Page 66 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
CHAPTER 18
Say something.
For the love of God, Elinor, say something.
But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried. She tried to force out the words, but for some reason, they remained stuck in her throat.
Ciaran’s vivid green eyes pierced through her like there was no tomorrow. As if she were the first thing he had seen after decades of darkness and solitude.
“Have ye seen the other portraits?” The words left her mouth in a faint whisper. Like a fruit being strained into a pot.
They caught him off guard.
“Come, let me show ye some of those,” she added, finally having the gall to take a step away from him. Then another. Then another.
Ciaran followed anyway to the other side of the gallery, where several paintings and portraits hung. One was of an orange cat, and before Ciaran could say something, Elinor answered the question.
“It was his faither’s,” she explained, her voice sharp. “It died only a year after Murdock was born.”
Ciaran nodded. “Ye seem to ken a lot about these paintings.”
Elinor’s eyes returned to the painting of the orange cat, its eyes almost as green as Ciaran’s. “One of the first things I did after Murdock died was take a walk around the gallery. I did so with the healer, Katherine. She told me everything I needed to ken.”
Ciaran nodded again, and they slowly proceeded into a quieter and more hidden part of the gallery. The first painting they saw when they crossed the threshold was of a man who looked like he had never smiled in his entire life.
Sideburns framed his wide face, his deep brown eyes were narrowed, and his long dark curls covered most of his forehead. The crease on his brow looked like something anyone would want to erase with a piece of cloth, but wouldn’t be able to. Staring at it alone made her stomach rumble. All she could see were the days of pain, of utter torture. The days he would lock her in her room because she had refused to let him sleep withher. She tensed her jaw at the sight, feeling a mild shudder run down her spine.
“I suppose that is– ”
“Me former husband, aye,” Elinor confirmed, almost looking at the painting.
She had known Murdock to look this angry, but never this young. This portrait must have been done a long time ago, or he had forced the painter to omit his wrinkles. She leaned towards the latter because Murdock used to have his portrait done every year.
Ciaran suddenly retreated from her side, and she furrowed her brow in confusion. She watched him go back the way they had come from, his steps quickening. Her face contorted in a perplexed frown as she waited for him, wondering if there was something he had missed.
He returned only a few seconds later with a paintbrush in one hand and the palette the painter had been using in the other. Elinor eyed the palette as he drew closer. The holes were filled to the brim with different colors.
Did he refill them?
She swallowed thickly as he stopped right by her side.
“I thought since yer husband was dead, we could do whatever we wanted to this…” he trailed off.
Elinor watched him dip the brush into red paint, then move closer to the portrait and lift the brush.
Her heart skipped a beat. “Ciaran, what are ye– ”
Ciaran turned to her, the assurance in his voice a stark contrast to the despair in hers. “He is gone, Elinor. Ye have to remember that. He is never coming back.”
It struck her then, and her heart lurched.
Murdock was dead. She had no reason to be afraid anymore, especially now that she was the lady of the castle. She had nothing to fear if anything happened to his smug, harrowing face on the canvas.
Ciaran lifted the brush again and painted on his forehead. Elinor watched his hand move, a sharp contrast to the pale white face in the painting.
The brush moved steadily across the canvas, and before he could finish, Elinor realized what he was painting. A rose.
Anna.
