Page 5 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
Mairie gripped her niece’s shoulder harder. “I’m goin’ to need a name, lass. Now.”
The water in the basin had turned pink, the white washcloths streaked with red as Murdoch scrubbed the last remnants of blood from his forearms. His knuckles were too calloused to bruise anymore, but he felt the ache in the one belonging to his middle finger. His last punch had landed awkwardly, but no matter—his knuckle would heal.
A knock sounded at the tower door.
“What?” Murdoch snapped, in no mood for interruption.
A servant entered nervously through the narrow tower door, wringing his hands, his head bowed. “M’Laird, I apologize for disturbin’ ye, but?—”
“Then why are ye?” Murdoch growled, turning around.
The servant’s eyes widened at the sight of him, making him realize he might have missed a few spots of blood. “M’Laird, there are… visitors. We tried to send ‘em away, but they willnae leave.”
“So, force them to leave,” Murdoch tossed back, infuriated by the weakness of his staff.
How hard could it be to make a few threats to rid the castle of a few unwanted visitors?
“We… cannae, M’Laird,” the servant replied. “The guards willnae raise their swords to the newcomers, and nay one wants to lay a hand on them either. It’s a situation that demands yer presence, M’Laird, or I swear I wouldnae have disturbed ye.”
Murdoch cursed loudly, throwing the washcloth into the basin, causing a spill of pink water that dripped down onto the stone floor. With a black cloud hanging over his head, crackling with grim annoyance, he marched out of the tower.
The servant hurried after him, clinging to the rope that acted as a banister, while Murdoch thudded down at a swift pace, needing nothing but his fury to help him keep his balance.
He abhorred visitors. He did not invite them, he did not tolerate them, and he did not appreciate his servantsandguards flouting his wishes. What manner of visitor could be awaiting him that even his best soldiers would not raise their swords to them?
Unless it’s the other Lairds, come at last?
He had been trying for a month to get Camden, Jack, and Noah to join him in discussing the issue of MacDunn. The greatest threat to the Highlandshadgone quiet, but Murdoch did not trust a sleeping monster any more than he trusted a waking one.
He saw it as their opportunity to strike first, but the other Lairds could not be convinced—they were too busy in their bubbles of marital bliss, two of them already enjoying fatherhood, one of them preparing for that title.
Perhaps there has been another attack…
A strange excitement shot through him, for though he did not like to see villages razed to the ground, hehadbeen hoping that MacDunn would rear his ugly head again. A violent act that might get the other Lairds to take the threat seriously again, considering they now had even more reason to protect their territories.
He quickened his pace, taking the spiral staircase all the way down to the ground. Entering the labyrinth of hallways that led to the entrance hall, he slowed down again, realizing that it could not be the other Lairds. If it was, the servant would have said it.
“Whois here, exactly?” he asked bluntly when the servant caught up to him.
The servant bent over to catch his breath. “Well… it’s two nuns, M’Laird. Two nuns are here to see ye.”
“Nuns?”
Murdoch stormed forward, certain that he knew what they were there for. They would not be the first religious envoys to try and bleed alms out of him. But they would receive the same response he gave to every monk and priest and beggar who came knocking on his door.
He burst into the drafty entrance hall, made all the colder by the main doors standing half open, and drew to a halt. An older nun with a fearsome frown stared at him with barely concealed anger in her eyes, but the young lass at her side drew the blaze of hisfrosty attention.
I ken ye…
He did not recall her being a nun. She had certainly not dressed like one, the last time he had seen her—six months ago, at Paisley’s wedding. Nor would he have expected a brazen, smirking, shameless lass like her to ever don the habit and wimple and join a convent.
The shapeless attire concealed the pleasing hourglass shape he remembered from that night, her wimple hiding her long, darkhair. He had noticed her at that feast, from afar, but there had been no introduction, and he had not felt inclined to take a closer look.
All he remembered in any detail was her loud, audacious, equally shameless laughter.
Well, she did not seem to be laughing now.
CHAPTER 3
