Page 12 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“I must say, this tour has been quite entertaining, M’Lady,” Laird MacTraigh said, his voice calm and steady, like he was confident about the entire thing.
Something about it unsettled Elinor. This event was supposed to put people on the edge of their seats. He was way too calm for her liking.
“I didnae ask ye to come here for entertainment. I asked ye to come here so the best of the best secures the lairdship of Clan MacAdair. That shouldnae be hard now, should it?”
“Nay,” he responded.
“Good. The floor is open to ye, and of course, ye are welcome to play,” she stated. “Just make sure ye daenae kill anyone. I daenae want to have to clean up bodies after the event. Am I understood?”
A smirk spread across his face. “Very much, M’Lady.”
“Thank ye.”
“And ‘tis Ciaran,” he added as she made to turn around and walk away.
She turned back to him. “What?”
“Me name. ‘Tis Ciaran. I am telling ye, so ye daenae have to go around calling me the Hound.”
Elinor let out a laugh. His insufferable cockiness was beginning to grate on her nerves. “Ye are quite certain of yerself, are ye nae? Thinking I’m going to think of ye after this conversation.”
“I believe I have made a lasting impression.”
“Ye arenae the only man in this event.”
“Yet I daenae see ye talking to anyone else.”
Her anger bubbled up in her chest at the insinuation he had made earlier. How dare he tell her that she was only talking to him alone? She would find someone else to talk to.
Elinor pursed her lips in mild frustration. As she opened her mouth to speak, Jack, one of her councilmen, approached them both, a smile plastered on his face.
“Laird MacTraigh!” he greeted, extending his hand. “I couldnae believe it when they told me ye were here.”
“Aye,” Laird MacTraigh responded, taking his hand in a firm handshake.
“Ye’re welcome. And I suppose condolences are in order as well. It was quite a sad thing to hear about yer braither’s death.”
Elinor’s face softened. Laird MacTraigh had lost a brother? Now, she had to be sympathetic.
“Me braither isnae dead,” she heard him say. “Let us nae bore the lady with tiresome conversations now.”
Of course. Why was she even surprised?
She spotted a man walking past, and almost immediately, she reached for him.
“Laird McAllister,” she said, her grip tight on his arm. “I have been meaning to talk to ye.”
The man turned to her, a confused expression on his face. “I am Laird MacAulay.”
Elinor swallowed. “I ken that. I apologize,” she whispered.
She turned back to Laird MacTraigh—no, he told her to call him Ciaran—who seemed to be deep in conversation with Jack. His eyes drifted towards her almost immediately. Something unreadable flashed across his face, but she didn’t give herself time to decode it. Instead, she turned to the man she was walking with.
“So tell me about MacAllister Castle.”
“’Tis MacAulay, again. M’Lady.”
“I truly apologize. Ye must forgive me forgetfulness.”
As Laird MacAuley started to speak, snippets of her conversation with Ciaran echoed in her mind.
No,she would not do that. She was in control now. And she held the key to her heart and life.
She already let a man dictate her life once, and she’d be damned to hell if she let it happen again.
