Page 11 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
Eventually, Murdoch stopped before the arched doorway at the end of a long, narrow corridor, designed to make it impossible for enemy soldiers to approach more than one at a time. Pulling out a key, he turned it in the lock and pushed the door open, standing with his arm across the doorway so that Cecilia would have to duck under it.
Instead, she stood there, waiting.
“Ye enter first,” he said coolly, observing her in the amber torchlight that flickered across her translucent skin.
Shewasa beauty, as his mother had pointed out. Even in her simple attire, with her hair covered, she was striking to behold. Perhaps that was why he had lifted her chin to make her look at him, feeling it was a shame for her to hide such a beautiful face by lowering her gaze to the floor. Or perhaps it was those eyes, impossibly blue, that did not deserve to be hidden.
He doubted he had ever seen a lass more beautiful, in truth. He had thought the same thing at Paisley’s wedding, even by just seeing her from afar. But it made no difference—as soon as the week was over, she would be gone, and he would be glad of the respite.
“I dinnae ken what’s in there,” Cecilia replied. “I thinkyeshould enter first, to reassure me that it’s nae a dungeon.”
He fought to smother the spark of offense that ignited in his belly. “If I wanted to throw ye in the dungeons, I wouldnae be furtive about it.” He waved his hand into the room beyond. “This is me study.”
When she still would not move, he leaned forward, wrapped his arm around her, and whisked her into the room. He felt her attempt to resist, but she could not do anything against his strength.
“Is that how ye usually invite lasses into yer private chambers?” Cecilia muttered, quickly jumping out of his arm and wandering over to the roaring fire.
She crouched down, holding her palms to the flames.
With her back turned, he took a moment to gather himself. Maybe it was a mistake to ask for some time alone with her. She was not at all what he was accustomed to, and he was finding it difficult to adjust. Usually, women cowered at the sight of him—everyonecowered at the sight of him—so her confidence and indifference did not sit well with him.
“Ye werenaeinvited here,” Murdoch reminded her, making for his desk, where he sat down and waited for her to come to him.
She rocked backward, her backside landing on the rug with a thump. Apparently, she intended to sit on the floor.
“But Ihavebeen invited, M’Laird,” she said, a half-smile visible on her lips. “Yer maither has welcomed me and me aunt into the castle.”
“I can undo that if ye dinnae show proper courtesy,” he growled. “Get off the floor.”
She rolled her eyes, making his anger simmer. With a heavy sigh, she rose to her feet and dusted off her skirt, drawing his eyes for a moment to the swell of her buttocks.
Ye’ll nae tempt me. Dinnae try.
He looked away, pretending to search through a stack of blank squares of paper.
She approached with a slow sway of her hips, walking with all the elegance of a dancer. He noticed out of the corner of his eye but refused to give her the attention she clearly wished for, though he could not deny that she was an increasing contradiction of a woman.
What sort of nun, novice or otherwise, possessed such sensuality? What sort of pious lass made up a tawdry tale about him kissing her? Surely, she should not even know of such things if she had been in a convent for most of her life.
To conquer one’s enemy, one must ken one’s enemy.
“Sit,” he barked.
She did, folding her hands in her lap. “Yer maither seems lovely.”
“Me maither is none of yer concern.” He took out a quill and dipped the nib in the inkpot. “Butyeare of grave concern to me.”
“I am?” She smiled, her eyes twinkling with a mischief that he did not trust at all. “I’m honored to be yer concern, M’Laird. Does that mean that ye’ll take responsibility for me temporarily? I promise I’ll be the best fake betrothed ye’ve ever had.”
His lips twitched, her exuberance both fascinating and infuriating. He allowed his mother certain liberties with her way of speaking because she was his mother, but why did this novice nun think she could talk to him as if she knew him? Was she like this with everyone?
She amused Camden. That cannae be a good sign.
Yet, he remembered wanting to know what the joke that had made Paisley and Camden burst into lively laughter was.
“When did ye arrive at the convent?” he asked bluntly, the tip of his quill poised to make notes of her life.
She sank back in the chair, her posture terrible. “I was ten.”
