sank into his chest, but he did not mind it.

“Logan,” he called again, taking extra care to study his surroundings further.

Logan could emerge from behind any of the trees surrounding him.

Ciaran leaned back against the rock and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Again, nothing moved. The thick silence hung heavy between the trees.

He turned his head, letting his eyes sweep over each shadow. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “Come out. I willnae call ye a fourth time.”

A shape emerged from behind the trunks to his left, and Logan stepped into the light.

His hair was longer than Ciaran remembered, pulled back at the nape of his neck.

The same sharp lines cut across his face, though the skin of his neck had shrunk closer to the bone.

His eyes were darker than he remembered, perhaps poetically so.

His beard had grown more; the last time Ciaran saw it, it had been well trimmed.

But one thing did not change—the devilish look Logan always had on his face. The smirk that seemed to make everyone think that he knew better and would not hesitate to put anyone in their place.

He had the same look on his face as he had when Ciaran left. Frustration mixed with a bit of triumph. But there was something else. The smirk that told Ciaran that Logan had more up his sleeve.

“Braither,” Logan greeted. “Ye look well. Commitment must agree with ye.”

Ciaran’s hand remained on the hilt of his sword. He did not draw it. Not yet.

“Does she ken what ye are?” Logan asked, his voice soft as a knife in the dark. “Does she ken whose blade ye were before ye ever thought to call yerself Laird?”

Ciaran ground his teeth. “What are ye doing here? Why could ye nae just stay at yer castle?”

“And miss the wedding of me wee braither? Ye daenae think me that terrible now, do ye?”

“Ye werenae invited,” Ciaran responded, his voice sharp.

“Aye, I figured,” Logan drawled. “It was hard to get the message, but once I saw Jamie’s dead body, I kenned ye meant business.”

Ciaran said nothing.

Logan stepped forward, his hands tucked behind his back. “Dinnae get me wrong, I always kenned Jamie had nay chance. I did train ye to be the best killer of all at the end of the day, but I thought since he was yer best friend, ye might show just a little restraint.”

“He was never me best friend,” Ciaran corrected. “He just always coveted me position. But I reckon ye already kenned that, did ye nae? So ye used it against him the moment ye could. Told him that he could be yer man-at-arms as long as he killed me?”

The full weight of what Logan had done settled on Ciaran’s chest. He realized, for the first time, that no one on earth was more evil than the man standing before him. A reconciliation simply would not work.

Logan’s mouth curved up. “Do ye still go around thinking ye can make anything of yerself without me?”

Ciaran looked down at his feet. He couldn’t look at Logan in the face. His brother still had that look he had always revered. The countenance he had always feared. He had taken on lairds much more powerful and older than his brother.

So why did Logan still manage to get under his skin?

“I am certain ye’re nae blind to everything I have achieved since I left ye,” Ciaran scoffed.

Logan took another step closer, and Ciaran heard the leaves crunch under his boots.

“I taught ye everything ye ken,” he said. “How to hold a blade. How to make men fear ye. How to carve out a place in this world with yer own hands. And now ye stand here, thinking ye’re too good to look me in the eye? Too good to acknowledge me?”

Ciaran lifted his gaze, slow and deliberate. “I’m looking.”

Logan laughed once. The sound cut through the silence, rough and aggravating. “Aye, ye always were the obedient one.”

The low fire in Ciaran’s chest grew into something colder. He watched as Logan’s hands rested on the hilt of the broadsword at his belt.

“All of this,” Logan continued, gesturing to the woods, the ridge, the rock Ciaran had stepped away from, “belongs to me. And ye ken it.”

Ciaran did not blink. “Nae anymore.”

Logan’s eyes darkened. “Is that what ye came here to tell me? That I have nay place here?”

“Nay,” Ciaran responded, shifting his hand to his sword. The weight of it steadied him. “I came to end it.”