Page 39 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

Ciaran stood in the middle of his chamber, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The air felt too thin, and his breathing was too ragged. He stared at the cup he had flung across the room, still there, broken, almost a physical manifestation of his anger.

His eyes skimmed over the cold, hard floor and settled on the neatly folded blankets, the carved chair by the window. All of it felt too still. Too quiet for the thoughts raging in his head like alarm bells.

He shoved the chair aside. It struck the wall with a sharp crack. The blankets followed, kicked into a corner. His breath came in sharp bursts. Logan’s snarling face flashed in his mind’s eye, and his head throbbed as those words scraped over every thought.

“Ye’re a weapon, Ciaran.”

He tore the sheets off the bed and flung them across the room, the rage inside him growing still.

“Ye’ll never stop being the Hound.”

He stomped from the edge of the bed to the table by the wall. His hand closed around the edge and wrenched it away. The table toppled on its side, crashing onto the floor with a crack that reverberated through the room.

The door suddenly swung open, and Ciaran turned to it, half expecting it to be her. However, it was Gordon who stepped in, his grip firm on the doorknob. He stopped short, taking in the overturned chair, the heaped linens, and the table in one sweeping look.

Ciaran turned away from him. The chaos in his head was torture enough.

“What do ye want?” he asked, his back still turned to him.

There was no answer.

He eventually turned back to the man.

Gordon’s lips thinned, and for a moment, they stared at each other. They did not have to speak, for the looks on their faces were full of subtle understanding. Then, he stepped back out of the room without a word and pulled the door shut.

For a moment, the silence and solitude returned. Ciaran braced his hands on the edge of his bed frame, his shoulders heaving. He did not know how long he stood there, but he knew it was long enough that the ache in his arms began to fade into something dull.

The door opened again, and Gordon came back inside, a sword in his hand. He tossed it across the room. The blade clattered onto the floor and spun to a stop near Ciaran’s boots.

“Come along,” Gordon said, his voice too calm.

Ciaran stared at the sword and then back at him. “What?”

“Ye need it,” Gordon simply responded.

Ciaran turned around slowly and bent to pick up the sword. The leather of the hilt pressed against his palm.

“Now, come along,” Gordon repeated, stepping out first.

Ciaran, who continued to study the sword in his hand, followed right behind.

They went out into the courtyard. The morning was still, and the dew on the grass was beginning to disappear.

“I heard yer wife left the castle. Said she needed some time to herself,” Gordon started.

Ciaran only shrugged in response. He had not exactly acted in a way that would make her want to be around him or in the same place as him.

Gordon stepped back a pace once they got to a space clear enough to train and lifted his sword. “Ye look like ye’re about to fall apart.”

Ciaran did not answer. He charged forward without warning, swinging his sword in a low arc. Gordon blocked the strike with the flat of his blade and pushed him back.

They moved across the packed earth, their boots digging into the green grass in slow circles.

“Ye ken,” Gordon said, his breath short, “she’s a rare one, yer wife.”

Ciaran drove him back another step.

“In the few days I’ve watched her,” Gordon continued, his voice even, “I’ve seen more spirit in her than I’ve seen in any other woman or man in this castle. It has to be a family trait, do ye nae think?”

Ciaran lunged at him again. “What is yer point?”

“My point,” Gordon replied, blocking a high strike, “is that ye’d be a fool to let yer demons steal that from ye. Steal her from ye.”

Ciaran feinted left and swung hard to the right. Gordon grunted as the blade almost nicked him.

“I had a reputation once, too, ye ken?” Gordon revealed, stepping back to regain his balance.

“I ken,” Ciaran said. “Ye still do, actually. They call ye the Devil of the Highlands . ‘Tis quite a corny name, do ye nae think?”

“Says the man kenned as the Hound,” Gordon retorted, swinging his sword sideways.

Ciaran blocked it again. “Doesnae change me point,” he argued.

Gordon let out a low laugh. “Me point is that I didnae survive it by hiding from what I wanted.”

Ciaran did not say anything in response. He was too focused on finding a way to slam Gordon to the ground.

Gordon’s sword came up again. “Men like us,” he continued, panting, “We werenae made for peace. Nae on our own. But women like Elinor and Anna… they see what the rest of the world will never bother to look for.”

Ciaran moved faster than before. Their blades clashed so hard that the sound echoed through the courtyard, almost scaring the nearby animals that were grazing.

“They see the things we’ve buried,” Gordon persisted. “The parts of us that we have tried to push down so deep. Parts that we would most likely choke on if we ever let them rise again.”

Ciaran ground his teeth together. He forced Gordon back, step by step, until the man’s boots dug into the softer part of the courtyard.

“Ye let her slip through yer fingers,” Gordon warned, “and those demons ye keep holding onto will eat ye alive before ye ken it.”

With a roar, Ciaran knocked the sword out of Gordon’s hand, slammed the heel of his boot into his chest, and drove him to the ground. He planted a knee on the man’s ribs and pointed the tip of his blade just below his collarbone.

“Do ye yield?” he asked, his voice rough.

Before he could catch his breath, Gordon twisted, kicked out hard, and sent Ciaran sprawling into the grass. His back hit the soft earth, and his eyes settled on the graying morning sky.

“I let ye win,” Ciaran wheezed, hearing him shift beside him.

“Did ye?” Gordon scoffed, hauling himself up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ye’re the one on yer back.”

Ciaran pushed himself up and watched as Gordon offered him a hand. “I had ye already. If this were a war, I would have killed ye.”

A smirk crossed Gordon’s face as he lifted Ciaran off the ground. “Aye. And yet ye didnae. Never underestimate a man’s wits. How about we call it a tie?”

Ciaran opened his mouth to respond when a voice called out. “My Lairds!”

They both turned to the castle doors to find Anna standing there, her hand raised.

“I have finished the portrait,” she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “Ye might want to come see it.”

Ciaran wiped his palm over his mouth, though it did nothing to steady his thrumming pulse. At least now he could properly relax and stop trying to break things in his room.

He felt freer; Gordon’s words had struck something inside him. Something he was certain would lead him back to her . He coughed slightly, tasting metal in his mouth from when he had crashed into the ground.

“Fine.” He eventually responded. “We'll call it a tie.”

“Ye’re a great fighter.” Gordon’s voice broke into his thoughts. The man was wiping the mud off his sword, and Ciaran waited for him to finish so he could do the same. “I mean it.”

“Ye too,” Ciaran offered, his voice clear. “Ye ken how to hold yer own against anyone.”

Gordon gently placed his sword back on a rock in the yard and handed Ciaran the rag.

Ciaran felt the man’s gaze on him as he wiped his blade clean. It bored into the back of his neck like a hole from a nail. Meanwhile, the muted morning light had begun to brighten into the golden hue of sunrise.

In just a few more minutes—half an hour, at most—the courtyard and the castle would be thrown into a bright morning. The dew on the grass had evaporated, and the mud beneath their shoes had disappeared from stepping on the grass repeatedly.

Ciaran lifted his gaze as he wiped the last spot of mud from his blade.

Anna was still waiting by the doors, her hands folded against her chest and somehow resting on her growing belly. Her hair shone bright red, contrasting with the dull grey of the doors behind her.

Ciaran could see the expression on her face as she watched both of them. She did not bother to hide her amusement.

“Well?” she prompted. “Have ye two knocked the worst of it out of yer systems? Has the fight calmed yer nerves?”

Ciaran snickered, and Gordon glanced at him, then let out a long breath. “Aye. For now.”

Ciaran did not argue. The fight had cleared some of the fog from his mind and left him feeling reinvigorated. As he grabbed his sword by the hilt, he considered the decision he had to make.

Anna gestured with her hand, then jerked her head towards the castle. “Well, come along, then. I daenae want the paint to dry wrong just because I stood here, watching ye both hug it out.”

Before Ciaran could react to her order, she had turned around, pulled the door open again, and stepped back in. Gordon followed next, and then Ciaran trailed right behind. When they rounded a corner, he managed to catch up, falling into step beside Anna.

The deafening silence in the corridor pressed close after all he’d heard in the past ten minutes was the clash of swords in the courtyard. For a while, the only sound he could hear was the echo of their footsteps on the floor.

As they turned into another corridor—the one that led straight to the gallery—Anna slowed down. He could feel her staring at him before she even spoke.

“I tried to find Elinor this morning,” she said, her voice so low that it almost felt like she was speaking to the shadows instead of him. “I heard she left the castle. Went somewhere to clear her head and think about the next steps.”

Ciaran’s shoulders tensed.

“She doesnae want company,” Anna continued, her tone gentler. “Katherine—ye ken, the healer—said that Elinor needed some time. To herself.”

Ciaran did not answer. Not at first.

The guilt struck him right in the heart, sharper than any blade ever could. Then, he spoke, the guilt just as thick in his voice.

“Aye, ‘tis me fault,” he said, just as they stopped before the door to the gallery.

Anna gave him a look that he could not decipher. Then, she pushed open the door and stepped aside to let them in.

The gallery smelled of old varnish and the faint sweetness of linseed oil. The tall windows let in bolts of light that struck the far wall, where a blank canvas rested on the easel.

Memories of the last time he had been here flashed through his mind. He could still feel the heat between Elinor’s legs on his fingers. How he had kissed her so passionately that his lips swelled. How hard she made him feel that afternoon, and the look on her face when he made her?—

He halted the thought. The look on her face… it had been utterly vulnerable. Trusting, especially after she told a little about what her former husband had put her through.

Ciaran almost slapped himself. He couldn’t believe he was doing it again. His eyes rose to take in the familiar view.

“Here ye go,” Anna said, showing him the canvas on the easel. His new portrait.

Ciaran stood before it and studied it.

He recognized the chair in the painting before he did the rest. It was the same one he had sat in on the morning Anna had called him here and asked him question after question while the painter’s brush moved in steady strokes across the canvas. She must have finished it herself today.

But he was not alone in the portrait.

Elinor stood beside him, one hand resting on the carved back of the chair.

Her shiny auburn hair fell over her shoulder, adding more color to the smile on her face.

She was in the same blue dress she had worn at the auction.

The same dress he had seen on her the first time he had walked through the castle doors.

The sight of it broke something in his chest. Something heavy that he couldn’t name. He could still remember how she spoke to him the first day, challenging and unbridled.

Anna shifted her weight, one hand gently cradling her belly. “I daenae want to presume,” she started, her voice soft. “But it felt right. To paint ye as I saw ye.”

Gordon said nothing; he only watched Ciaran with that same calm that made him feel he could not hide even if he tried. He could hear Gordon’s words even in his stance.

He could not let Elinor go. Not now. Not ever.

He swallowed, the realization sinking into him. “I have to go to her.”

He could not believe he had let his pride and past get in the way of his future. He saw it clearly now, especially in the portrait. He always belonged with Elinor and would do everything he could to ensure it remained that way. Even if she wanted children, he would want them with her.

Anna blinked. “Ye daenae ken where she is.”

He turned away from the painting and faced her squarely. “I will find her.” The determination in his voice was palpable. “I always find her.”

Anna’s lips curled into a gentle smile, and she folded her arms over her chest. “Because ye’re her Hound.”

He went still for a moment. The word did not land as it used to. Then, he nodded slowly and gave them both a grateful look.

They moved out of the way, and he made for the door. His path had never been clearer than it was at that moment.

When he reached the door, he heard Gordon’s voice. It was almost a whisper. One he was certain the man did not think he would be able to hear.

“Why in God’s name would ye call him that?” Gordon muttered fiercely. “Calling a grown man—a laird, nonetheless—her Hound?”

Anna sounded unconcerned. “I daenae ken. It only felt right at the moment.”

Gordon let out a long sigh. “Good Lord, Anna.”

Ciaran stepped into the hall, meaning to close the door behind him, but then he heard Anna’s voice once more.

“‘Tis just like how ye’re me Devil.”

Gordon exhaled sharply. “God help me. Ye’re lucky ye’re so adorable.”

“I ken,” Anna said, a hint of a smile lacing her voice. “‘Tis why ye love me.”

Then, Ciaran heard the soft press of lips and shut the door behind him, leaving them to it. He had to find his wife, after all.