Page 21 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“Do ye ken why I called ye here? Nay matter what ye may think, I asked ye to visit me because I have a proposal for ye.”
Elinor swallowed.
“And I can see ye arenae ready to listen to me proposal. At least nae if ye keep letting yerself be blinded by me reputation.”
Silence descended on the room, thick and incredibly uncomfortable.
Elinor tried to look anywhere but his face or his glistening skin. Yet there wasn’t much to look at. Ciaran’s quarters only boasted a chair and table, a bed, and a few candles. Hence, she stared out the window for a while.
Then, like a witch recovering from a spell, she decided to break the silence.
“Well, I suppose I will see ye at the trials, then.”
“Very well,” he responded. “May the best man win.”
Elinor nodded.
She walked out of the room almost immediately, her heart fluttering in her chest, her feet pounding hard on the floor as she headed back to her quarters.
What is happening to me? Why in God’s name am I letting a man like Ciaran get to me?
Ciaran paced his room for hours after Elinor had left. He had tried his best to relax—lying on the bed, looking out at the night sky, even taking another bath—but none of it had worked. She was intriguing. Far more intriguing than he had expected.
He didn’t like this.
This was supposed to be a way to form alliances. He had come to this event, considering it as nothing but a business transaction. But now that he was here… Now that he had mether, his thoughts were all over the place.
He had not expected the lady of the castle to be so fearless. She was the only one so far who had managed to look at him without lowering her gaze. She never hesitated to bring up his history and couldn’t care less about the consequences.
He hated the effect she had on him and how intrigued he was. He hated that he wanted to get to know her better and feared that this would no longer be as seamless as he had thought it would. The last thing Elinor wanted was a business transaction; that much was obvious now.
He lay down in his bed anyway and stared up at his ceiling, his hands clasped beneath his head. He would just keep thinking about Elinor and how fearless she had been, and hopefully, sleep would claim him.
Just as his eyes fluttered shut, a knock sounded at the door.
His eyes snapped open. Was she back to confront him again? Did she ever get tired of this?
But then Elinor would not knock. It had to be someone else.
A knock came again, and he swung his legs off the bed and headed to the door.
He pulled it open and found himself staring at a maid who had the most nervous look on her face as she gripped a bowl tightly.
“Is it nae a little too late for food?” he asked, his eyes darting between her worried face and the bowl in her hands.
“I-I am supposed to give this to ye, M’Laird,” she stammered.
Before Ciaran could ask anything else, like where the bowl had come from and who would ask that it be delivered to him, the maid held it out, almost shoving it into his chest.
Slowly, he took the bowl and gave her a reassuring nod. “Is there anything ye can tell me about the bowl?”
“I am afraid nae, M’Laird,” she responded, before scurrying down the corridor.
Ciaran walked back into his room with the bowl in hand, his eyebrows knitting together in curiosity. If it wasn’t food, then what in God’s name could it be?
He placed it on the table by the wall and stared at it, letting a thousand thoughts race through his mind.
“Ach, to hell with it,” he groaned and lifted the lid off the bowl.
