Page 10 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“I daenae need Logan’s permission for anything.”
Anymore.That was the word he refused to add.
A few months ago, he had been stuck under his brother’s thumb. Everyone knew that while Ciaran was a dangerous warrior, Logan held the reins. That had only changed recently, and it was, in fact, part of the reason why he had shown his face here today.
“I just daenae think– ”
“I would strongly advise ye,” Ciaran bit out, cutting the man off, “to choose yer next words very carefully.”
The man swallowed as Ciaran turned to him and fixed him with a steely look.
The man gave him a curt nod, and just as soon as he had come, he rose from his chair and scurried out of view.
Ciaran threw his head back, waves of relief crashing over him. Perhaps he should grab another tankard of ale. This would go a lot better with a drink. And faster, too, if he was drunk for most of it.
He rose from his chair and crossed the hall, ignoring the curious eyes that seemed to follow him. He was used to the looks. Once upon a time, he used to thrive on them. A time when he made an act out of most people he killed. A time he didn’t have to go extra lengths to kill, but did anyway.
Just for the looks.
But now, they made him uncomfortable. While most people sensibly kept their distance because of fear, he could tell others wanted nothing more than to get him out. To remove his hat from the ring .
Too bad. I am here already.
He grabbed another tankard of ale and downed it.
“I am afraid we daenae have enough ale to quench yer thirst, Laird MacTraigh,” a voice—hervoice—called out behind him.
He dropped the empty tankard and turned around. “I see ye have gotten over yer initial shock.”
“Whoever said I was shocked?”
Ciaran cocked an eyebrow. “I saw it in yer eyes. Ye were terrified.”
She gave a brisk nod. “Ye’ll have to pardon me, I suppose. ‘Tis nae everyday that a man who kills for sport shows up at yer party.”
Ciaran looked down, a grin spreading across his lips, then back up, his eyes meeting hers. They seemed a vivid blue in the candlelight and accentuated her auburn hair.
“I have never killed for sport,” he proclaimed.
There was almost a note of pride in that statement. One he was certain she had noticed.
“I suppose congratulations are in order, then. Ye deserve recognition for that.”
“Ye’re quick.”
“I’m bored. If this is all ye have to interest me, I am afraid it isnae enough.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And how do ye reckon?”
“’Tis still me auction, is it nae? Ye’re here for me hand.”
He pressed his lips together, the amusement in his voice clear. “True.”
Silence fell between them, and Ciaran could tell that the number of eyes that were initially on him had tripled, now that he was talking to her. But for once that afternoon, he didn’t mind it.
He was strangely amused by the fact that she could talk to him without lowering her gaze. She was incredibly confident as well, and her stance clearly conveyed that she knew what she wanted.
“I asked one of me councilmen about Clan MacTraigh. He couldnae find anything solid,” she continued, breaking the silence.
