Page 19 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“I daenae doubt ye will.”
Elinor turned again and reached for the doorknob.
Thomas gave her a brief nod, and soon she was out of the room and navigating the halls, the anger in her building up by the second.
The rooms on the second and third floors of the castle were all occupied by other lairds. She had asked a maid for the directions to Ciaran’s chambers and had gotten them. Now that she was heading there, she was determined to make her voice heard.
This was an auction for her hand, and for the first time in her life, she would get to choose her next husband. Nobody was going to ruin that for her. Not even a killer who was feared across the Highlands.
She stopped before his door and raised her hand to knock.
No. This was her castle. She needed to show authority. And that began with not requesting permission to enter his room.
She lifted her right foot and, with one swift kick, pushed open the wooden door. It swung wide, and she walked in, her hands fisting in the skirt of her dress.
The room was empty.
“Laird MacTraigh?”
“Who’s asking?”
He is in the bathing chamber.
“Get in here,” she commanded, despite every instinct telling her to leave and come back when he was finished with his bath.
But it was too late now. She could hear his footsteps draw closer.
As the door behind her closed with a soft thud, Ciaran came out of the bathing chamber and stepped up to her. His shirt was gone. His long, dark hair clung to his collarbones in thick waves.
The flickering firelight spilled gold across his body, making his shadow dance across the wall just a few feet beside him. He looked like he was carved from the land itself.
Elinor’s eyes dropped from his face.
She shouldn’t stare. She didn’t want to. But she felt like her heart would burst out of her chest if it continued pounding so hard. She watched as droplets of water slid down his throat, over the hard plane of his chest, and down the ridges of his stomach. They stopped right at the edge of his brown belt, which held up a dark green kilt that hung low on his hips.
“M’Lady?” she could hear him call, but his voice sounded distant, almost an echo in her ears.
It was almost indecent how he wore it. Bare-chested, barefoot. Scars lined his chest from the middle to the edges, like the map of a treasure island.
“M’Lady?” his distant voice called again.
But she couldn’t stop staring. Not at the way the fabric hugged his waist, not at the muscles of his arms and abdomen, or the deep grooves that narrowed down to his–
“Elinor!”
She blinked.
Her mouth had gone completely dry, and she felt like her knees would buckle at any moment and she would fall to the floor.
Ciaran took a few steps closer to her, and suddenly, as if she became aware of the situation for the first time, she turned around, her eyes landing on the door to the room.
“’Tis a bit too late for that, would ye nae say?” Ciaran called behind her.
Elinor didn’t respond. Instead, she remained still, balling her hands into fists as heat crawled up her cheeks. Heat thatsheletcrawl up her cheeks.
“Ye can turn around, M’Lady,” Ciaran coaxed. “If ye’re going to confront me, the least ye can do is face me.”
Elinor pressed her lips together and slowly turned back to him. The water droplets were drying up, but his skin had a sheen to it.
