Page 112 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
CHAPTER 30
Ciaran rodethrough the castle gates without a word to the men who stood by and watched him. The blood stains on his shirt had completely dried that they were now stiff along his sleeves and dark in the morning sun. He did not slow down his horse until he got to the stables.
A stable boy approached him, taking in the stains on his shirt and the sword attached to his belt for a brief minute. Ciaran fixed him with a steely look, and the boy almost immediately lowered his head in deference.
“M’Laird,” he greeted, his voice laced with hesitation, fidgeting with his hands. “Ye have returned.”
“Aye,” was all Ciaran said as he dismounted in one swift motion.
He handed his horse’s reins to the stable boy and walked across the courtyard and back into the castle, each step he took staining the grass with blood. A trail of mud followed him to the castledoors, flashes of what he had done swirling over and over in his head.
The ache in his limbs and chest refused to abate. He was walking down the passageway, towards his quarters, and still felt like he was in the woods, straddling his brother, driving his sword into the man’s chest.
He could hear the murmurs from the Great Hall, but he did not stop to listen to them. Unlike out there in the woods, the air in the castle closed in on him. He did not stop to speak to the servants who watched from the hall either, even though he could feel their gazes drilling holes in the back of his neck.
He walked into his room, the noise fading the instant he closed the door behind him. He looked around him, at the clothes he had laid out on the bed before riding out to meet Logan, at the bath that had been drawn for him, and at the way the curtains by the window danced in the gentle breeze.
He unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the table by the wall, feeling its weight leave his palm. He felt lighter than he liked. Much lighter.
More memories flooded through his mind as he pulled his shirt over his head. He sucked in air through his teeth as the fabric grazed the cut along his side.
He did not pause to clean the wound. He stepped into the bath immediately, the heat coaxing out a sharp breath. As he sank to his knees in the water, the ache in his ribs dulled to somethingcold and heavy. Something he could almost ignore if he would just stop thinking about it.
A knock sounded at the door, and his eyes snapped up. He did not say a word, but he could hear the lock turn anyway.
The door eventually creaked open, and Thomas stepped into the room. He stared at the bloody clothes and the dried blood on the edge of the sword. His expression did not change, though the lines around his mouth deepened.
Ciaran did not lift his eyes. “Ye daenae have to worry about me braither again. He will nay longer trouble us.”
Thomas stood there for a long moment, not saying a word. Then, he slowly lowered himself onto a nearby chair, his gaze flitting to Ciaran’s sword again before returning to his face. A hint of understanding flashed in his eyes.
“Ye did what ye had to, M’Laird,” he said, his voice flat.
Ciaran nodded once. The movement pulled at the wound on his side. He ignored it.
“Since I was a boy,” he started, scooping up water and splashing it across his face, “after our parents were buried, he was all I had left. I thought…” he trailed off, letting the rest of the thought die in the warmth of the water.
Thomas nodded, letting the silence settle over the room. It was not until he was certain that Ciaran wouldn’t say anything else that he spoke.
“Blood is a poor measure of worth,” he said quietly. “We spend half our lives believing that kin must be honored. As though the accident of birth is enough to make a man true. ‘Tis a cruel lesson, learning they were only ever men. And sometimes the worst of them.”
Ciaran closed his eyes. The breath he took felt thin.
Thomas nodded slowly. “I’ll leave ye to it.” He rose from his seat and looked at Ciaran one more time. “Ye have to get ready for the wedding, Laird MacAdair.”
He left without waiting for a response.
Ciaran stayed in the water until it grew cold. He washed the blood from his skin, and when he rose, the water clung dark to the edges of the tub.
He dressed his wounds hastily but firmly and then wore his clean linen. The new shirt felt too fine against his shoulders. He tied the cuffs, each knot done twice as if to keep his hands from shaking.
The Great Hall was packed when he walked in. Every conversation faded to a silence that pressed down on his chest.
Elinor stood near the altar in her wedding dress, her arms wrapped around her waist. Her face was pale, but she did not look away when he approached.
He stopped before her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He could see the slight redness in her eyes and hated himself for being the cause.
Her voice was low when she asked, “What happened?”
