Page 107 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
He tried to smile, but it quickly faded. His lips pressed together in a thin line instead.
Her heart gave a sharp thud against her ribs. “What is it?”
Thomas looked down at the floor, then back up. “‘Tis the Laird.”
Another sharp thud.
“He’s gone to the woods. There was movement near the western border. He rode out at first light.”
The air grew thick around her. She turned back to the table where she had set her comb and picked it up with a steady hand.
“All the same,” she said, her voice even. “He will return.”
“M’Lady…”
She lifted her chin. “‘Tis me wedding day. I cannae start it by stressing over every inconvenience. He will come back.”
Thomas watched her for a long moment, as if debating whether to say more or not. Then, he dipped his head in a slight bow.
“Aye, M’Lady. He will.”
She did not look up as he stepped out, but she heard the door close and the latch click in place.
Her hand rested on her stomach, the heat from the bath fading with each passing second. She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding and set down the comb.
Her eyes searched the room again. Whatever had made it more appealing when she woke up was now dimming. She shook her head, refusing to let her thoughts linger.
He will return.
Ciaran moved through the trees as deliberately as he could. His eyes searched every corner, behind every hedge, and beneath every tiny cave.
The terrain ahead of him cut between the trunks and packed earth, showing signs of horses that had passed through here in the dark. He spotted a small plant that had been shoved aside and moved closer to examine it. The prints of a horse’s hooves glared back at him from all sides. He did not need any more signs. He knew his brother was somewhere around.
And he knew there was truly only one way this would end.
The clearing ahead of him opened suddenly at the foot of a ridge. The grass grew thin there, trampled by some feet. A ring of stones lay black with old ash.
He remembered being on the lookout in this part of the woods when he returned with Elinor from the Coral Plains. He remembered thinking how easy it would be to set an ambush here. Clearly, Logan had thought the same. He wouldn’t have picked a place like this otherwise.
Ciaran looked around, his eyes peeled for the slightest movement. A rustle in the wind, a thud into the soft soil—anything.
“Logan.” His voice was clear, devoid of any emotion or respect. Those were long gone.
At that moment, Logan was not even his brother. He was just an inconvenience he had to eliminate on the very morning of his wedding day.
He stopped near a flat rock at the center of the woods. The trees were yards away from him now. The morning cold sank into his chest, but he did not mind it.
“Logan,” he called again, taking extra care to study his surroundings further.
Logan could emerge from behind any of the trees surrounding him.
Ciaran leaned back against the rock and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Again, nothing moved. The thick silence hung heavy between the trees.
He turned his head, letting his eyes sweep over each shadow. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “Come out. I willnae call ye a fourth time.”
A shape emerged from behind the trunks to his left, and Logan stepped into the light. His hair was longer than Ciaran remembered, pulled back at the nape of his neck. The same sharp lines cut across his face, though the skin of his neck had shrunk closer to the bone. His eyes were darker than he remembered, perhaps poetically so. His beard had grown more; the last time Ciaran saw it, it had been well trimmed.
But one thing did not change—the devilish look Logan always had on his face. The smirk that seemed to make everyone think that he knew better and would not hesitate to put anyone in their place.
