Page 6 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
Good to see ye behavin’with more decorum.
Murdoch straightened up and walked closer to the unlikely pair. The lass avoided his eyes, her head bowed and solemn-faced. If he had not had such a sharp memory, he might have thought he was looking at someone else entirely.
“Are ye Laird Moore?” the older nun asked curtly. Her glower alone could compete with one of hisfinest glares for being the iciest.
But Murdoch did not appreciate being spoken to so sharply in his own residence.
“That depends on why ye’re askin’ with nay attempt at courtesy.”
“Are ye or are ye nae Laird Moore?” the older nun pressed, forcing a thin smile on her face. “The matter at hand is rather pressin’, or I assure ye, I would be more courteous.”
Murdoch observed the pair in stony silence, noticing some similarities between the older nun and the younger one—the bright blue eyes with dark rings around the irises and long lashes. The younger lass’s eyes were a shade lighter, so striking that they dredged up a memory of her staring right at him at the wedding feast—how they had pierced right through him, forcing him to glare back.
Indeed, the lass looked like the younger version of the older nun, with the rosy cheeks of youth and plumper lips with a defined shape that reminded him of a recurve bow. His favorite style of bow, in truth.
“Aye, I’m Laird Moore,” he declared coolly. “And who are ye, since ye havenae deigned to introduce yerselves? What has made ye dare to come to me doors without an invitation?”
The older nun’s eyes hardened, her voice a rasping hiss as she replied, “The question is, M’Laird, what madeyedare to sully the purity of an innocent lass? What right did ye have to take advantage of her?”
“Excuse me?” Murdoch snarled, his gaze shifting to the lass with the bawdy laugh.
Her throat bobbed, the rosy flush fading from her cheeks, her eyes still downcast as if she could not bring herself to look at him. She would not be the first; his mask often had that effect. He preferred it that way, favoring the fear of others over whatever the older nun thought she was doing, speaking to him with such rudeness.
“Dinnae play coy with me, M’Laird,” the older nun gasped, puffing up like a chicken about to sit on an egg. “Yekissedthis innocent lass,and, bein’ the Laird ye are, she didnae feel she could refuse ye!”
Murdoch continued to stare at the younger nun, hoping to glean some manner of explanation from her expression. But the young woman still refused to look up, her hands behind her back, only the rapid rise and fall of her chest giving away any hint of discomfort or stress.
Is this a story ye’ve come up with, eh?
He rolled his tongue across his teeth, struggling to make sense of the unusual situation.
Were ye so jealous of Lady Cairn that ye decided ye’d make a grab for any Laird ye could think of?
He respected Paisley. He looked at her as a force of good—honorable and possessed of a sweet, ladylike nature that befitted a Lady of a clan. He respected her all the more for bringing Camden to heel, making him take his duties more seriously.
Butthislass… she was not worthy of his respect. She laughed too easily, smiled too freely, flirted too casually, and imbibed like a fish. Add to that the fact that she was, apparently, a nun—and a nun who told such extraordinary lies at that—and he was ready to throw her out himself.
“I wouldnae offend a Laird in his own castle if I were ye,” he warned calmly, stepping closer to the younger lass. So close that he could see the moment her breath stopped, a slight tremor running through her.
At least shehad the sense to be afraid.
“Did ye make such a claim, lass?” the Laird asked in a voice so deep that it sounded like thunder. He towered over Cecilia, his shadow swallowing her up.
She had never meant for her “harmless” lie to go so far. If she had known that naming Laird Moore as her mystery kisser would have seen her marched to Castle Moore without delay, she would have insisted that she could not remember the man’s name.
Ye were supposed to be a safe choice.
She had picked him because he lived in a secluded corner of his territory, far from the convent, had no intention of ever marrying, and because he had a fearsome, violent reputation.
The Highlanders did not call him ‘The Beast’ for nothing. Cecilia had assumed her aunt would not dare to mess with such a man… but it appeared that she and her aunt were more alike than they cared to admit.
Cecilia rubbed her throat as if to urge her body to start breathing again. But he was too close, suffocating her with his imposing presence, while her embarrassment finished the job of holding her lungs hostage.
I really shouldnae have given any name at all. What was I thinkin’?
With all the defiance her aunt was always scolding her for, Cecilia lifted her chin. “Nay.”
“Nay?!” Mairie shrieked, her frantic gaze flitting between her niece and Murdoch. “What do ye mean, lass?”
