Page 35 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

“This is how it has to end, is it nae?” Logan asked.

Ciaran shrugged. “‘Tis the only way I’ll ever be free of ye.”

Logan moved first. The sword came free of his belt in one smooth pull, the blade catching the gray morning light.

Ciaran did not step back. He waited until the last second before turning ever so slightly, feeling the rush of air as the blade whizzed close enough to graze his sleeve.

“I made ye what ye are.” Logan exhaled. “And I intend to show that to ye today.” He swung his sword hard.

Ciaran raised his sword to block the second strike. Metal clashed against metal, and the jolt traveled up his arm to his chest.

Logan’s face contorted behind his blade as he pushed hard against Ciaran. “Ye say I had to manipulate Jamie and some of me other men into going after ye. The truth is, I barely had to do anything. I didnae even ask them.”

Ciaran pushed back harder, and their swords began to slide off each other.

“They volunteered,” Logan continued, digging his boots into the soil. “Because they hated traitors as much as I did. They didnae appreciate disloyalty.”

He did not flinch. He shoved forward, throwing all his weight behind his blade, forcing Ciaran to give ground.

The edge of the flat rock caught the back of Ciaran’s heel. He braced himself against it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. Logan’s eyes never left his face. He stepped forward again, swinging his sword in the air.

“If ye were as loyal and honest as ye claim, I’d still be yer second-in-command. Frankly, ye have never disgusted me as much as ye do at this moment.”

Logan’s eyes darkened further, the smile on his face turning into a snarl. “I should have killed ye when I had the chance. I willnae waste it again.”

He lunged again, his sword raised. His blade hit Ciaran’s with a clang that seemed to reverberate through the desolate forest.

“Ye’re nae a laird. Ye’re nae fit to rule the people ye took with ye,” he said, his voice steady despite the strain of their locked blades. “Ye will only ever be one thing. And that is what I made ye—the Hound.”

Ciaran felt his ears burn. He shifted his grip, broke the bind, and stepped closer.

He drove his elbow into Logan’s jaw, sending him reeling back a pace.

He did not give his brother a break. He stepped forward again and struck.

His sword bit into Logan’s shoulder. Blood immediately seeped into his grey shirt.

“I am nae what ye made me,” he whispered to himself.

Logan bared his teeth, evidently trying to suppress the sharp pain in his shoulder. “Ye think she makes ye clean? Ye think ye’ll nae put her in danger everywhere ye go?”

He lunged again, this time a bit faster. Ciaran blocked the first blow and the second. The third one caught him high in the ribs. Heat flared under his shirt. He felt the pain spread underneath, but refused to acknowledge it. Not now.

He circled Logan, who did the same, his breath rasping through clenched teeth. His sword shot out in another quick strike. Ciaran dodged a moment too late. The blade bit into his thigh, shallow but leaving a sharp pain. He staggered backward, feeling his grip on his sword falter.

“After I kill ye, who kens? I might just attend yer wedding. ‘Tis today, is it nae?”

Ciaran did not respond. The pain in his thigh grew.

“I might just marry her. I mean, it would be tragic to become a widow on yer wedding day, would it nae? Plus, Joanna left after I got bored with her, so it will all work out.”

Ciaran dropped to one knee, feeling the soft, cold soil against his skin. “Ye got bored with Joanna? Ye kenned ye were going to get bored with her after ye made me kill her husband?”

Logan moved forward. “Aye. She grew frustrated, poor thing. Couldnae deal with me because all I had on me mind was me poor–”H e brought up his knee and slammed it into Ciaran’s jaw, sending hot pain through his skull. “–dear–”K e kicked him again. “–braither.”

Ciaran toppled to the ground, and Logan stood over him, panting. He lowered the tip of his blade to Ciaran’s throat.

“She’ll never be safe with ye. I’ll marry her, and all of this will belong to me.” He gestured around the forest, his voice calm. “I’ll take her when ye’re gone. Put an heir in her belly. She’ll ken what it feels like to lie with a real man.”

A tense, suffocating silence ensued. Then, Ciaran’s hand shot up. He caught Logan’s wrist and wrenched it sideways. His bones cracked, and he let out a sharp, shocked cry.

Ciaran rose, the pain in his thigh a distant thing. He curled his fingers around his sword, feeling its heft.

Logan staggered backward, clutching his broken wrist to his chest. He looked up at his brother, a smile on his face.

Ciaran kicked him to the ground and straddled him, nothing but rage and boiling fury in his eyes. He raised his sword, feeling the hilt grow warm in his hands and the blade gleam in the sunlight.

“Ye can never be anything else, lad. Ye will always… always be a weapon.”

Ciaran drove down his sword. It sank through fabric and flesh and bone. Logan wheezed, and his eyes widened. A guttural sound escaped his lips.

“I am yer weapon,” Ciaran whispered. “So this is yer doing.”

Logan opened his mouth to speak again, but the words died in his throat.

For a moment, they remained like that, close enough that Ciaran could feel the last breath leave his brother’s lungs.

Then, he yanked back his sword and rose to his feet, watching droplets of blood slide off the tip of the blade.

Chills ran down his spine, not from victory or joy but from relief.

Elinor stood near the doors of the Great Hall, her fingers curled into the skirt of her dress.

Everything felt incredibly uncomfortable, and it was beginning to upset her, how irritable she felt. Her eyes were glued on the courtyard outside the nearby window, where a maid had run to see if Ciaran had returned.

She could feel the eyes in the Great Hall on her. Women pretending they were busy with everything except what had brought them to the castle on this very day. Katherine stood beside her, whispering words intending to soothe her, but for some reason, they only made things worse.

“I am certain he is on his way,” Katherine reassured for the hundredth time.

Something about her tone told Elinor that even the healer did not believe her own words.

Anna, on the other hand, was speaking with her husband, Gordon, who sat at the far end of the hall, plain concern written all over his face.

Elinor watched her sister lean down to speak into his ear, her bright red hair covering half his face in the process. A part of her wondered what her sister was telling her brother-in-law.

We kenned this was going to happen. It was her fault for marrying a killer in the first place.

Eyes turned to her again from all around the Great Hall, sending chills down her spine. She could see Jackson at the corner, watching her with nothing but pity in his eyes.

Suddenly, the discomfort she had been feeling earlier doubled. The fabric of her dress felt too heavy, the fitted bodice tight against her ribs. She thought if she breathed too deeply, it might tear.

The murmurs in the hall were worse than any noise she had ever heard. A hundred voices pitched low, all saying the same thing without daring to say it aloud.

The maid she had sent to check the courtyard ran back, and from the look on her face, Elinor knew this was not going to be good news. She kept her gaze on the maid anyway.

“M’Lady,” the maid panted once she stopped before them both, the apprehension in her tone making Elinor’s heart stutter.

A part of her wondered if Katherine felt the same, but she did not have the time to ponder it.

Katherine squeezed Elinor’s clasped hands tightly as the maid delivered the painful news.

“I didnae see him, M’Lady. He isnae coming.”

Elinor swallowed, feeling a low rumble in her stomach. The disbelief still hovered over her like the murmurs of the impatient guests.

“He said he’d come,” she whispered. Her mouth felt dry around the words. “He said he’d come.”

Katherine squeezed her hands tighter. “He will be here, I promise ye,” she said, the same uncertainty lacing her tone.

Elinor looked out again, and the guests—a lot of them—shifted in their seats, the rustle of fabric grating on her nerves like stones on walls.

No. She simply could not take it anymore.

She turned without thinking and bolted out of the hall.

“M’Lady?” Katherine called out.

But Elinor did not respond. She couldn’t. Not when her throat was clogged with tears. One of the maids hurried after her, but she was faster. She slipped into another part of the passageway before the maid could catch up.

Her feet carried her to her quarters without her bidding. She pushed the door open and slipped inside, her chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. Footsteps followed close behind, and it was not until she heard Anna’s voice that she knew who it was.

Her sister closed the door slowly, though Elinor could sense the strain in her movements.

She clapped her hand over her mouth. The lace of her glove caught against her lip. The sting in her eyes blurred the room.

“He cannae leave me,” she choked out. Her voice broke, the sound worse than any scream. “Nae after everything. Nae after he promised.”

Anna came to her and placed her hands on her shoulders. Elinor did not look up. She felt her throat work around the sob she could not hold in.

“He just cannae,” she said.

Anna pulled her close. She did not try to tell her otherwise.

The door opened behind them. Thomas stepped inside, his eyes focused, and the usual concern plain on his face. He must have been watching this charade unfold and was beginning to grow frustrated that Ciaran had not come back.

“I’m going after him,” he declared, his voice flat. “I willnae come back. Nae until I find him and bring him back to ye.”

Elinor raised her head. The tears made her vision swim.

Thomas’s face reflected something more than determination. Something she could not name, no matter how hard she tried. But she did not counter him or even try to stop him. Instead, she nodded once, and her hand fell from Anna’s sleeve.

“Thank ye,” she whispered.

Thomas did not answer. He turned to the door, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as if he meant to crush it.

A soft knock sounded at the door before he reached it. He pulled the door open to reveal a maid standing there, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. She bobbed a slight curtsy and looked straight at Elinor.

“M’Lady,” she greeted, almost out of breath.

Elinor arched a questioning eyebrow.

“He is back,” the maid announced.

Her words hung thick in the air. The room went still, and Elinor felt her heart pound against her ribs.

The maid swallowed. “He is approaching the gate.”

Anna grabbed her sister’s hand, but this time, Elinor did not feel it. She hiked up her skirt and brushed past them to get out of the room.