Page 50 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
His eyes flicked to the castle doors as they creaked open. A man stepped out, and Ciaran felt around his waist for his dagger—he never went anywhere without one.
God forbid he was caught completely unaware. It was one of the first things his brother had warned him about.
“People who want to kill ye willnae come to ye directly. If they kenned how to catch ye off guard and stab ye in the back, they would. Always be prepared.”
Those words replayed in his mind over and over, like echoes across a wasteland.
“Always be prepared.”
The man approached him, his figure slowly becoming more visible.
Ciaran loosened his grip on his dagger. Perhaps the man wasn’t here to kill him. There was nothing threatening about him, at least at first glance. But then, wasn’t that what someone who wanted to disarm him would go for?
Ciaran studied him as he drew closer. He could not make out his features because of the darkness, but he could tell the man was young. Younger than him, with an effortlessness to his movements.
“I feel like I should give ye a bow or something. ‘Tis nae everyday ye get to be in the presence of royalty.”
“Greetings.” It was the only thing Ciaran could mutter at the moment.
The man stopped short of the chair and looked up at the sky, his hands tucked in the pockets of his dark trousers.
“’Tis a thing of beauty, is it nae?” he asked, rocking slightly on his heels. “The way it comes alive at night. There’s nothing else likeit. ‘Tis like watching God himself paint the space above over and over. And it’s different almost every night.”
Ciaran said nothing. He was still making up his mind about whether or not the man standing next to him was there to kill him.
The man lowered his head and looked down at him. “I suppose it’s a way to ensure some balance. A man like ye who is known for killing shouldnae be expected to be a conversationalist, nae least a great one.”
Ciaran only scoffed in response as the man settled into the chair next to him.
“Ye couldnae sleep as well, could ye?”
He shook his head.
“Aye, the heat in the castle can get unbearable at times,” the man sighed. “At least, that is what I’ve been told. I havenae spent enough time around here to judge. Ye ken, ye are nothing like I expected.”
Ciaran narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Aye. Ye really arenae. I thought the Hound would be an old man with wrinkles on his face and scars all over his hands from burns and too much sun,” the man admitted, studying him carefully.“Ye– ” His eyes roamed up and down Ciaran’s frame. “Well, ye could use a little less sun. But apart from that, ye’re nae so bad.”
Ciaran shook his head, a mild laugh escaping his lips. He rose to his feet, the coldness of the chair leaving his back all of a sudden.
“I am afraid I must return to me quarters,” he said, dusting off his cloak.
Or any other part of the castle.
As he turned to leave, he felt the man’s hand curl around his wrist. Stunned, he turned to face him.
“Nae much out here to talk to in the middle of the night, Laird MacTraigh,” he drawled.
Ciaran couldn’t believe his eyes. Most men wouldn’t even waste another second looking at him if they could help it. This man’s assertiveness was something else. Was it admirable, or just plain foolish?
“Please, indulge me,” the man pressed.
Deciding that it was admirable, Ciaran sat back down.
“Ye ken I have a favorite kill?”
Ciaran frowned.
