Page 96 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
“Ciaran,” Elinor murmured, her voice soft.
Ciaran gave her a brief nod in response.
“Quite an eventful day, will ye nae say?”
He nodded again.
Elinor thought back to what Flora had said to her. If she was being honest with herself, she had seen brief glimpses of his caring nature now and then. In the cabin, in the way he had listened attentively when she had spoken about Murdock, and in the way he refused to touch her unless she expressly agreed.
Deep down, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, she fully trusted this man. She believed whatever he said, and she knew that he was well aware of that.
So why wouldn’t these haunting thoughts let her go? If he had not killed Jamie, a man he used to be friends with, she would probably be injured by now. Or worse.
“Are ye certain ye daenae have any injuries?” Ciaran’s flat voice broke through her thoughts.
Elinor shook her head. “None that I am aware of.”
They remained silent for a long while.
Elinor wrung her fingers while Ciaran stared off into space. She desperately wanted him to say something, anything, but he stayed quiet the entire time.
The silence was growing unbearable, and she didn’t know how long she could take it.
But then the door to the bathing chamber clicked open, and Flora stepped out. “The bath is ready for ye, M’Lady.”
Elinor rose, swallowing down the unsaid words, hard. Now wasn’t the time to broach the subject. They had just survived an attack. Chances were they would survive a lot more. Or die one of these days.
The water was cold against her skin—perhaps exactly what she needed to quell her worries.
Had she lost her mind? How did she let things get this far with him? Of all the people who could have won her heart at the auction, it had to be the one person she had initially thought would not have the qualities she was looking for. The irony was not lost on her. Not even a single bit.
She splashed water across her face and rubbed her closed eyes. Images of Ciaran wielding his sword flashed through her mind. Images of him driving it down, of the look on his face when blood sprayed across his cheek.
She needed to do something. What that thing would result in was still up in the air, but she knew she could not keep this going.
Not for much longer.
Ciaran entered the room first, his eyes darting around.
The walls were dull grey, as if they had not been painted in years. Someone had indeed made an effort to clean the room; he could see it. The silvery moonlight illuminated a speck of dust on the windowsill. The floor smelled a bit damp, like it had been washed a few hours ago. The bed was well-made.
At least Elinor would appreciate that, if nothing else.
A rocking chair sat by the window, but there was no table. There was also no bathtub in the room. It made sense; this house was not built for a noble.
Elinor stepped in behind him, still squeezing water from her hair. Her eyes swept over the room, and he watched her take it in.
“Well, it could have been worse. We could’ve slept in a tent tonight,” she remarked, heading towards the bed.
“We could’ve died,” Ciaran emphasized.
“Oh, please,” Elinor huffed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The cushions were soft, he could tell. “Ye could’ve killed the man with one strike if ye wanted to.”
“But ye couldnae have,” he pointed out, his face grim.
“But I didnae die. ‘Tis a good thing, is it nae?”
Ciaran nodded. “I shall keep watch tonight.”
