Page 8 of The Highlander’s Auctioned Virgin (Auctioned Highland Brides #3)

“Take off yer dress. Ye’re shivering,” Ciaran urged suddenly, his voice jolting her out of her reverie.

She shook her head. “Nay, I’m fine.”

“I cannae let ye die from the cold before ye become me bride now, can I?”

Elinor laughed. “God, ye are just so full of yerself, are ye nae?”

“Only when I’m sure I’m right.”

“Well, in this case, ye arenae right. I am nae cold in any way whatsoever.”

“Ye look like an eel,” Ciaran muttered.

“Well, ye look like…” Elinor trailed off, trying to find something about him she could exploit—something he wouldn’t like—but nothing came forth.

His shirt clung to his torso and outlined the ridges of his abdomen. He stood like a warrior, not fazed by the cold, as if he had experienced worse. It made her so angry.

“Whatever,” she muttered.

“Dinnae be a child. I willnae look.” He turned away slowly.

Elinor took off her dress, and the warming air kissed her skin. She hurried towards the bed and grabbed the towel.

“’Tis fine, ye can look now,” she called, once she wrapped the towel around her body.

Ciaran turned back around and merely gave her a nod.

Then, he walked towards the only window in the cabin and peered through the glass.

Elinor walked to the other side of the room and gently hung her dress.

It looked damp and somewhat heavy against the wooden hanger.

Then she returned to the bed, where the fire seemed to be more effective.

“The storm is growing stronger. I daenae think we’ll be able to make it back to the castle today.”

Elinor threw her head back. Of course, this was happening, and of course, it was happening to her of all people.

“So what do ye suggest?”

“There’s nay suggestion,” he replied. “Only the obvious solution. We have to spend the night here.”

Elinor raised her hand, utter despair written all over her face. “’Tis just me luck, is it nae?”

They both walked to the bed and sat on the edge, their eyes fixed on the wall as if waiting for the rain to stop so they could go back to the castle. But waiting meant they had to keep staring at the wall across from them, half-naked, until it was dry enough to return to the castle.

“Shall we play a game?” Ciaran suggested, breaking the silence almost immediately.

“A game?”

“Aye. Nine Men’s Morris. Are ye familiar with it?”

“Am I familiar with Nine Men’s Morris?”

Before she could respond, he had risen to his feet and walked to the entrance of the cabin. He pulled the door open and stepped out before she could do anything to stop him.

A few minutes later, he walked back in, even more drenched than before.

“What in God’s name do ye think ye’re doing?”

Before she could continue, he lifted the stones and the tree branch he had just collected outside. “Since we daenae have the board, we have to make do with what we have.”

Elinor nodded and watched him lower himself to the floor. He started to draw lines, his hand firm and steady on the branch.

“How about we make things more interesting?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

Ciaran laughed. “Me clan may nae be rich enough, but I daenae need yer money, M’Lady.”

“Then we daenae play for money,” Elinor conceded. “We play for questions.”

Ciaran looked up at her, his eyes narrowed. “Questions?”

“Aye.” Elinor nodded. “For every round ye win, ye can ask me a question, and for every round I win, I can ask ye a question.”

Ciaran stroked his chin. “I suppose it isnae too bad if we get to ken each other better. Cannae have a husband and wife nae kenning anything about each other.”

Elinor groaned. “Nae this again.”

“Why daenae ye start?” Ciaran suggested.

She nodded and sank to the floor opposite him before grabbing one of the stones. After a few back-and-forths, she won the first round.

“I bet ye let me win,” she said, her eyebrows arched in mild jubilation.

Ciaran rolled his eyes. “Just ask yer question before I change me mind.”

Elinor lowered her hands to her lap and looked him in the eyes. “Yer nickname. Why the Hound?”

“That is the question ye want to waste yer win on?”

“I am certain ye considered a lot of nicknames. Names even deadlier than that. So, why the Hound?” Elinor pressed, ignoring his comment.

Ciaran sighed. “Ye daenae want to ken.”

“This game isnae going to work if ye daenae tell the truth.”

“This is me telling ye the truth, M’Lady. Trust me. Ye daenae want to ken where the name came from. Ye can ask another question.”

Elinor narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine. Were ye joking when ye told Jack the other day that yer braither isnae dead?”

Ciaran looked straight at her. “Nay.”

“Why did me man-at-arms think he was dead, then?”

A hint of amusement crossed his face. “Ye’re only allowed to ask one question, remember?”

Elinor shrugged, and they continued to play.

A while later, Ciaran landed his first win.

“Be careful with the question ye plan to ask me,” Elinor warned, giving him a pointed look.

“Why an auction?” His voice came out smooth yet sharp, catching her entirely off guard.

“I am afraid I daenae understand what ye mean,” she said.

He adjusted his position on the floor. “How come ye’re organizing an auction to be married again?

Every man, woman, and child in the Highlands kens what happened to ye.

They ken that he had kidnapped ye from yer home.

I would think that a woman like ye, who has been through so much, wouldnae be this eager to get married again. So, why an auction?”

Elinor heaved a sigh. “I suppose I just wanted to make sure that the same thing doesnae happen again.”

“What do ye mean?”

“I thought if I organized an auction, I would have at least some semblance of control over the next man I choose to marry. ‘Tis why I organized the games.”

Ciaran nodded. “I see.”

“Why daenae we continue playing?” she prompted, breaking the silence that had lingered for too long.

They played again and finished in a tie.

“So I was right—ye let me win the first round.”

“I suppose I am all out of favors to give,” Ciaran drawled.

At the end, he won. Again.

“Perfect ,” Elinor breathed.

“Would ye pick me?” he asked.

She looked at him. “What?”

He dropped the stone in his hand onto the floor. A resounding thud echoed in the air, and he inched closer to her.

“Let us say the auction has ended,” he started slowly, stopping a mere inch before her.

The scent of her bathing oils filled his nostrils.

He could well detect the lavender in it now, unlike earlier in the rain when she was in his arms and he was too distracted getting them to safety.

“And it was time for ye to pick a winner. Would ye pick me?”

Elinor’s eyes flicked to his lips. Then, she looked back into his eyes, which seemed to darken in the firelight. “I daenae ken. Do I have a reason?”

“I rescued ye from the rain,” he pointed out, his voice dropping. “That should be enough reason, should it nae?”

Elinor swallowed, and a part of him wondered if she could feel just how flushed her face was at that moment.

“I suppose that is enough reason.”

“So would ye pick me?” he pressed.

Elinor swallowed again. “As long as ye promise nae to touch me.”

Ciaran smiled, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “If that is what ye want.”

Elinor took a deep breath. He was close. Way too close. Close enough to kiss her that a part of her wondered if that was what he was going to do.

All he had to do was lean forward a little more, and their lips would meet. She wondered what the kiss would be like. Tender? Raw and hungry?

The intensity of his gaze sent shivers through her. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire for some reason, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore the feeling.

Because he was still staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face.