Page 36 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Ciaran rode through the castle gates without a word to the men who stood by and watched him. The blood stains on his shirt had completely dried that they were now stiff along his sleeves and dark in the morning sun. He did not slow down his horse until he got to the stables.

A stable boy approached him, taking in the stains on his shirt and the sword attached to his belt for a brief minute. Ciaran fixed him with a steely look, and the boy almost immediately lowered his head in deference.

“M’Laird,” he greeted, his voice laced with hesitation, fidgeting with his hands. “Ye have returned.”

“Aye,” was all Ciaran said as he dismounted in one swift motion.

He handed his horse’s reins to the stable boy and walked across the courtyard and back into the castle, each step he took staining the grass with blood. A trail of mud followed him to the castle doors, flashes of what he had done swirling over and over in his head.

The ache in his limbs and chest refused to abate. He was walking down the passageway, towards his quarters, and still felt like he was in the woods, straddling his brother, driving his sword into the man’s chest.

He could hear the murmurs from the Great Hall, but he did not stop to listen to them.

Unlike out there in the woods, the air in the castle closed in on him.

He did not stop to speak to the servants who watched from the hall either, even though he could feel their gazes drilling holes in the back of his neck.

He walked into his room, the noise fading the instant he closed the door behind him. He looked around him, at the clothes he had laid out on the bed before riding out to meet Logan, at the bath that had been drawn for him, and at the way the curtains by the window danced in the gentle breeze.

He unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the table by the wall, feeling its weight leave his palm. He felt lighter than he liked. Much lighter.

More memories flooded through his mind as he pulled his shirt over his head. He sucked in air through his teeth as the fabric grazed the cut along his side.

He did not pause to clean the wound. He stepped into the bath immediately, the heat coaxing out a sharp breath. As he sank to his knees in the water, the ache in his ribs dulled to something cold and heavy. Something he could almost ignore if he would just stop thinking about it.

A knock sounded at the door, and his eyes snapped up. He did not say a word, but he could hear the lock turn anyway.

The door eventually creaked open, and Thomas stepped into the room. He stared at the bloody clothes and the dried blood on the edge of the sword. His expression did not change, though the lines around his mouth deepened.

Ciaran did not lift his eyes. “Ye daenae have to worry about me braither again. He will nay longer trouble us.”

Thomas stood there for a long moment, not saying a word. Then, he slowly lowered himself onto a nearby chair, his gaze flitting to Ciaran’s sword again before returning to his face. A hint of understanding flashed in his eyes.

“Ye did what ye had to, M’Laird,” he said, his voice flat.

Ciaran nodded once. The movement pulled at the wound on his side. He ignored it.

“Since I was a boy,” he started, scooping up water and splashing it across his face, “after our parents were buried, he was all I had left. I thought…” he trailed off, letting the rest of the thought die in the warmth of the water.

Thomas nodded, letting the silence settle over the room. It was not until he was certain that Ciaran wouldn’t say anything else that he spoke.

“Blood is a poor measure of worth,” he said quietly. “We spend half our lives believing that kin must be honored. As though the accident of birth is enough to make a man true. ‘Tis a cruel lesson, learning they were only ever men. And sometimes the worst of them.”

Ciaran closed his eyes. The breath he took felt thin.

Thomas nodded slowly. “I’ll leave ye to it.” He rose from his seat and looked at Ciaran one more time. “Ye have to get ready for the wedding, Laird MacAdair.”

He left without waiting for a response.

Ciaran stayed in the water until it grew cold. He washed the blood from his skin, and when he rose, the water clung dark to the edges of the tub.

He dressed his wounds hastily but firmly and then wore his clean linen. The new shirt felt too fine against his shoulders. He tied the cuffs, each knot done twice as if to keep his hands from shaking.

The Great Hall was packed when he walked in. Every conversation faded to a silence that pressed down on his chest.

Elinor stood near the altar in her wedding dress, her arms wrapped around her waist. Her face was pale, but she did not look away when he approached.

He stopped before her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He could see the slight redness in her eyes and hated himself for being the cause.

Her voice was low when she asked, “What happened?”

He pushed the truth behind his teeth.

“I’ll keep ye safe, Elinor,” he vowed. “Nay matter what, I’ll always keep ye safe.”

She furrowed her brow as they turned together to face the priest, who had a look of both confusion and utter admiration on his face.

“Ye look sharp, M’Laird.”

Ciaran gave a weak smile and felt Elinor’s hand squeeze his.

He made it. He was here. That was all that mattered. Everything else was noise.

Noise that continued to pierce his ears even as he stood at the altar, taking note of the crowd behind him. Behind them both.

The priest lifted his hands, the folds of his robes settling around his wrists. A sweeping wave of thick silence fell over the hall. It was so silent that Ciaran could hear his heart pounding in his ears along with his brother’s harrowing words.

“Ye will always be a weapon.”

He shook off the thought the instant it came, letting the priest’s words filter in instead.

“Elinor Lane and Ciaran Brooks,” the priest began. “Ye stand before these witnesses and the Almighty to pledge yer commitment to each other by word and will, by heart and hand.”

His words carried across the hall without strain, and Ciaran felt them press against his chest. He did not look away from Elinor. Not even when the priest took up a strip of blue and green cloth and wrapped it around their joined hands twice before tying the knot firmly.

“From this day, ye walk as one,” he declared. “To guard and to guide. To endure when the days are lean, to rejoice when the days are full. What the Lord has sealed, let nay man unbind.”

The silence held a moment longer. Then, the priest stepped back and clasped his hands together.

Ciaran nodded at Elinor. Her eyes shone, though she did not smile. He thought she looked steadier than he felt.

They stepped off the altar side by side, and the hall erupted in hesitant applause at first before it turned into roaring cheers.

When they sat at the high table, the food laid out before them, Ciaran felt the knot still digging into his wrist. The cloth had already absorbed the heat of Elinor’s skin. He ate little and felt the noise in the room move around him like the thoughts swirling in his head.

“Do ye plan to tell me what happened anytime soon, or am I supposed to keep guessing?” Elinor asked, looking him right in the eyes, almost like she could pull the truth out of him if she wanted.

Ciaran swallowed, returning her look. Her blue eyes were bright like the sky of a summer morning.

“Nothing ye have to worry about,” he muttered.

“They said ye rode in with blood on yer shirt,” Elinor pressed. Then, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I have to worry about who ye killed?”

“‘Tis the last thing ye have to do.”

“So ye did kill someone?”

Ciaran said nothing.

“Who was it?”

He did not respond again, but his ears burned. He did not know how to explain any of this to her if he even tried.

“Ciaran, who was the man ye rode out to kill on our wedding day?” Elinor asked again, the worry in her voice palpable.

Thankfully, before he could answer, she was coaxed to her feet before the first course was cleared.

Anna stopped before them and reached for her sister’s hand.

“Anna, I daenae ken if I am in the mood for dancing.”

“‘Tis yer wedding,” Anna protested, her voice carrying above the loud music. “Ye have to be.”

Ciaran watched as she pressed a cup of ale into Elinor’s hand while her husband took her other arm.

Elinor let them lead her to the dance floor. From where he sat, he watched her move, her bright yellow dress bright and shiny in the candlelight. Each time she turned, he felt a hollow ache behind his ribs.

Gordon slipped back to the table when the tune changed.

“She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her,” he noted. His tone was light, but his eyes were somber. “I mean, I ken I havenae seen her that much, but… Ye understand, do ye nae?”

Ciaran did not respond. He just kept staring at the rim of his cup, trying to remain as focused in the present as possible.

Gordon waited, then spoke again, his voice quieter. “What happened out there? The blood on yer shirt. ‘Tis what everyone is talking about.”

Ciaran let the question hang in the air for a moment. Then, he looked up. “I killed me braither.”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed. He did not ask why.

“He threatened her,” Ciaran added flatly, the words tumbling from his mouth. “He would have done worse if I’d let him walk away.”

Gordon reached for the pitcher and refilled his cup without comment, and Ciaran turned his gaze back to Elinor, watching her dance.