Page 10 of The Highlander’s Virgin Nun (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #2)

CHAPTER TEN

H e turned map after map over, unfolding, shifting perspective, and searching his memory for any semblance of a clue. He had visited so many clans that he surely could remember a fair few faces of the strongest men from each.

It had been a total mystery to him that all of the men who had crawled out of the forest, over a mound, or even out of the water to battle him, he had never seen before.

Caelan had been at it for days and had gotten no further, so he found himself quite grateful for the interruption. A knock on the door allowed him to finally lift his eyes from the papers and speak for the first time in a few hours.

“Come in.”

His sister poked her head around the door, her long red curls swinging in before her body. Their difference in coloring had always made people question how related they truly were—playfully, of course, as his parents were deeply devoted to one another.

“Alexandra.” He beckoned her over.

“Ye’ve been at it for hours, Caelan. Ye’ll drive yerself mad.”

“Being attacked at every corner is drivin’ me mad, nae tryin’ to stop it.”

She breathed a sigh of understanding and came to sit on the chair opposite his desk.

“Everythin’ all right?”

While he and Alexandra were close, she tended to get more chatty at dinners, rather than in his study in the middle of the day.

“It’s Rosaline.”

His head snapped up. He had not seen much of her for the past couple of days. Had she gotten ill, run away, gone mad?

Alexandra saw his mind start to fill in the gaps and jumped in to stop him from coming to incorrect conclusions.

“Nothin’ too serious. She’s fine.”

“Then what is it?”

“Dinnae ye think we should get the girl some dresses?”

“What do ye mean? She has dresses.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Ye brought her here, Caelan. Did she have any bags when she emerged from the forest? Did she lug any belongings onto yer horse?”

That had not crossed his mind. He furrowed his brow.

“She came here with nothin’ but the clothes on her back, Braither.”

“But she has other dresses—I’ve seen them.”

“Ye are so unobservant, some may think ye never have grown eyes. Nay wonder ye cannae find the assassins.”

He didn’t appreciate her words, but he couldn’t argue. He had often glazed over ideas that others found obvious, focusing on more obscure details. While it tripped him up in conversations about clothing and visuals, it had served him well in complex warfare.

“Those are me dresses, Caelan. The lass has nothin’ of her own. Mine suffice for now, but she is very slim—they are too big for her. Plus, if she is to be yer bride and stay here forever, I think ye ought to get started on her wardrobe. Ye’ve nay excuse nae to.”

Caelan glanced once more at his maps. He had trawled every corner of Scotland, marked in there, waiting for something to click. Maybe he needed a break so he could come back with fresh eyes. After all, if he was going to have a wife, it was his duty to keep her.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

He had first checked the courtyard and then her rooms, but he could not find her. He had overheard her discussing some old books with Michaela, so he checked the library in case she had gone to seek them out. When he had no luck there, he revisited anything else she had shown interest in—the village. He had recommended that she get to know his people; perhaps she had gone for a wander through the cottages.

Caelan stepped out of the castle and headed towards the gates, when at last he spotted her long, dark curls out of the corner of his eye.

Rosaline was just visible through the doorway to the stables. She was wearing a red frock. Now armed with the knowledge, he remembered seeing his sister wearing it before. He saw how the sleeves gaped at her wrists, and how the fabric hung around the waist he could feel in his hands if he thought back to their moment by the outpost.

Still, she looked immaculate in the unfitting dress, the red hue bringing out the warmth in her dark brown hair and her soft skin.

She stood on her tiptoes, leaning over the pen door towards his stallion, Miller. The horse, whom he relied on due to his mistrust of others and loyalty only to him, came slowly towards her and pressed his head into her palm. She stroked his nose, and he nuzzled her, immediately trusting her.

“He doesnae let many touch him, ye ken.”

Rosaline jumped at Caelan’s voice as he leaned against the doorjamb. She turned her head and only let out a breath when he remained in the doorway, keeping his distance.

“He’s yers?” she finally asked.

“Aye. This is Miller, me stallion. He’s a good lad, but nae the most trustin’.”

Rosaline continued to stroke the horse, paying Caelan no more attention for now.

“It will do ye well that he is happy to let ye touch him, as ye are about to ride him.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re headin’ to town.”

Caelan opened the pen gate and moved inside, greeting Miller with a pat on the head and retrieving his saddle and reins. As he worked, Rosaline remained outside the pen, a look of concentration on her face as she tried to decipher the situation—as usual. She was a detective.

“What for?”

“I’m takin’ ye to get some clothes. Ye should have told me that ye didnae have any of yer own. I didnae realize ye were wearin’ Alexandra’s dresses.”

She shuffled out of his way as he marched Miller out of the pen, and then quickly followed as he led him to the castle gates.

“There’s nay need, really,” she protested as they walked. Her words did not stop him. “I am eatin’ well, and I will fill out these frocks in nay time, I’m sure. Unless Alexandra wants them back.”

Caelan stopped to tighten his belt and threw the saddle on Miller’s back, attaching the reins to the harness.

“Ye will have yer own things. Ye are goin’ to be a laird’s wife.”

Rosaline tried to protest further, but he did not intend to smother her with compliments to silence her. He had to keep her at a distance while appropriately caring for her.

He placed his hands on her waist once more and lifted her onto Miller’s back.

“Caelan, I?—”

“Enough.”

“Sorry,” she stuttered.

He put his foot into the left stirrup and swung his leg over, mounting the horse behind her once more. His body settled back into the space it had occupied on their journey to the castle as he quickly took hold of the reins and nudged Miller forward.

* * *

The pair rode mostly in silence. Caelan had many questions he would have liked to ask her, and tales of the village he would have liked to recount as they rode through it, but the trip itself was already too much of a risk. He had picked her because she didn’t know him, and it was best that she didn’t get to. There was no point in a real relationship between the two of them when it would never truly last.

Still, he enjoyed the peace and her proximity. His body was undeniably drawn to hers and found great delight in spending so much time near it. He would certainly have no trouble siring an heir with Rosaline, that was for sure.

On the road between the village and the nearby town, an older man on horseback came from the opposite direction. Caelan recognized the tartan as his clan’s at first, so he did not worry. Gradually, the glint of the bald head in the sun and the round belly on the saddle became clear, and he realized who it was.

“Uncle Harrison,” he greeted. “Just returnin’ from town?”

“Boy,” Harrison returned.

He was the former Laird’s younger brother. He had been a part of Caelan’s life as long as he could remember, although not in a positive way. Caelan recalled his father and him arguing a lot when he was a child, but he had never been privy to why they feuded.

Since his father’s death, Harrison’s mood seemed to have improved—oddly. He spent a lot of time at the castle and invested time in the elder meetings. Caelan found him perfectly agreeable at this point in his life, albeit a bit strange.

“Who might this be?” Harrison asked, ignoring his question.

“This is Rosaline. She arrived at Castle Sinclair with me only a few days ago.”

“Ah.” Harrison nudged his horse closer as if to get a better look at her. “We rarely see me nephew with a woman, Rosaline, so ye’ll have to forgive me surprise.”

Rosaline smiled politely, but Caelan could feel the awkwardness in her body. Her shoulders were curled inward and tight, and he could swear she was leaning back into him a little.

“Might ye be the future Lady Sinclair?” Harrison grimaced.

Again, Caelan felt Rosaline push back into him a little more.

“Aye, we are engaged to be married within the week, as I’m sure ye’ll be glad to ken, Uncle Harrison.”

“Aah, how… wonderful,” Harrison drawled. “Arenae ye a lucky woman.”

“Thought it was about time,” Caelan spoke, trying to fill the gaps to quell Rosaline’s discomfort.

“Well, I hope ye settle in nicely, Rosaline. Me nephew will take good care of ye, I’m sure, and hopefully, ye willnae have to see too much of him.”

Caelan cracked a smile at his uncle’s words. He had always been unsure how to deal with him and found that agreeableness and distance were the best methods so far.

“We must get on,” he declared, not wishing for the exchange to go on any longer than it needed to. “But I shall see ye at the castle for our weekly meetin’ tomorrow, aye?”

“As always, son.”

With a nod, Caelan gave Miller a pat on the rump to proceed forward.

“Lovely to meet ye, Rosaline!” Harrison called from behind, and Caelan swore he could hear laughter follow.

Whatever was funny about the situation escaped him, but he tried to not let it bother him too much. Everyone found Harrison to be a strange fellow, and as long as he did not hate him as much as he had hated his father, Caelan deemed it an improvement in their relationship.

He carried on towards the town and was thankful that Rosaline did not ask any more questions.

As they reached the town, and shops and people began to come into view and pass by them, he felt her body relax again. The tension left her shoulders and neck, allowing her to turn and look at whatever piqued her interest.

Caelan pulled Miller’s reins sneakily, instructing him to walk a little slower. He wanted her to have the chance to take it all in, to focus on whatever caught her eye.

He had no objection to prolonging his time with her if he could do so without her realizing it.