Page 18 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
But as she set off for her bedchamber, she could not stop thinking about him. She had no sooner quashed a daydream than another popped into her head, of him standing in the corner of the hall at the wedding celebrations, bare-chested and staring at her, his gray eyes piercing right through her from beneath that strange black mask.
He had been wearing it in the tower, as if he never took it off, not even when he was alone. Was he scarred there too? She could not help but wonder what might be hiding under that mask, because the half of his face that shecouldsee was haunting her, indeed. And not in an unpleasant way.
CHAPTER 8
“Well,ye’retwice as jolly this mornin’,” Lennox remarked with a sly grin, riding alongside Murdoch on the treacherous roads.
The snow had not stopped, nor did it show any sign of ceasing, falling in silent petals from the bruised clouds that cast a sepia hue over their isolated corner of Scotland. The roads and pathways down from the castle to the nearest villages had been swallowed up by the snow, the horses’ hooves the first prints in the pristine white blanket.
“Aye, and what doyehave to be so constantly ‘jolly’ about?” Murdoch snarled, though even he could admit he was in a fouler temper than usual.
Lennox sighed, sweeping a hand out. “It’s a beautiful mornin’. Ye cannae get better than this crisp air. We’re the first souls to make a mark in this snow. We’ve good food and warm fires at the castle to return to. What is therenaeto be jolly about?”
Murdoch fixed his grim gaze on the near horizon, refusing to consider the idea of finding merriment in such trivial things. As far as he was concerned, it was cold, the snow was going to cause nothing but trouble—the snow hadalreadycaused trouble by bringing Cecilia to his doors—and his mother had suggested they host a cèilidh, which was the very last thing he wanted in his castle.
“I reckon there’s somethin’ wrong with ye,” he muttered, cursing as his stallion lost his footing for a moment, the snow concealing ditches and divots in the road beneath it.
Lennox chuckled. “And I reckon ye ought to be a little more like me. Ye never ken, ye might like it.”
Murdoch did not deign to respond to that, riding the rest of the way to the nearest village in silence as thick as the snowy world around him.
Arriving at the village of Strathnock, the silence grew even thicker. Those who had dared to emerge from their stone cottages and wooden homes froze like ice sculptures at the sight of their Laird, while children bundled in furs gasped and darted into the safety of their houses. Even the dogs were quiet, tucking their tails and whimpering.
Just one man dared to approach—the leader of the village. He bowed low, his breath pluming faster in the air as he raised his gaze.
“M’Laird, this is a surprise,” he said. “Ye’re welcome, of course. Can I fetch ye anythin’ to warm yerself?”
Murdoch sat taller on his majestic stallion, the beast as sturdy and intimidating as any thoroughbred warhorse. He did not answer immediately, casting his eyes across the buildings, searching for any signs of damage or trouble.
“Is the village in need of aught?” he asked, at last.
The leader of the village shook his head. “Nay, M’Laird, though I thank ye for takin’ the time to visit us.” He paused. “I ken there’s a fallen tree on the road between here and Brannock. I was goin’ to send some men tomorrow to remove it.”
“Gather some men now,” Murdoch instructed.
The other man bowed his head, though Murdoch could tell that was not what he had hoped to hear. “Aye, M’Laird. At once.”
As he wandered off to summon enough men to remove the tree from the road, Murdoch and Lennox rode toward the far end of the village.
Murdoch ignored the stares of the villagers, well accustomed to their fear of him, while Lennox smiled and waved. A few bold children waved back, egged on by their friends and siblings, before their mothers rushed to usher them into the warmth of their homes.
“Do ye think they’ll ever forget what we were?” Lennox asked, a note of sadness in his voice, as the horses plodded out of the village to wait for the men.
Murdoch narrowed his eyes at him. “It shouldnae matter what we were. All that should matter is that I’m their Laird and ye’re me man-at-arms.”
“Aye, but that’s nae how they see us, is it?” Lennox pointed out, stretching his neck from side to side. “Our time away at sea still haunts them, even after all these years of bein’ firmly on land. Ye can see it in their eyes—they think we’re goin’ to rob and plunder their villages, steal their lasses, fire our cannons on their homes.”
“At least they dinnae look at us with disrespect,” Murdoch grunted, thinking of Cecilia and her brazen attitude.
What sort of woman wandered through an unfamiliar castle at night in nothing but a cloak and a shift, following a strange noise? Did she have no sense at all? What if that noise was an enemy clashing with Clan Moore soldiers? She would have walked straight into a fight, putting herself in a dangerous situation that his men would have had to save her from.
Foolish, reckless lass.
To make matters worse, she had trespassed on his private tower, on his private pastime, snatching away any of the peace it usually brought him. And, being unable to gain that peace, hehad slept poorly, so his particularly foul mood was entirely her fault.
More than anything, he was annoyed that she had seen him at his work, uncertain how much she had witnessed. Had she seen the shape of the woman he had been chiseling out of the clay?
“If the villagers want to view us as the pirates that we once were, let them,” Murdoch grumbled.
